could one get enough?—of this glory. It was everything she’d been denied; it was life itself.
She slipped her free hand under his coat—up over his chest, along his ribs. His body was an undiscovered country, a call to explore the heights of sensation. His lips drew her on, fired every inch of her. She was not going to endure an existence that lacked physical passion, Charlotte vowed. She had made mistakes, taken wrong turnings, but she was not going to miss out on something so sweet, so intoxicating.
The knocker on the front door echoed up the stairs. Footsteps padded in response. They sprang apart.
“I… ah…” Sir Alexander cleared his throat.
Charlotte was breathless.
“Most likely Hanks,” he said hoarsely.
She could only nod.
“He… ah… yes. He must see these items.”
“I will not give him my earring!”
“I don’t see why you should.” He seemed about to speak again, but the footsteps approached relentlessly. The two of them stepped back into the Roman bedroom. Charlotte longed, impossibly, to touch him again. Sir Alexander cleared his throat. “I… ah… I cannot imagine wanting to occupy this room. It’s like the ancient sites one visits in Italy, empty and… lifeless.”
“Yes.” It was exactly what she’d felt. “No shred of comfort or vitality.”
They looked at each other. Sir Alexander’s green eyes seemed to hold all the vibrancy missing from the stark chamber. Charlotte was exquisitely sensitive to his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer impact of his masculine presence. In this moment, he seemed the antithesis of Henry in every possible way.
Tess brought the Bow Street Runner into the room. His sharp gaze darted here and there, cataloging every detail. Charlotte’s hackles rose, and she wished she hadn’t consented to have him in her home. She clutched her earring.
Sir Alexander told him what they’d found. “You should ’a waited for me,” was the terse reply. After that, he ignored them, going over the bedchamber and dressing room like a hound on the scent. He noted down the names in the letters and wrote careful descriptions of the items in the secret cupboard. When he came to the earrings, Charlotte stiffened. She still held her own concealed in her fist. Sir Alexander met her eyes and said nothing.
In the end, Hanks looked disappointed. “I’ll pay these gent’lmen a visit,” he said, tapping the pile of correspondence. “Mebbe they’ll say something different from the others. A falling-out among thieves, like.”
He didn’t look enthusiastic. Charlotte shivered on a surge of fear and dislike. He didn’t believe he was going to find anything. He still thought she was the most likely culprit.
“I wondered about Seaton,” said Sir Alexander. “He seemed very eager to wash his hands of my uncle’s affairs. A man of business would usually want to stay involved, gain a new client, perhaps.”
Hanks nodded. “Aye, there’s a fine little weasel.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Once I found him, which weren’t easy. An old hand at covering his tracks, I’d say. I don’t doubt that he knows these fellows.” He tapped the letters again. “I wager he was paid to introduce them, and raked off a fine bit of cash from the dealings, too.”
“If Henry discovered he’d been sold faked antiquities,” said Charlotte, refusing to be intimidated, “he would… I can hardly explain how furious he would have been. He devoted heart and soul to his collection. He would have threatened Seaton—anyone—with exposure, disgrace, the… the full force of the law.”
Hanks nodded again. He hadn’t looked directly at her since he arrived. “Yes, ma’am. And Seaton and all would ha’ threatened right back, to tell the world he was a fool—ignorant and easy to dupe. That they would put it about that his ‘collection’ was a load o’ rubbish. Seems to me, from what I’ve learned, that Mr. Wylde wouldn’t ha’ cared for that overmuch. I’m thinking he would have backed down.”
Charlotte remembered Henry’s love of being the expert, the connoisseur. He’d sneered about fellow collectors who bought unwisely; he’d told stories of mocking them to their faces.
Hanks slipped his small notebook into a coat pocket. “Here’s the matter in a nutshell. Like I told you before, it don’t appear that a footpad killed Henry Wylde in the course of a robbery, accidental, I mean. But, say, someway, that is what happened.” His pale eyes narrowed. “I’d be able to get word of it, see? I got ways of finding out. People don’t want to be on my bad side.” He rocked on his heels and gazed out the window. “Murder