“I have champagne,” he offhandedly – flirtatiously? – urged, though hardly gave Dr. Wells time to reconsider said offer.

As soon as the doctor’s hand was on his briefcase, Zechariah was using his arm against his back like a rider might drive a horse with their thigh. Even with his compliance, he only dropped his arm once the door was steps away.

He was not so confident he was right about Dr. Wells or his sympathies by the time he actually got him to the drawing room, but he was in too deep to walk it back entirely.

Zechariah gestured him to a lush couch (he had never lured Claude back far enough to justify vandalizing these) and took an upholstered seat across from it. He propped his feet on the ottoman by it.

“Yes,” he said firmly, elbows on his knees as he pressed his hands before himself. “Yes, there is. Give me your professional opinion: is Mr. Wilde guilty of the crimes he is accused of?”