Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

So much for incantations and talismans. They were fiddle-faddle for the foolish. Railing at Fate was a waste of breath. If one hoped to shape destiny, one had to do so with one’s own hands.

  After sharpening her quill, she resumed her work.

  An hour passed, though as she glanced out the window Charlotte realized it might have been two. She often lost track of time when she was working. It was the growling in her stomach that had broken her concentration.

  Or perhaps it was the faint rasp of metal on metal.

  She froze and cocked an ear.

  The sound came again.

  The outer entryway had nothing to steal within the bare-bones space. But she always kept the main door locked, and aside from her only Raven had a key.

  Snick. Snick. The latch slowly lifted.

  Swallowing a spurt of panic, Charlotte grabbed her penknife. A meager weapon, to be sure, but if push came to shove, she’d learned a few nasty tricks over the years to fend off attack.

  Steady, steady. She slipped off her chair.

  The wall lamp shivered as the door creaked open. A figure stomped through the opening, his skirling overcoat sending a spray of raindrops spattering over the floor. Great gobs of viscous mud clung to his black boots.

  They were exquisitely made, noted Charlotte in spite of her fear, the leather buffed to a soft sheen.

  A gentleman, not a ruffian from the stews.

  She jerked her gaze upward.

  Well-tailored wool, burnished ebony buttons. Shoulder capes that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.

  She took an involuntary step back.

  He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending more drops of water flying through the air. Wind-whipped hair, dark as coal, tangled around his face. At first, all Charlotte could make out was a prominent nose, long and with an arrogant flare to its tip. But as he took another stride closer, the rest of his features snapped into sharper focus. A sensuous mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes, darkened with an undertone of gunmetal grey.

  Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .

  “Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”

  “You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.

  “I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”

  “Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”

  “By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”

  She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”

  “How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”

  Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”

  “Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”

  “I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”

  For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.

  “Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.

  “Your husband has captured Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”

  Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.

  “Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.

  Think! Think! But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.

  “Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”

  Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.

  “You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .

  Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.

  Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.

  She tried to pull away.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’s you who are A. J. Quill.”

  * * *

  Before his captive could answer, Wrexford heard a primal cry and a pelter of footsteps. A ripping sound, and in the same instant pain lancing through his leg.

  Whipping a knife from his boot, he spun around and snagged the writhing little beastie before it could stab the flashing blade into his flesh a second time.

  “Let him go!” screamed Mistress Quill. She had her knife in hand again, and a fear-crazed look on her face that said she would use it.

  He drew the boy—he assumed it was a boy and not a wild animal only because he had glimpsed a hand rather than a hairy paw—close to his chest, holding hard to control the wild thrashing. Curses were falling like rain. A bottle, thrown from somewhere to his rear, glanced off his skull. And the infernal Mistress Quill had grabbed a cleaver from the stovetop—

  “Silence!” he bellowed, brandished his weapon. “Not another word, not another movement or there will be hell to pay.”

  Everyone froze. Utter stillness descended upon the room.

  A finger of chill air tickled through the rent in the finespun melton wool. Wrexford felt blood snaking down his skin. “Damnation,” he muttered. “These were a pair of new trousers.”

  His words broke the fragile peace. The boy in his arms tried to break free. “Did he harm you, m’lady? If he did, I swear, I’ll kill him.”

  “I’m quite fine, Raven,” she assured him. “Please do as he says.” Her gaze darted to the doorway. “And you, too, Hawk.”

  Pivoting, Wrexford spotted the second boy moving stealthily out of the shadows. Bloody hell, they were like rats spewing out of the moldings.

  “Ye big bastard, are ye going to slit our throats with that shiv like ye did to the reverend?” rasped the boy in his arms.

  “No one is going to be murdered,” answered Wrexford. Whether that would prove true was by no means certain. “Perhaps if we all agree to cease hostilities and discuss the matter in a civilized fashion . . .” He looked back to Mistress Quill, tossing the gauntlet at her feet.

  She hesitated, tucking an errant curl of unremarkable brown hair behind her ear. Her gown was an even drabber shade of the same color. He noted a discreetly mended tear at the cuff. All that dullness made the sapphirine glitter of her blue eyes appear even more arresting.

  Their gazes locked for an instant, and as she gave a curt nod, he was suddenly aware of her height—she was tall for a woman, and though slender as a willow sapling, her form radiated a steely strength.

  “No more attacks, lads.” To Wrexford, she snapped, “Now put him down, and sheath your knife. You should be ashamed of yourself, frightening chil
dren with that monstrous weapon.”

  He couldn’t hold back a snort. “Children, you say? My first guess was weasels.”

  The smaller boy crept a little closer. “Cor, that’s a bloody big blade. Can I hold it?”

  “Absolutely not. Your friend here did enough damage with his pinstick.”

  The earl gingerly set down his captive, who responded with a string of obscenities.

  “Raven,” chided Mistress Quill. “Mind your manners.”

  To his surprise, the boy mumbled an apology as he crouched down to retrieve his weapon. It was, noted Wrexford, a simple scrap of steel, sharpened on one side and tapered to a lethal point. Crude but effective.

  “Aye, it may be a pinstick,” added Raven belligerently. “But lay another hand on m’lady and you’ll find it shoved straight through your guts.”

  What the wretched little imp lacked in size and bulk, he made up for in courage. Wrexford acknowledged the warning with a solemn nod. “Fair enough, lad.”

  As the boy put away his blade, the earl did the same, using the moment to take another look around the room. There was no evidence of a male presence, only the telltale signs of a household living on the edge of respectability. The table held only the simple necessities, and the lamps were burning cheap tallow candles—save for a fancy Argent lamp on a large work desk. As for food, he saw only the remains of a rye loaf on the sideboard.

  He straightened, aware that the two boys were watching him, the flickering flames setting off sparks of gold in their fierce little eyes. Their avian monikers were appropriate. They reminded him of baby raptors. All gristle and bone. Wary. Wild. Primed to explode into savage violence.

  Wrexford reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his purse. “I have always found that negotiations go more smoothly over a meal.” He shook two guineas into his palm and held them out to the one called Raven. “Why don’t you and your companion run out and buy us some meat pasties . . . and whatever else you wish.”

  The glittering coins had a mesmerizing effect. Their eyes widened but they didn’t move a muscle.

  “Come, take them,” he murmured. “You have my word of honor your m’lady will be safe with me. I simply wish to talk.”

  Longing lit in the scrawny face of the one called Hawk. He let out a tiny sigh.

  Mistress Quill flicked a subtle signal, a mere tweak of her finger.

  Raven’s reaction was swift. He snatched the money and flew for the door, his smaller shadow right behind him.

  “Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted,” intoned Wrexford, once they were gone, “I came here looking for A. J. Quill, and it appears that I have found my quarry.” He indicated one of the stools. “Do have a seat, m’lady. We have a great many things to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Actually, I have nothing to say to you, sir,” said Charlotte.

  “I beg to differ.” Wrexford spoke softly, but his tone was all too familiar. The aristocratic assumption that his Word was God.

  She hated him already.

  “You are clearly privy to all sorts of secrets here in Town. I wish to know how you obtain them.”

  Charlotte responded with a harsh laugh. “If wishes were unicorns, we could all fly to the moon.”

  His dark brows pinched together. She had angered him. Whether that was wise or not remained to be seen.

  Auribus teneo lupum. There was an old Latin adage about having a wolf by its ears.

  In the shifting shapes cast by the candle flames, the earl had a decidedly lupine look. Dark hair tangled around a long face, sharp chin—

  “A whimsical image,” growled Wrexford. “But allow me to remind you this is not a whimsical moment. There’s been a grisly murder, and your artwork is provoking the public to believe that I am the culprit.”

  Charlotte inhaled sharply. The earl was accusing her of inflammatory behavior? “I am not to blame for your sordid reputation,” she retorted. “I simply observe and listen to what goes on around me, then depict facts that I have gathered. How people choose to interpret them is not my concern.”

  His gaze turned lidded, the black scrim of lashes hiding his eyes. “An interesting explanation. I’ll not argue that my actions attract a certain notoriety.” He shifted as a gust of air blew in through the cracks in the window casement, setting the shoulder capes of his dark coat to flapping like the wings of a bat.

  She looked away, swallowing a spurt of fear. This man could destroy her with a snap of his well-tended fingers. She must temper her outrage and try to survive.

  “What I do care about,” continued the earl, “is how you gather your facts. They are . . . frighteningly accurate.”

  Strangely enough, he sounded faintly amused.

  Perhaps there was hope.

  “And as it would seem that you don’t come by your information through bribery or influence, I can’t help but ask—how the devil do you learn all these things?”

  The edge of wry humor was now unmistakable. Charlotte decided there was little harm in giving him a halfway truthful answer.

  “It’s not nearly as nefarious as you might think. The notion that a secret can remain sacred is, for the most part, a delusion. We may think we hide them away in the deepest, darkest private places, where they will remain safe.” She curled a rueful grimace. “But secrets have a way of slipping out. I merely pay attention to their whispers.”

  His expression remained inscrutable. “How?”

  A smile crept to her lips. “I see no reason to divulge that secret so easily to you. If you wish to discover the answer, you are welcome to try.”

  He gingerly shifted his stance, and Charlotte suddenly remembered the nasty ripping sound of expensive fabric. That quality of wool would likely cost her a fortnight’s earnings.

  “Do you require a bandage for your wound, sir?”

  “No. It’s just a scratch. I’ll survive.” He took a moment to examine the gash. “Alas, the same cannot be said for my trousers.”

  “My apologies,” she said stiffly. “Raven and Hawk have no nest of their own. I suppose the fact that I allow them to shelter here whenever they wish and feed them when I can makes them feel protective of me.”

  Wrexford seemed surprised. “They aren’t yours?”

  “No.”

  He waited, as if expecting her to add a further explanation. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Loyalty is an admirable trait, m’lady. But given the lad’s current size and strength, he needs to be more careful. Not everyone will be as tolerant as I am.”

  “I have endeavored to explain that to him.”

  “Try again.” Lapsing into silence, he moved to her desk and regarded the drawing of the Prince Regent for an uncomfortably long interlude before settling himself on one of the stools. “Why do the lads call you ‘m’lady’?” he asked abruptly.

  The question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Charlotte had long ago come up with a facile explanation. “My late husband called me that as . . . as a silly endearment. The boys simply mimicked him.”

  His gaze darted back to her desk. She wasn’t sure why.

  “Was your loss recent?”

  Charlotte hesitated, wondering why he was probing.

  “Perhaps eight months ago?” he added.

  The room suddenly began to sway. She sat, praying the lightheadedness would quickly pass. It was imperative to keep all her wits about her. The earl struck her as a man who would give no quarter. And she still did not know why he was here.

  “W-Why do you ask?” she countered.

  Another glance at her desk. She felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine. Had she left some telltale clue exposed?

  “Because,” Wrexford finally said, “now that I think of it, A. J. Quill’s style changed right around then. The drawing became surer, the satire sharper.”

  The earl was far more perceptive than she imagined. Which made him exceedingly dangerous.

  “My guess is, your late husband was the original artist
, and you continued his business when he stuck his spoon in the wall.”

  Deciding it was pointless to deny it, Charlotte gave a confirming nod. “It seemed the pragmatic thing to do. It earns more than scrubbing floors for the likes of you and your privileged peers.”

  Wrexford steepled his fingers. “Oh, I think it’s more than pragmatism. Art is passion, not a practicality, Missus . . .”

  “You know nothing about me,” she replied coldly.

  “Not even your name,” he quipped.

  Charlotte was tiring of the cat-and-mouse games. “Let us cut to the chase, sir. Why are you here?”

  * * *

  As the question hung in the unsettled air, Wrexford was acutely aware of a number of sensations. The sting of his lacerated flesh, the hardness of the stool, the chill of the room, the scrutiny of m’lady, whose stare was like a myriad of needles prickling against his eyeballs.

  This meeting was not at all what he had expected. It had seemed a simple undertaking. His rank and influence would intimidate A. J. Quill into spilling his secrets. But the earl sensed there was nothing simple about m’lady. Bullying wouldn’t work. She had already shown herself to have a spine of steel, along with a quickness of wit in their thrust-and-parry battle of wills.

  And here she was, unblinking.

  “As I said,” he answered slowly, “I’m looking for information.”

  “Look elsewhere,” she snapped. “Sharing isn’t good for business. I make my living knowing things that others don’t.”

  “It’s not entirely out of idle curiosity, though I confess that how you do it intrigues me,” said the earl. Her eyes seemed to possess an unfathomable depth. Shadows spiraled beneath the surface, plunging down through shades of cerulean to indigo black. “My valet is urging me to gather the facts about the murder, as it may prove helpful in avoiding a hangman’s noose.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “In case it matters to you, I’m innocent.”

  “It doesn’t,” she said. “Matter, that is.” As she turned her head slightly, the lamplight caught the subtle Mars-red highlights in her hair. Cinnabar and auburn shades were woven through the mouse brown. Yet another reminder that nothing about her was as if first seemed.