“Killed them?” Lord Collins squeaked. “My dear, you are unhinged! I was standing with you when Carlisle shot McGregor, and your husband’s gimp-legged man shot poor Carlisle.”

“You might not have pulled the trigger, but you are responsible for Dare’s death,” Charlotte accused. “And for McGregor’s, for that matter, for if he hadn’t killed Dare, Batsfoam would have never retaliated. It’s all your fault, Matthew, all of it!”

Of that, she honestly believed. Matthew was up to something. He looked far too pleased at the two men’s deaths, and there was the curious matter of his attempt to bribe her into betraying Dare.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Collins said dismissively, turning to Lord Beverly. “Best get hold of that fellow, Beverly. He’ll hang for McGregor’s death, of course, nothing for it. Tragedy that he killed an innocent man, but justice must be done.”

“Justice? You speak of justice?” Charlotte interrupted. She had no idea of Geoffrey the Pretender’s role in things, but she was becoming more and more suspicious of her brother. No matter where she turned in this mess, he seemed to pop up. Perhaps, just perhaps, his involvement went back further than she had thought. “I know exactly what I’m saying, brother. For instance, I know that you were the one to befriend Geoffrey McGregor when he returned to England.”

That was safe enough, she’d had that bit of information from Crouch.

Her brother sputtered something about helping out a fellow peer.

“But you couldn’t know he was the real Geoffrey McGregor,” Charlotte said slowly, puzzle pieces suddenly falling into place as she spoke. “You couldn’t know his claim was valid…unless you knew him before he was kidnapped?”

“Nonsense. Never met the man before.”

A small glint of warning in her brother’s eyes told her she’d guessed correctly. Charlotte ignored his protest. “How did you know each other?”

“None of your business. Beverly, I trust you’ll stay here with the bodies, and hold that man. I will fetch the magistrate—”

“Oh, but I think it is my business,” Charlotte interrupted her brother again. The Pretender, now, she was fairly certain, was the true Earl of Carlisle. “It is, after all, because of you that my husband and another man have died. What was it, Matthew? Women? Gambling? Probably the latter. I seem to recall you begging Papa to help you out with a particularly steep debt about five years ago. Papa refused, saying it would teach you to gamble over your head if you had to sell off everything you owned to cover your gaming debts. I don’t recall you selling anything, though. Just exactly how did you pay off the debts?”

“I…they…that’s none of your business. You don’t seem too terribly cut up over your husband’s death now, do you, sister?” Collins sneered. “Mayhap you think my offer still stands, but it doesn’t. You’ve made your bed, now you can—”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, get a new homily, will you? Crouch, when you were investigating Geoffrey McGregor, did you happen to run into a mention of my brother in connection with him?”