Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  Sheffield chewed thoughtfully on a piece of gammon, then suddenly sat up straighter. “What about Fenwick Alston?”

  “Tyler was right,” drawled Wrexford. “You’re beginning to understand the art of sleuthing.”

  “Ha!” His friend made a face. “I won’t consider myself anything but a callow novice until I can earn praise from the Weasels.”

  “Fetch your hat and coat,” said the earl. “As it happens, we’re going to pay a call now on the current baronet. Sir Joseph passed away several years ago. His eldest son, Bentley, inherited the title.”

  “But it’s not yet noon,” protested Sheffield, darting a longing look at his untouched muffins. “The butler won’t admit visitors at such an ungodly hour.”

  “Yes, but Sir Bentley has his weekly fencing lesson this morning at Angelo’s Academy.” Wrexford rose. “And with the great Harry Angelo himself, so he’ll be there.”

  They made the short walk to Bond Street and entered the academy. The earthy scent of sweat and masculine musk wafted through the air as they crossed the foyer and paused in the doorway leading to the fencing salons. The cavernous main room echoed with the ring of clashing steel and the huffed snorts of male exertion.

  “No, no, no!” A slender gentleman, his hair drawn back from his high forehead in an old-fashioned queue, danced to a halt and waggled his rapier. “You must hold your hand higher and balance on the balls of your feet.” He demonstrated the move with a cat-like quickness. “Like so!”

  His pupil blinked and dabbed a soaked shirtsleeve to his brow.

  “Now try it by yourself, slowly, and repeat it several times.”

  “You’re a hard taskmaster, Harry,” called Wrexford as the legendary fencing master stepped back from the center of the room.

  “Ah, Wrexford.” Henry Charles Angelo cut a quick flourish through the air with his blade. “You must come around for a session with me soon, so my students can see a good example of a swordsman who understands the principles of control and precision.” He cocked his brow. “I trust your skills have stayed sharp, milord?”

  “Scientific experimentation demands precision,” the earl answered. “I try to keep myself honed to a razor’s edge.”

  “Excellent! As I said, this gentleman here would benefit from seeing some proper swordplay.” Angelo grinned before turning back to his panting student. “That’s enough for today, Sir Bentley. Try to practice your footwork for our next session.” He patted his flat abdomen and added, “Oh, and it appears you’re getting a bit por-tly.” A chuckle. “So you might consider limiting your intake of wine.”

  Sir Bentley’s face turned even redder at the teasing. Shoulders slumping, the baronet blew out his breath and slunk away to towel off in one of the changing salons.

  “Don’t take it to heart. Harry isn’t easy to please,” murmured Wrexford as he and Sheffield followed him into the room.

  “That’s kind of you, milord,” answered Sir Bentley after another wheeze. “I’m under no illusion as to my prowess with a sword. But a gentleman ought to know the rudiments of wielding a blade, so I make an effort, however paltry.”

  “Which is all to your credit.”

  Sir Bentley looked a little puzzled at having attracted Wrexford’s attention. He flashed an uncertain smile and was about to retreat to the washbasins when the earl shifted slightly to block his way.

  “Might we have a private word with you, sir?”

  “Y-yes, er, of course . . .” The baronet’s expression turned wary, but he shrugged and stepped back into one of the changing alcoves. “But I can’t imagine why.”

  “It’s about your youngest brother.”

  The baronet’s gaze turned clouded. “It’s not a subject I enjoy discussing.”

  “I understand,” replied Wrexford. “I’d simply like to ask if you know his current whereabouts.”

  A hesitation, punctuated by an unhappy exhale. “Some graveyard in Jamaica, though I couldn’t tell you which one. As far as the family is concerned, his memory is best left buried in oblivion, along with his corpse.”

  Wrexford gritted his teeth. Damnation. Yet another dead end.

  Seeing the earl’s reaction, Sir Bentley added, “Fenwick was killed several years ago. An altercation over business matters.”

  “Might I ask exactly when?” inquired Sheffield.

  The baronet pursed his lips. “Three . . . no, less than that . . . It was the summer of eleven.”

  “And in what sort of business was he engaged?” pressed Sheffield.

  Another awkward silence.

  “We’re not asking out of prurient interest, sir,” said Wrexford. “We’re aware of your brother’s trouble in India and are trying to discern whether he might have been part of a current trading enterprise.”

  “An illicit one, I take it,” said the baronet tightly. “Perhaps he was.” A pause. “Since I’m aware of your reputation for solving crimes, I’m willing to tell you the sordid details, milord. But I ask for your word of honor in keeping it confidential.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Very well.” Sir Bentley blew out his breath. “A well-placed friend in the governor-general’s office in Jamaica let me know that Fenwick was suspected of trading goods with the French on Martinique. That would, of course, be not only illegal, but . . .”

  “Treasonous,” said the earl softly.

  “So, you understand why I wish to leave my brother dead and buried,” responded the baronet. “I trust that answers your questions. If you are looking to punish those responsible for a current crime, you may rest assured that Fenwick is already roasting in hell for his sins.”

  The devil seemed to be taking malicious delight in tangling the Argentum conundrum into a proverbial Gordian knot. Wrexford glanced at the rack of practice weapons hanging on the wall. Perhaps I need to borrow Angelo’s rapier to slice through it.

  But even then, would it cut to the truth?

  “Thank you for your candor, Sir Bentley. Be assured that you can count on our discretion,” he replied. “We won’t detain you any longer.”

  Once out on the street, the earl gave vent to his frustration with a muttered oath. “Hell’s teeth, we’re not a damnable step closer to finding the dastards.” He hated feeling so lost. “Let us hope Lady Charlotte has had better luck with Annie Wright.”

  Though that was a two-edged sword, as she would insist on following any lead. Which would likely put her in danger.

  “Come, we had better return to my townhouse and see if the Weasels have brought any message,” Wrexford added.

  “You go on,” said Sheffield. “I have a few things I wish to do first. I’ll meet up with you later.”

  * * *

  Silk rustled against silk as Charlotte shifted against the sofa pillows. And then shifted again. She put down her teacup and fluffed her skirts, then rose and moved to the bowfront window overlooking the street.

  “Do stop skittering around like a cat on a hot griddle,” counseled Alison. “I’m sure Wrexford will come as soon as he gets your note.”

  Charlotte knew her impatience was irrational. The ship had sailed. And even if it hadn’t, they would never have been permitted to board an East India Company vessel and interrogate its passengers.

  “Sorry.” She flicked at the draperies. “I was naïve to think Annie Wright would trust me. If only—”

  “If only there were winged unicorns, we could fly to the heavens and take tea with the Man in the Moon,” drawled the dowager. “If only I were forty years younger, I would . . .” A pause. “Oh, pish. I would likely do not a thing differently.”

  Charlotte laughed in spite of her jangling nerves. “Do you think the Man in the Moon prefers Bohea or Hyson tea?”

  “Being the ruler of his realm, I daresay he would choose Imperial,” replied Alison.

  “While I,” cut in a voice from the doorway, “would welcome a wee dram of good Scottish malt, if given my druthers.” Wrexford moved past the dowager’s bu
tler before the fellow had a chance to announce him. He favored Alison with a smile, but Charlotte knew him well enough to read the underlying tension in his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, quelling her own impatience to tell him what she had just discovered.

  “Alas, the lead on Alston led nowhere.” He explained about his meeting with the baronet.

  She heard the frustration in his voice—a mirror of her own—though he sought to temper it as he finished with a wry observation. “Kit is acquiring a knack for sleuthing. He asked some astute questions, though they came to naught.”

  “There’s a bottle of malt on the sideboard,” said Alison. “As well as an excellent French brandy—from before the Revolution, I might add, so it’s not smuggled goods.”

  “Thank you,” replied Wrexford. “Much as it’s tempting, I prefer to keep a clear head.” He looked to Charlotte. “Dare I hope you’ve learned something?”

  “Yes,” warned Charlotte. “But it only adds more urgency to the mystery we’re trying to unravel.”

  “Sit,” ordered Alison.

  Wrexford perched a hip on the arm of the facing chair. “Go on.”

  “As you suspected, Annie Wright scarpered . . .” Charlotte recounted her conversation with Squid and the cryptic message the barmaid had left with Alice the Eel Girl.

  “But that’s not the worst of it,” she added, seeing his mouth tighten to a grim line. “Raven and Hawk accompanied me to the docklands and made the rounds of their friends to gather the latest scuttlebutt while I met with Alice. While they were talking with Strings, the boy who picks apart old rope to make oakum for caulking, two gentlemen passed close by on their way to an East India merchant ship about to depart.”

  Alison edged forward expectantly, having not yet heard this part of the story.

  “They paused behind a stack of crates, and the boys overheard their conversation,” continued Charlotte. “The older of the two was adamant that his companion had to leave the country immediately for his own safety.”

  Wrexford looked about to speak.

  “And yes,” she went on quickly, “the boys caught a name. The man being ordered to sail on the ship was Mather. As you know, they have sharp ears and sharp memories and recalled it from our councils of war.” Her voice tightened. “And the two gentlemen were then joined by a woman who fits Annie’s description, and she accompanied Mather onto the ship. It seems she was in league with the dastards, after all, and betrayed her old friend.”

  Charlotte paused for just an instant. “Clearly, the conspirators are aware that their activities have come under scrutiny. Which will make the ringleaders even more difficult to discover.”

  “Damnation.” However, the earl didn’t waste time in recriminations. “What about the other man’s name?” he demanded.

  “Unfortunately, Mather didn’t say it,” she answered. “But the boys did get a description of both gentlemen.” Charlotte quickly described the one called Mather, and the earl nodded a confirmation that it fit the banker.

  “As for the other gentleman,” she went on, “he was older, with dark hair silvering at the temples and combed à la Brutus. Medium height, average build, and dressed in expensive clothing, fashioned by Weston or Stutz, guessed Hawk.” The boy had developed a frightfully discerning eye for detail. “Though the muted shades of navy and charcoal grey offer no distinctive clue that either tailor might use to identify the man.”

  Charlotte shifted her stance. “He did, however, have one unusual item—a walking stick covered with an exotic-looking black leather. Hawk got close enough to see the pattern—you know how interested he is in the natural world—and identified it as snakeskin. And he saw that the knob was carved from a dark reddish translucent stone, which he thinks might be carnelian.”

  Wrexford was suddenly on his feet.

  “Does that help?” asked Charlotte.

  “I shall have a better idea later this evening,” he answered.

  Their eyes met.

  “After I have a private word with Lord Copley.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Twilight was fading to darkness by the time Wrexford returned to his townhouse. He had spent the afternoon making inquiries, including confirming with the head porter at White’s that the admiral’s regular backgammon partner was still ill.

  Copley would likely serve again as a surrogate, he thought, a smile touching his lips, as he crossed the black-and-white checked tiles of the entrance foyer. The board game was considered by many to be a metaphor for war, but the real battle would begin in earnest once the dice and the counters were put away.

  Laughter—along with a series of deep-throated rumbles—interrupted his thoughts as he approached his workroom. It seemed his sacrosanct study space had become . . . a playground.

  “What the devil is going on in here?”

  “Harper was getting bored,” said Raven, looking up from playing tug-of-war with the hound over a disgusting-looking bone.

  “And lonely,” chirped Hawk, who was sprawled atop Harper’s shaggy iron-grey flank. “So we decided to come over early, before Lady Cordelia arrives, to keep him company.”

  Wrexford made a pained face at Tyler. “What were you thinking to bring along that big hairy beast to the city?”

  Harper let go of the bone and pricked up his ears.

  “The Weasels suggested that he would make an excellent guard for the professor,” replied the valet. “ Any intruder will think twice before challenging those fearsome teeth.”

  To Raven’s and Hawk’s chortling delight, the hound responded with a monstrous yawn.

  “It would serve you right if he bites you,” growled the earl.

  Tyler smirked. “He won’t. He’s Scottish.” A pause. “As you’re a Sassenach, it’s far more likely that he’ll snap at you.”

  “He had better not bite the hand that feeds him,” warned the earl, “or he’ll find himself exiled to the Outer Hebrides.”

  Harper, his pink tongue lolling out of his massive jaws, rolled onto his back and let out a whuffle of contentment as Hawk scratched his belly.

  “Lud, just look at you.” Wrexford shook his head in censure. “You heard Tyler. You’re supposed to be a fierce guard dog, ready to tear an intruder limb from limb.”

  The hound flopped onto his side and bared his teeth in a canine smile.

  “You’re an embarrassment to your wolfly ancestors,” muttered the earl, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

  “Woof.”

  More laughter.

  “Out, you little beasts,” ordered the earl. “And take Harper with you.”

  “May we take him for a run in Hyde Park?” asked Raven.

  “Absolutely not. Two lads running wild with a large animal might attract undue attention, even at this hour. He gets his exercise with me on my morning ride. I’m known to be eccentric, so nobody questions it.”

  Seeing the two crestfallen faces, Wrexford added, “You’ll have ample opportunity to take him on runs when we return him to the country.”

  “We’re invited for another visit?” asked Hawk.

  “Yes, but it’s up to Lady Charlotte and Lady Peake,” the earl replied. “So I suggest you follow orders. I would hate to have to say a bad word about your behavior.”

  They scampered for the door, Raven turning to let out a low whistle. Harper rose and padded off after them.

  “Don’t scowl at me,” said Tyler as he picked up the bone and placed it in one of the workroom waste pails. “You said yourself we’re up against a very dangerous enemy. The hound is an extra measure of protection.”

  “Enough jesting.” Waving off the offer of a drink, Wrexford sat down at his desk. “I need you to make some inquiries about Lord Elgin Copley.”

  “For what am I looking?”

  “Whether his saintly appearance masks some very dark sins,” replied the earl.

  The valet went very still. He was no longer smiling. “You think the corruption runs that high? Co
pley is the most powerful and respected member of the board of directors.”

  “It’s quite possible.” The earl passed on what Charlotte had told him, then explained, “I noticed that he carried just such a snakeskin walking stick when he came to play backgammon with his cousin at White’s. He was a trifle late and hurried upstairs without passing over his coat and hat to the porters.”

  Silence.

  Wrexford continued sorting through some papers, looking for some notes he had made on the case. But after several moments, he looked up. It wasn’t like Tyler to refrain from comment.

  “Are you troubled by this?”

  “Yes,” said Tyler without hesitation. “And if he’s the one running the scheme, so should you be.”

  “I may be stubborn, but I like to think I’m not a fool. If you have concerns, I would like to hear them.”

  Normally quick with his wit and his tongue, the valet took his time in composing a reply. “When circumstances first forced you to take up sleuthing to solve a crime, you were the only person at risk if you failed.”

  “Lady Charlotte and the Weasels—”

  “Yes, yes, they were soon entwined,” said Tyler. “Then in the Ashton affair, Sheffield and McClellan were drawn into the heart of the mystery.” Rain had just begun to fall, the first hesitant drops pattering softly against the windowpanes. “And now Lady Peake . . .”

  Wrexford watched the dark silhouettes of ivy shudder in the swirling breeze. It was true. Being alone gave one the luxury of a devil-be-damned attitude toward life. “You think I should back away to keep them out of trouble?”

  A measured exhale.

  He waited, using the moment to marshal his own thoughts.

  And then, thankfully, a very Tyler-like laugh. “I’m neither a bloody idiot nor a bloody hypocrite. Of course I don’t expect you to slink away when you know something is wrong. I just want to remind you to exercise caution in confronting Copley.”

  The valet moved to the hearth and warmed his hands over the fire. “Unlike our previous opponents, the East India Company has both the resources and the power to crush anyone who stands in the way of their plans.”