“Though he claims otherwise, Mr. Sheffield dances quite well,” observed Charlotte, having noticed that Cordelia had twice been his partner. In fact, she hadn’t seen her on the dance floor with anyone else.
“Mr. Sheffield is more adept than he thinks at a great many things,” replied her friend. “Perhaps it’s the same with gentlemen as it is with ladies—if you possess beauty, it’s presumed you don’t possess a brain.” Her brows rose in a sardonic arch. “Of course, I’m not speaking from personal experience.”
Charlotte surreptitiously studied Cordelia with an artist’s eye. It was true—her friend didn’t fit the pattern card for feminine allure. There was nothing sweet or delicate about her looks. Strong nose, wide mouth, angled cheekbones, eyes that blazed with a lively intelligence—no doubt the aura of strength and vitality overpowered most people.
However, Charlotte found her face striking. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she murmured. “The beau monde may currently favor delicate, doll-like features, devoid of any personality. But those who find pasteboard perfection boring prefer real individuality.” She dusted the crumbs from her fingers. “I would love to draw you sometime, if you would be willing to sit for a portrait.”
“I . . .” Cordelia appeared a little flustered. “I can’t imagine that my face could be of any interest to you.”
“Lady Charlotte sees nuances that most of us miss,” said McClellan.
Despite the flush that had risen to her cheeks, Cordelia appeared to turn pale.
We all have our own vulnerabilities and fears, mused Charlotte. No matter how silly they may seem to others. “Ah, here is Raven,” she announced, spotting the boy and looking to put an end to her friend’s embarrassment.
“Did you work your way through all the assigned problems?” asked Cordelia.
“Yes,” answered Raven. “Save for the last one, where I had a question about inverse functions.”
“Well, come have a seat,” she said, indicating a spot on the sofa next to her, “and let us see if we can figure out the answer together.”
As McClellan cleared the refreshments, Charlotte took a few moments to gather up a few stray items lying around the parlor before heading up to her workroom. Cordelia was an excellent teacher, she noted, striking just the right note of encouragement and challenge. Raven, who tended to keep his feelings closely guarded, appeared to be flourishing under her tutelage.
The enthusiasm in his voice made Charlotte smile. To her, numbers were merely numbers, but to him, they were like her lines and colors—they could be formed into endlessly unique patterns that expressed something meaningful.
But enough philosophizing. She had a drawing to finish.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte added the last splash of color and leaned back, satisfied with the results. The humor was sharp but without a razored edge. Yes, the Duchess of York was eccentric.
But so am I.
The drawing was kind enough that people would laugh. But not in a vicious sort of way. Perhaps the talk of murder had softened her touch . . . though in truth, she liked to believe she was never deliberately cruel.
Angry and indignant when she uncovered hypocrisy, lies, and greed. But never gratuitously cruel.
“Or so I hope,” she whispered. A commitment to honesty mattered, as did an unwavering belief in justice.
Once again, Charlotte felt her conscience begin to prickle. Now that she would be moving among the beau monde, there was a good chance that she would face the prospect of having to skewer someone with whom she had formed a friendship. It would be a moral dilemma she hadn’t faced before.
Truth and lies. Right and wrong. Those were indelible concepts, written in black and white. To allow any shade of grey to creep in . . .
Would be the end of A. J. Quill.
Charlotte picked up a cloth and began to clean her pen. “I shall cross that ethical bridge when I come to it.”
And pray that I make the right decision.
The simple task of putting away her paints and washing her brushes helped calm her uncertain thoughts. She was tired, and the act of murder always made her feel low.
As she rolled up the drawing and wrapped it in a length of oilskin for delivery to Mr. Fores, the murmur of voices downstairs in the parlor grew louder. Charlotte cocked an ear. It seemed Hawk had returned, bringing with him more news on the crime.
“And One-Eye Harry heard that the dead man was likely up to something havey-cavey.”
The words seemed to stir a chill within the corridor’s shadows as she approached the parlor.
“The guards at the gate said he worked in the big, fancy East India House on Leadenhall Street and was involved in accounting, not shipping, so had no reason to be around the docks,” went on Hawk. “Especially at night.”
“Are you saying the authorities think it’s not simply a random robbery?” asked Charlotte.
Raven set down his pencil and looked up from the sheets of paper spread out across the sofa table. “Sounds like bad blood between thieves to me. You don’t cut a cove’s throat just to pick his pockets.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “It does speak of anger or fear of betrayal.”
Cordelia made a small sound of distress.
Distracted by the new facts about the crime, Charlotte had momentarily forgotten about her friend’s presence. “Forgive us, Lady Cordelia,” she said with an apologetic grimace. “We’re interrupting the lesson with such ghoulish talk of murder.”
“Oiy, but there’s more,” piped up Hawk. “Alice heard from one of the girls who sells eel pies at the wharves that Bow Street has been asking the supervisors what they know about something called ar . . . argentum.”
“Argentum?” repeated Charlotte. Her brows pinched together. “I know that’s the word for ‘silver’ in Latin,” she mused. “But why would Bow Street be making inquiries in Latin? It must mean something else.”
“Alice didn’t know,” replied Hawk.
“Perhaps it’s a ship—” began Raven, but a sudden rustling of paper cut him off.
Cordelia quickly shuffled the sheets of equations into a neat pile and set them aside. Her hands seemed a little shaky as she closed the mathematics manual and stuffed it into her satchel.
Charlotte glanced at the clock. A routine had developed over the months since Cordelia had begun giving lessons to Raven. She always stayed for supper. He, too, looked aware that something was amiss.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he said in a tight voice. “I know we haven’t finished—”
“It’s me who needs to apologize,” replied Cordelia. “I . . . I’m afraid I must be going.”
To Charlotte’s eye, her friend’s face looked unnaturally pale. “Are you unwell?”
“Aye, you look a little green around the gills,” offered Hawk.
“I must have eaten something last night that disagreed with me,” answered Cordelia.
“McClellan makes a very good ginger tisane,” said Charlotte. “I’ll ring—”
“Thank you, but no.” Cordelia rose. “I think it would be best for me to return home without delay.”
“But of course,” she answered. Argument would be churlish. “Hawk, please go with Lady Cordelia and flag down a hackney for her.”
Once the pair had left the room, Charlotte turned back to Raven. She had seen his eyes turn shadowed beneath the dark fringe of lashes. He didn’t give of himself easily, and she worried that he would take Cordelia’s abrupt departure too much to heart.
“She appeared uncomfortable before you came down for your lesson,” she murmured. “It was a very long evening, with much wine and rich food.” Not to speak of the confrontation with her brother. “So it’s understandable if she’s feeling a trifle out of sorts.”
Raven didn’t look up. “I s’pose.” He carefully closed his book and placed the pile of equation-filled papers atop the cover. “I might as well put my books away. I’ll finish the problems later.”
Wrexford raised the brass knocker, but before he could let it fall, the painted portal flung open, nearly squashing his nose.
“Ho, what mischief are you Weasels about to wreak on the world?” he demanded, catching Hawk by the scruff of his collar as the boy tried to wriggle past him.
“Nothing as of yet,” shot back Raven with a smirk. “But I’m sure we’ll think of something by the time we’re finished with our errand.”
“And we mustn’t be late, sir!” squeaked Hawk, holding Charlotte’s well-wrapped drawing aloft. “Mr. Fores needs this delivered right away in order to have prints in his shop by tomorrow morning.”
“Tempus pecunia est, ” added Raven.
The earl chuckled. The older boy had begun to mimic Charlotte’s habit of occasionally muttering Latin aphorisms. Where he learned them was as yet a mystery.
“Time is money,” he translated. “Though not for indolent idlers like myself.”
Raven made a rude sound.
“You know, some people are rather intimidated by my lordly title,” drawled Wrexford. “You might want to show me a little more respect—especially as one of the many privileges of being a high-and-mighty aristocrat is having insolent little brats for breakfast.”
“It’s almost suppertime—” began Hawk, only to be interrupted by his brother.
“Ha! We would stick in your craw,” retorted Raven.
Wrexford made a face. “True. You’re all gristle and bone. I shall have to ask McClellan to fatten you up.” The earl shifted, setting off a whispery crackle as he released his hold on Hawk.
“What’s that?” demanded Raven, eyeing the cone of fancy wrapping paper he had tucked in the crook of his arm.
“Flowers for m’lady,” the earl replied.
The boys looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Pray, what’s so amusing?”
Raven crinkled his nose. “That’s a pretty puny bouquet.”
“Non multa, sed multum,” retorted the earl.
“Do you know what that means?” whispered Hawk to his brother.
“Yes. He’s telling us that because he learned a lot of habble-gabble at Oxford, he’s smarter than we are.”
Wrexford raised his brows. “It wasn’t me who tossed down the habble-gabble gauntlet.” He gave an airy wave. “Now run along, Weasels. Mr. Fores is waiting.”
As they turned to go, the earl added, “And by the by, the habble-gabble means Quality, not quantity, is what matters.”
He watched them race away, moving like two dark flickers of quicksilver through the deepening shadows, before rapping a knock on the half-open door and entering into the small foyer.
“Ah. I thought I heard voices outside.” Charlotte came out of the parlor, a small straw whisk broom and dustpan in her hands. “Do come in and make yourself comfortable, milord—though have a care not to sit in the armchair by the lamp table.” Her nose crinkled as she glanced down. “Tyler would never forgive me if you ruined your expensive trousers.”
Wrexford cleared his throat with a cough. He and his valet had recently given the Weasels an assortment of chemicals with which to experiment. They had been told to confine their explorations to the back garden. But mishaps did occur.
“Has there been some sort of accident?”
“Skinny isn’t an accident—he’s a force of Nature unto himself,” she replied dryly. “Luckily, McClellan says she knows how to mix a cleaning solution for removing horse droppings from damask fabric.”
“What brought Skinny here?” asked Wrexford, relieved to learn his conscience was clear.
“He—” Charlotte stopped abruptly. “What have you got in your hand?” She squinted. “It looks like a cone of pink and gold paper.”
“My token offering isn’t inspiring much enthusiasm in this household,” he replied. “The Weasels were not impressed. They think it a very puny thing.”
She appeared mystified. “Token offering?”
He held up the paper cone. “It’s considered gentlemanly to bring a lady flowers after dancing with her.”
Amusement lit in her eyes. “If you saw the massive bouquet they managed to put together, you would know why they were laughing. McClellan needed to locate a spare bucket, rather than a vase.” She accepted the gift and carefully peeled back the edges of the paper. “Why, they’re . . .”
Charlotte looked up. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’re different.” He had chosen a palette of subtle dusky blue and mauves instead of the traditional brighter hues. “I thought you might prefer something a little more interesting than roses.”
The paper rustled. “They’re beautiful,” repeated Charlotte as she examined them more closely.
“And no bucket needed,” he said lightly, though it pleased him that she seemed to like the bouquet. “But let us put aside the flowers for the moment . . .” He took the cone from her hands and set it on the side table, along with his hat. “And get back to Skinny. You were about to tell me why the lad was here.”
“He had further news about a murder that took place last night.” Her gaze turned clouded. “While we were dancing beneath myriad glittering candles and drinking fine French champagne.”
“You know damnably well that Evil will walk the streets regardless of whether or not we dance until dawn.”
“I . . .” Charlotte took a seat on the sofa. “I suppose you’re right. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.”
“I don’t know anyone who is less accepting of the fact that Evil exists,” he said softly. “Few people have the courage and conviction to challenge it as you do.”
A tight sigh was her only reply.
Wrexford settled himself in the armchair facing her. “I heard of the murder, as well, but it seemed to me that it wasn’t the sort of crime to draw your attention. Did Skinny bring information that might alter that?”
Charlotte shifted her gaze to the windows. Rain clouds had blown in to block the sun, turning the light to a soggy grey haze. A few fat drops began to spatter against the glass.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “The victim was apparently a clerk involved in accounting at East India House and had no reason to be at the wharves.”
“There are any number of reasons a man might go to a place where’s he’s not supposed to be,” pointed out the earl.
Her expression turned even more troubled. “Yes, I’m all too aware of that.”
He sensed she was wrestling with a conundrum. “Which means?”
A sigh. “I . . . I’m not sure it’s right for me to say.”
Wrexford waited. Charlotte rarely dithered in uncertainty, so it must be a decision fraught with complexities.
“But I confess . . . ,” she said after a prolonged hesitation, “I would value your thoughts on the matter. Perhaps I am merely seeing specters where there is naught but harmless vapor.”
“I think you know by now that I can be trusted to keep anything you tell me in strictest confidence.”
A ghost of a smile flitted over her lips. “It goes without saying that I would trust you with my life.” Another sigh, and then she quickly recounted the scene she had witnessed between Cordelia and her brother.
The earl carefully considered what he had heard before responding. “Granted, the river is not a usual haunt of the aristocracy, but there are reasonable explanations for why Woodbridge appeared to have strayed there. Gentlemen often hire a ferryman to cross over to the slums of Southwark or Rotherhithe for the dissolute pleasures available there.”
Charlotte gave a rueful grimace. “I knew I could count on your logic to put my fanciful fears to rest.”
Wrexford acknowledged the statement with a shrug. “It’s merely one possibility out of many. But Woodbridge doesn’t strike me as a fellow who would be involved in anything nefarious.” He smiled. “His sister is far more clever. And as we know from recent experience, she’s the one who possesses the imagination and daring to do someth
ing dangerous.”
“True. However, Lady Cordelia is also very sensible as well as clever. She calculated the risks of what she did very carefully and decided the odds were in her favor. And it was done out of necessity, not hubris or greed.”
Charlotte thought for a moment before adding, “She has a strict code of honor. I don’t think she’s capable of wrongdoing.”
“Given the right circumstances, anyone is capable of wrongdoing,” he replied.
She bit her lip.
“But getting back to the murder, other than Woodbridge’s suspicious appearance, is there any reason for you to think it might be a subject for your pen?”
“No,” she admitted. “Though it seems Bow Street is asking some strange questions around the wharves. They seem very interested in the word argentum, though neither Skinny nor Alice knows why.”
“Actually, I can provide an answer on that,” said Wrexford. “The murdered clerk said, ‘Argentum,’ with his last dying breath.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Griffin paid me a visit this morning to see whether my Oxford education might provide any insight as to what the word might refer to—other than ‘silver,’ of course.” A pause. “Though I suspect his real reason was to see what my cook was serving for breakfast.”
“And did you offer any suggestions?” asked Charlotte.
“No,” he answered. “I haven’t a clue as to why the fellow said it. And idle speculation seems pointless, unless one pens those ghastly horrid novels that seem to sell so well.”
“Oh, come,” murmured Charlotte. “The Mysteries of Udolpho is a very entertaining book.”
“I have better things to do with my time.”
She raised a brow. “Like teaching the boys how to make stink bombs?”
“Ah. So you do know about that.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s Tyler who deserves the credit for giving them the instructions. I merely supplied the chemicals.”
Deciding it might be a good time to take his leave, Wrexford rose and retrieved his hat. “I mustn’t keep you any longer, Lady Charlotte. Good day . . . and if I were you, I wouldn’t fret about the murder. Whatever web of intrigue, if any, is involved, I can’t see how its threads will entangle us.”
Murder at Queen's Landing Page 5