Page 95 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

The voice of cold, calculated reason. He was right, of course.

Charlotte nodded, her throat too tight for words.

He hesitated, and though the gloom hid his eyes, she could feel his gaze searching her face for a lie.

Her lips moved, silently mouthing her pledge.

Seemingly satisfied, the earl turned to survey the surroundings for a moment. “We’ll approach from the rear and find the tradesmen’s entrance. Follow me.”

* * *

The lock yielded with no resistance to the earl’s metal probe, allowing them to slip into a darkened foyer. Easing the pistol from his pocket, Wrexford noiselessly drew back the hammer.

Sheffield did the same. Despite his reputation as an indolent fribble, his friend always showed his hidden steel when trouble threatened. As for Charlotte . . .

She was shrouded in shadows. He could only guess at the emotions roiling inside her. But it was too late to question his decision.

Spotting the servant stairway, Wrexford eased the door open and then led the way up to the main floor.

The front of the house was pitch dark, but a glance to the rear showed a weak pool of light seeping out beneath a set of double doors at the end of the carpeted corridor. Within moments he had them in position, Sheffield on one side of the fluted moldings, he and Charlotte on the other.

Had she drawn her weapon? Her hands were fisted, making it impossible to tell.

Pressing a palm to one of the dark wood portals, he tested whether the latch was engaged. It swung open a touch, and the muffled voice within became clearer.

“I tell you, I won’t swing for your stupidity!” It was Stoughton’s voice, wound tighter than a watch spring. “Our plan for the art forgeries was ingenious—and promised to be highly profitable with no risk! I knew nothing of your other endeavor.”

Wrexford ventured a peek into the room. Stoughton was leaning heavily on one of the leather armchairs, his face looking leached of all color in the oily lamplight. In front of him St. Aubin was standing by the unlit marble hearth, hands clasped behind his back.

“Come, there is no need to panic,” said St. Aubin.

“No need to panic?” repeated Stoughton shakily. “Bloody hell, there have been two grisly murders, and now that devil-cursed artist is pointing his infernal pen at us! And once he starts poking around, no secrets ever seem to stay safe.”

“I tell you, there’s nothing to tie us to Holworthy’s murder. All I did was steal a few moldy old books from the cathedral at Canterbury for him, that’s all.”

“Bloody hell—why!”

St. Aubin’s expression twisted to a sneer. “Because through my older brother I could gain access to a private archive, and was paid very well to do so.”

“Well enough to ruin a far more lucrative plan?” retorted Stoughton. “Damnation, everything was going so smoothly. But then you and Canaday had to get greedy and spook Sloane.”

“The fellow was mentally unstable. It wasn’t our fault he cracked and fell to pieces.”

Wrexford felt Charlotte’s body tense, but she remained still as a statue.

“If it ever comes to light—”

“It won’t,” said St. Aubin. He moved to the sideboard, his lanky body casting an elongated shadow over the decanters, and poured a glass of brandy. “Here, calm your nerves,” he soothed, offering Stoughton the drink.

Uttering an oath, Stoughton lashed out an arm, knocking the glass away. It flew through the air and hit the hearth, exploding into a shower of crystalline shards. “How can I be calm when that damnable Wrexford is asking too many questions, and is getting too close to the truth. He put the fear of God into Canaday. What if he comes for me next? I tell you again, I won’t be blamed for whatever you and Holworthy were scheming.”

St. Aubin stepped back and watched the rivulets of amber liquid meander down the polished stone. The angle gave the earl a clear view of the man’s hand slowly dipping into his coat pocket.

Charlotte saw it too. “Wrexford!” she whispered.

He nodded. The miscreants were welcome to savage each other later. Right now, it was imperative to keep them both alive.

Catching Sheffield’s eye, he indicated that he wanted to take their quarry by surprise. His friend signaled his understanding. Weapons raised, they banged open the doors and stepped into the room. Like a wraith-like shadow, Charlotte followed right on their heels.