“Lady Charlotte requested a meeting, and as she said it was rather urgent, it occurred to me that the boys and I ought to all return together,” came Alison’s brisk reply. “Besides, I’ve been curious about where she lived.”
Ah, well. Charlotte drew in a tight breath. Two birds with one stone. Another old adage, but her mind was too jumbled to recall the Latin phrase.
“Please allow me to show you to the parlor,” said McClellan. “And then I’ll let Lady Charlotte know you’re here.”
After tucking a loose curl behind her ear—she didn’t care to contemplate what other strands had come free as she had worked—Charlotte rose and quickly shook out the creases from her work gown.
It was time for the dowager to see the sow’s ear, not the silk purse.
On entering the parlor, she found Alison inspecting the books and paintings at the far end of the room.
“This is a wonderful landscape,” said the dowager, turning from a large canvas of a Tuscan hillside and lowering her quizzing glass. “The light and colors are exquisitely rendered.”
“It was done by my late husband,” said Charlotte, finding her throat had gone very dry.
“He was very talented.”
“Yes, very.” She gestured to the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”
Shifting the cane to her other hand, Alison then crossed the carpet and settled herself against the sofa’s thick pillows. All the lamps were lit, filling the room with a mellow glow.
“This is a very charming place,” observed the dowager after another look around.
“It’s nothing fancy, but it suits me,” replied Charlotte, aware of how stilted she sounded. Despite her resolve, she was finding it hard to shake off her nervousness. Alison had always accepted—nay, encouraged—the fact that her grand-niece marched to a rebellious drumbeat.
But what if the person I’ve become has crossed the line of no return?
Charlotte looked up to find the dowager regarding her with an inscrutable stare.
“I gather there is something important that you wish to discuss with me?” said Alison.
“Yes,” she answered. “But before I do so, I need to explain . . .”
“Tea,” announced McClellan, carrying a tray into the parlor. “I thought refreshments might be welcome.” Following behind her were Raven and Hawk, each bearing a platter of pastries.
Charlotte breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had sent the boys off with scrubbed faces and clean clothing, and by some miracles, they still appeared relatively tidy.
“Dundee cakes,” announced Raven, setting his offering down on the table in front of Alison.
“And ginger biscuits,” chirped Hawk. “They’re my favorite,” he confided to the dowager as he put down his plate.
“I’m very fond of ginger biscuits, too,” replied Alison, her lips twitching upward. “However, I shall try to leave one or two for you.”
“S’all right. Have as many as you like.” He grinned, revealing a few molasses-flecked crumbs lodged between his teeth. “There’s another pan in the oven.”
McClellan cleared her throat. “Lady Charlotte has poured tea for Lady Peake. Be a gentleman and bring it to her, and then you may offer her a biscuit before fixing plates for you and your brother.”
Raven had taken a perch on one of the facing armchairs, hands folded primly in his lap.
“Thank you,” said the dowager once Hawk had finished serving her. She looked at Charlotte, her eyes alight with amusement. “The boys have such impeccable manners. I confess, I’m still trying to puzzle out why Wrexford calls them Weasels.”
Charlotte had been struggling with how to broach the subject of her past—her real past, not the one gilded with half-truths and outright bouncers. And here, she decided, was a way to cut through all hemming and hawing in one fell swoop.
“It’s because of our first encounter with the earl,” she said. “Raven stuck a knife in Wrexford’s leg, and Hawk flung a broken bottle at his head, when they thought that he was threatening me.”
For a moment, the room was utterly still. Even the plume of steam rising from the teapot seemed to freeze in midair.
And then a tiny twitch as Hawk’s eyes widened in shock. “I-I thought we were never, ever supposed to mention that,” he whispered, his mouth quivering in confusion. “On account of . . . of . . .”
“On account of it giving away the truth,” said Raven, turning to watch Alison intently through the fringe of his dark lashes. “The truth that we’re orphan guttersnipes, not m’lady’s respectable relatives.”
The dowager blinked and took a moment to polish her quizzing glass before raising it to her eye.
“I found the boys—or rather, they found me—in my previous residence,” explained Charlotte in a rush. Like peeling a bandage from a wound, it was best to get it over with quickly. “Which was on the fringes of St Giles, a far less pleasant neighborhood than this one. They had been abandoned, and Raven was doing his best to care for Hawk. They began doing odd errands in return for whatever scraps of food I could afford, and for shelter from . . .” She hesitated. “From all the evils than can befall children left to fend for themselves.”
Alison sat pale and still as a statue carved from marble.
“It’s true we’re not bound by blood, but we are a family, one with bonds far more meaningful than a dribble of scarlet liquid.” Charlotte crooked a smile. “As you know, I’ve always been a fool when it comes to love, whether it be my passions for art and ideas or for the people I wished to hold close to my heart.”
Still no reaction from the dowager.
She closed her eyes for an instant. “There’s more you need to know, assuming you’re willing to hear it. But the boys need not stay.”
Raven and Hawk quietly slid down from their seats and put their plates of untouched sweets on the table.
The muted chink seemed to unlock Alison’s tongue. “Do you mean to say . . .” Light winked off the glass lens as she fixed her much-magnified eye on Raven. “You watched over your brother and fought to keep him safe?”
“Oiy.” Raven lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug. “We’re family. Ye take care of yer own,” he added, letting his speech slur into the patter of the stews.
“Well, I think . . .” The dowager’s voice stuck for an instant in her throat. “I think that’s quite the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Catching the glint of a tear pearled on Alison’s lashes, Charlotte dared to think the meeting might not end in utter disaster.
“Lord Wrexford says the mark of a true gentleman is that he protects the people he loves,” murmured Hawk.
“Hmmph.” Alison made a small sniff. “It seems His Lordship is not only a very handsome devil but also a very wise one.”
Charlotte gave a small nod to Raven and Hawk. “You have your lessons to do, so off you go, while I finish my explanations. . .”
“Wait!” exclaimed the dowager as the boys turned for the doorway, punctuating the command with a thump of her cane. “How dare my little Weasels run off without giving their aunt a hug!”
An uncertain smile blossomed on Hawk’s face as he took a tentative step toward the sofa. “But you’re not really our aunt.”
“The devil I’m not!” Alison seized him in a fierce embrace. “However, perhaps you’ve decided you don’t want an old dragon as a relative.”
“Of course we do,” replied Raven, allowing a very un-Raven-like grin. “Who else would ply us with ice cream and sweets at Gunter’s?”
“That’s very practical and pragmatic,” said Alison with an approving nod. She released Hawk with a last fond ruffling of his unruly curls. “Now come take your leave of me properly, you young jackanapes. That is, unless you consider yourself too big for hugs.”
Charlotte held her breath. Raven wasn’t easy to reach.
The boy hesitated and then shuffled over and allowed the dowager to plant a peck on his cheek. He pulled away quickly, but not before Charlotte saw an
other grin tug at his lips.
“Weasels, the Dragon, and me—a strange bird Wrexford calls Phoenix,” said Charlotte as they scampered off. “Lud, what an eccentric menagerie we make.”
“Hmmph.” Whether the sound was a snort or a laugh was impossible to discern.
“Thank you, Aunt Alison,” she added. “For not falling into a swoon at the truth.”
“Merciful heavens, did you think I believed for a moment your farididdle about the boys being orphaned relatives of your husband’s family?” Alison reached for a ginger biscuit and took a bite before continuing. “They’re far too clever and interesting to have been brought up in a respectable but boring gentry family.”
“I’m very grateful that you’re not easily shocked.” Charlotte blew out her breath. “For I’m not yet done with the revelations.”
The dowager finished her biscuit. After dusting the crumbs from her fingers, she once again lifted her quizzing glass. A Cyclops-like eye, widened in an unblinking stare, was admittedly a little unnerving, but Charlotte held herself steady.
“Well, do go on, gel,” drawled Alison. “My delicate nerves can’t stand the suspense.”
* * *
Feeling unaccountably chilled, Wrexford placed several chunks of coal in the hearth of his workroom and slowly coaxed a flame to life.
Light and shadow. He watched the two intertwine, recalling his words to Charlotte. It was true. The more they learned, the darker things looked for their friends. He now understood her wrenchingly visceral reaction to seeing her cousin charged with murder. He had sympathized, of course, but it had been an intellectual reaction, not this knife-sharp blade of fear jabbing at his gut.
If it turned out the clerk’s murder was connected to Cordelia and her brother, that could mean Sheffield was entangled in something very dangerous. His worries would, of course, prove unfounded if it turned out Peabody’s murder was a matter of personal passions gone awry. But somehow, he couldn’t quite make himself believe that a love triangle lay at the heart of the conundrum. Woodbridge, Mather, Peabody . . . the connections seemed too much of a coincidence.
Feeling unsettled—he wasn’t usually plagued by self-doubt—Wrexford rose and fetched the bank list that Sheffield had found in Woodbridge’s desk before taking a seat in front of the dancing fire. He tried to make himself believe that the tiny stars drawn next to the bank names could mean something other than success in negotiating a loan.
But Reason refused to yield to Desire.
“Money,” growled the earl, wondering what the devil Woodbridge was up to. “Money is the root of all evil.”
“Actually, most people misquote the Bible.” Tyler shouldered his way into the room and came to warm his hands by the fire. “The exact wording is ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil.’ Timothy, chapter six, verse ten.”
“Please don’t quote the Scriptures at me,” said Wrexford. “I’m in a foul enough mood as it is.” He glanced down at the list. “Did you learn anything new about the murder?”
Tyler shrugged out of his overcoat and placed it on the work counter before answering, “A bloody knife was found this afternoon, hidden in a stack of crates waiting for shipment on Queen’s Landing. Bow Street thinks it may be the weapon used to murder the clerk.”
“Does it provide a clue as to who the killer is?”
“Not exactly.” His valet moved to the sideboard. “Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
In answer, Wrexford uttered a scalding oath.
“Lud, you really are in a foul mood.” A muted chink of crystal. “If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself. I’ve been sleuthing for hours, and it was damnably cold down around the docks.” After a quick swallow, Tyler took a seat in the other armchair.
The earl expelled a breath, trying to dispel the worst of his fears. “Forgive me for snapping. This investigation has turned very personal. Kit may be tangled in whatever trouble Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia have gotten themselves into, and I fear it may destroy him unless we can find a way to help.”
“We will,” said Tyler. The firelight winked off the faceted glass, setting off amber sparks. “Heaven help any villains who dare threaten our friends.” His mouth twitched. “Lady Charlotte would cut out their livers with a rusty penknife.”
A grudging smile ghosted over Wrexford’s lips. It shouldn’t be of moral comfort that Charlotte was his partner in mayhem. And yet it was. Yes, she was putting herself in danger. But Charlotte wouldn’t be Charlotte without her fierce passions. He was learning to live with that.
“True,” he murmured. “However, if I get to them first, they will already be chopped into mincemeat.” He watched the flames lick up from the logs. “But at the moment, I feel like I’m wandering in the dark. I’ve just come from a meeting with Lord Copley, a director of the East India Company . . .”
Wrexford explained what he had been told. “The baron is under the impression that Bow Street thinks the murder may be a crime of passion and has nothing to do with money. But I’m finding that difficult to accept.”
“I had better tell you about the knife.” Tyler’s expression turned troubled. “It’s quite distinctive. The blade is Damascus steel, honed to a razor’s edge,” he explained. “And the hilt is made of chased silver.”
“Argentum,” mused Wrexford.
The valet nodded. “That’s not all. On the butt is an ebony knob, inset with an ornate silver lion rampant.”
Lion rampant was a heraldic term, signifying a lion standing on its hind legs, with its front paws raised.
The earl pursed his lips. “The majority of aristocratic families in Britain have a lion rampant as part of their coat of arms. Including the royal family.”
“And including the Earl of Woodbridge,” said the valet.
* * *
With a twitch to her skirts, Charlotte resettled herself against the pillows. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you about my artistic work and how I earn my bread.”
Alison’s expression turned even more owlish. “You mean to say you don’t draw pictures of the latest fashions for publication?”
“Not precisely. Though I do occasionally highlight what people are wearing.”
A chuckle. “By Jove, that reminds me of the wickedly sly caricatures you used to make of the pompous prigs among your father’s friends. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged your drawings, but you had an uncanny knack for capturing their foibles.”
The dowager gave another laugh. “You must enjoy A. J. Quill’s satires as much as I do. The man has a razor-sharp eye and a cutting tongue. However, one cannot help but wonder . . .” She pursed her lips. “How on earth does he manage to uncover all those secrets?”
Charlotte fingered an ink stain on her cuff. “Through an extensive network of informants, no doubt.”
Alison looked skeptical. “He would have to be rich as Croesus to buy that sort of information.”
“Not necessarily,” she replied. “You might be greatly surprised to discover just how intimately well servants know their employers, and how much is seen by the people on the streets—the streetsweeps and the flower girls, the costermongers and the urchins—who go unnoticed by their so-called betters.”
“Hmmph. I confess, I hadn’t considered that.” The dowager furrowed her brow. “You think that’s how he does it?”
“It’s the most logical explanation.” Charlotte allowed a small pause. “What makes you think A. J. Quill is a he?”
“Oh, pish. What woman would dare to lampoon the high and mighty? It would require . . .” Alison’s voice suddenly trailed off.
It took another instant for the penny to do a last spinning somersault through the air and drop to the floor.
“Oh, no. No. Surely you’re not saying . . .”
“You were asking how I came to know Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “If you recall, he was the prime suspect in a heinous murder—”
“Yes, of course,” interrupted Alison. “And A. J. Quill wa
s savaging his character, which fanned the flames of speculation.”
“A. J. Quill was satirizing his character,” Charlotte corrected. “The earl has conceded that it was a fair portrait, as he had been deliberating baiting the pompous Reverend Holworthy in the days leading up to his death.”
“I believe that the authorities wondered how the artist depicted the murder scene with such accuracy,” mused the dowager.
“As did Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “Which, to make a long story short, is how Raven and Hawk came to assault His Lordship.”
Sitting back with a wry laugh, Alison shook her head. “Ye heavens, how did I not see it? Now that I think of it, so many of the little details in A. J. Quill’s caricatures should have struck me as familiar—the way of depicting curling hair, the exaggerated shape of a nose, a lady’s scowl.”
“One of the many lessons I’ve learned about human nature is that we tend to see what we expect to see,” she murmured.
Alison nodded but maintained a pensive silence.
Charlotte stirred her now-cold tea, unwilling to intrude on the dowager’s thoughts. Shock and surprise were likely some of the emotions swirling inside her head. Were disappointment and revulsion also among them?
As Alison’s first reaction had indicated, there were boundaries past which a woman trespassed at her own peril....
Courage was one thing. Foolhardiness was quite another. And unlike herself, Alison had never been a fool. Outspoken, yes, but aware of just how far she could step without putting her foot in forbidden territory.
The dowager cleared her throat, but only as a prelude to shifting in a whisper of silk.
As more seconds slid by, Charlotte realized how much the dowager’s support meant to her. Alison had believed in her, had thought her dreams worthy.
“Please allow me to explain a bit more,” she ventured. “It was Anthony who created A. J. Quill in order to make ends meet when he didn’t get the painting commission he expected on returning to London from Italy. He was good at it.”
A pause. “When he died, I decided to pick up his pen, as it offered the opportunity for more income than scrubbing floors or sewing piecework. As you know, I could never stitch a straight seam.”
Murder at Queen's Landing Page 14