carriage window. “Did your husband mention anyone else in his correspondence?”
Catherine hesitated, still unable to recall where she’d come across the man’s name, though the letters seemed the most likely source. “I’m afraid I don’t recall offhand,” she said. “Once I receive the letters back from his lordship, I’ll review them again and let you know.”
“Very well,” he said. “Since we are developing a temporary partnership, I will say that I share your view on Ashcroft’s means of death.”
“You think he was executed, too?”
“Not at all.” His face scrunched in a look of disgust. “The French execute their citizens. The English perform more civilized forms of removal.”
“What possible method of killing countrymen could be considered civilized?”
“One that is quiet and effective and not for the public’s delectation.”
Catherine stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Assassination, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he said. “Although I cannot confirm it for a certainty, my sources revealed that your husband sustained a knife wound to the underarm.”
An image of Jeffrey’s naked torso lying across a sheet-covered table in the parlor at Winter’s Hollow surfaced. “My husband endured a great many stab wounds, sir.”
“A ruse, no doubt,” he said. “Few but the most highly trained men are aware of the fatal location or of the technique used.”
“What technique did the murderer use?”
“The full answer would be difficult to hear,” he said. “Let me say only that the killer did more than merely stab your husband. He made sure to sever a vital artery.”
Catherine closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. When she had her stomach under control again, she asked, “Why did Lord Somerton not explain this to me as you are?”
“It is difficult to say why his lordship does anything. However, in this instance, I suspect he was more concerned about the investigation.”
“Investigation?”
Cochran grimaced, as if realizing he’d said too much. “The Foreign Office is investigating a few of its staff for aiding the French, and I’m afraid Lord Somerton has not escaped their notice.”
She thought back to her brief audience with the earl and recalled the dark circles beneath his disturbing eyes. “That is unwelcome news, sir.”
“Indeed, it is for all of us, ma’am,” he said. “Lord Somerton is known for his loyalty and willingness to defend those under his command to the death. If Lord Somerton is found guilty and that trust is broken, the Foreign Office shall never be the same.”
“Well, let us hope the investigation proves Lord Somerton’s innocence rather than his guilt.” Why she hoped so after the earl’s subterfuge she couldn’t be sure. But her husband believed him to be a man of honor and so would she—for now.
“Yes, yes, let us hope.” He cocked his head to the side. “Am I correct in that you share a border with Lord Somerton’s country estate?”
Something about the way he asked the question made her sour stomach take a turn for the worse. “Yes.”
“Very good,” he said. “Superintendent Reeves is a cautious man and will require Lord Somerton to leave the city while the investigation is under way. No undue influence, you understand?”
“Of course,” she said. “But why is it good that we share a border?”
“Because you can help us keep watch over Somerton while he’s away from the city.”
“Pardon?” she asked, incredulous. “Are you asking me to spy on his lordship?”
“Goodness, no, dear lady,” he said. “I would not put you and Sophie into such a dangerous position. All I ask is that you share with me any unusual activity you might witness and, in exchange, I will keep you apprised of our inquiry into your husband’s murder.”
Catherine stilled. “You know of my daughter?”
He nodded. “Ashcroft spoke of his redheaded moppet often. So much so, that I think of her as a treasured niece.” He rubbed the side of his forefinger along his full, bottom lip. Thoughtful, silent. His blue gaze conveyed a secret message she could not decipher. “Perhaps one day I shall meet her.”
Redheaded? Jeffrey hated his red hair and often bemoaned the fact that Sophie’s blond curls were interlaced with the atrocious color. This conversation had ventured down a path that made Catherine unaccountably ill at ease, but she couldn’t for sure say why. She strove for a noncommittal answer. “Yes, perhaps.”
“Splendid.” He rapped on the small sliding door behind his head. The carriage slowed. “I shall call on you in a few days. It will be a most productive visit.”
Her fingers tightened around her reticule, the black jet beads digging into her flesh. “Productive for whom, Mr. Cochran?”