Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

“Don’t toy with me, sir. This is no jesting matter.”

  “I am well aware of that, Mrs. Sloane.” He had stood up when she entered the room. As she moved back toward the table, his shadow fell across her face, hiding her expression. “There has been another murder this morning.”

  Charlotte sat down heavily, her face leaching of all color. “Who?”

  “A man named Drummond. An acquaintance of Lord Canaday,” answered Wrexford. “And of mine, in case that was your next question.”

  She sat still as a stone. He wasn’t sure she had heard him.

  “Mrs. Sloane?”

  “I mentioned him in my print. And now he is dead.”

  “Given the timing, I think the killer had already decided to eliminate the fellow.” Wrexford was not at all sure of that. But beneath the cloak of cynicism, he sensed Charlotte still had a tender conscience. He didn’t wish for her to be plagued by guilt.

  A current of air stirred the draperies over the kitchen window. The faded chintz whispered against the wooden moldings.

  Releasing a pent-up breath, she said, “Sit down. We need to talk. I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, Lord Wrexford.”

  * * *

  “You have my full attention.”

  The earl sounded utterly calm. Bored, even. While Charlotte felt every tiny nerve in her body twitching with dread.

  “Do go on.” The lordly drawl might well have been ordering a servant to pour tea.

  Somehow that helped dispel her fear. “Shall I put on a kettle to boil?” she shot back. “And serve a plate of ginger biscuits?”

  “I prefer almond.” The earl sat with a careless grace. Despite the stool—it was, she knew, hideously uncomfortable—he looked completely at ease. “Dare I hope that is what’s in the box? I recognize the markings as those of Gunter’s Tea Shop in Berkeley Square. Their pastries are the best in all of London.”

  “Impossible man,” said Charlotte through gritted teeth, and yet she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from tweaking up. “Do you take nothing seriously?”

  Wrexford flicked a mote of dust from his cuff. “The world begs to be seen as absurd. And don’t try to deny it—that simple truth is your bread and butter.”

  “There is nothing simple about the truth,” she replied. “As Lord Byron said, it is but a lie in masquerade.”

  “Actually, he said it the other way around.” He smiled. “But I like your version better. The punch is aimed more squarely at one’s vitals.”

  Once again, Charlotte was reminded of how dangerous he was. In ways she couldn’t begin to define.

  “You have something to tell me, Mrs. Sloane,” Wrexford murmured after several moments of uneasy silence had rippled between them. “Shall we call a truce and refrain from further verbal sparring? I am not the enemy.”

  Would that she could believe that. But trust was also a weapon, all the more lethal for how swiftly and silently it struck.

  “A truce,” agreed Charlotte, wishing she didn’t find his face so interesting. There was arrogance plainly writ in every pore, and yet indefinable nuances that hinted at hidden facets. “We are both pragmatic, sir, and it seems we are in a position to help each other.”

  He waited.

  She wouldn’t have guessed patience was one of the earl’s virtues, given that he was known for possessing a hair-trigger temper. But once again he was surprising her.

  “It’s difficult to know where to begin,” she went on. “Perhaps it’s best to start with the murder of Holworthy. As I told you at our first meeting, I saw the body right after the crime was committed. I depicted the wounds and the burns to his skin with great accuracy in my drawing.” A pause. “What I didn’t include were two other details.”

  Wrexford recrossed his legs.

  “The first was a faint footprint I had spotted in the transept. It was fresh, and I suspect it was made by the killer.”

  “What makes you say that?” he interrupted.

  “Two reasons. The church is very old and riddled with drafts. An imprint in dust would not lie undisturbed for very long,” replied Charlotte. “And there was a side door there that was slightly ajar.”

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  “Did not the Runner mention that as evidence?” She had been stewing over the question.

  “No. According to him there was no evidence left at the scene to point to a culprit.”

  “I may be the unwitting cause of that,” she admitted. “In our haste to leave before the authorities arrived, Raven and I must have scuffed it out.”

  “Or Griffin is not as observant as you are.”

  “His reputation is one of a man who is good at what he does.” Having committed to a certain degree of honesty, Charlotte made herself go on. “So I owe you an apology, sir. Had he seen it, he would have had good reason to dismiss you as a suspect.”

  Again, he waited calmly, betraying no signs of impatience.

  “The size of the print,” she explained. “It was made by a small foot—smaller than yours.”

  “Could it have been made by a woman?”

  She shut her eyes for a moment, recalling the memory. “My impression is no. The tread of the heel and the width of the foot all indicated it was a man’s boot.”

  “Interesting.” Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “Though at the moment we have no way of knowing if it will prove useful. I daresay there are a great many small-footed men in London.”

  “Yes. But there was a distinctive mark on the heel—a star with the letter B centered in it was imprinted in the leather.”

  He thought about the information for a moment. “That sounds like the bootmaker’s mark of Burdock. He’s one of the second-tier craftsmen. Good, but catering to a clientele who can’t quite afford Hoby.” Pursing his lips, he added, “It’s interesting, but I’m not sure it’s of any real use. That the killer is a member of the beau monde is not really a surprise. The fact that he’s small-footed doesn’t help narrow the possible suspects—after all, small is a relative term.”

  Charlotte flushed, realizing how silly the detail must have sounded. “That’s not all. Far more important than the footprint, I found a scrap of paper stuck in Holworthy’s shirt cuff. I didn’t intend to take it—but we had to flee when the authorities arrived and somehow I did.”

  At that, the earl straightened, his gaze sharpening in interest. “What was written on it?”

  “A symbol, and below it, a string of numbers.” Alea iacta est, she thought to herself—the die is cast. Now was the moment when she must decide whether to throw caution to the wind. There would be no going back.

  Without hesitation, Wrexford went right to the heart of the question. “Do you know what they mean?”

  “I had no idea at the time,” answered Charlotte. “But in my work, I’ve learned to seize small things that may matter.” She met his gaze with a spark of defiance. “You may think it wrong, but survival tends to blur the fine lines of morality. For that I make no apology.”

  She paused for breath. “But I am sorry that my impulse may have resulted in the Runner seizing on you as a suspect, rather than someone else. However, after I thought more clearly about the implications of taking evidence from a murder scene, I saw no way to turn it over to Bow Street without it being dismissed as a hoax, or risking being implicated in the crime.”

  “As you have taken pains to point out, I have no right to be holier than thou.”

  Their eyes remained locked. A test of wills? Charlotte had stood firm in the face of far more threatening men. She didn’t flinch.

  Wrexford seemed amused by the moment. He deliberately shifted, and took a peek in the pastry box. “Gunter’s makes an excellent apple tart. Alas, I assume you are saving these for the imps.” He cocked his head. “Or is the one with the missing bite fair game?”

  Charlotte rose and wordlessly fetched a plate.

  “Bring a knife as well,” he murmured. “It seems only fair that we split it.”

 
In her experience, gentlemen rarely did what was fair regarding their dealings with women, she reflected. But the earl scrupulously divided the pastry into two equal portions.

  “Forgive me if I eat like a savage,” he said, picking up one of the pieces with his fingers. “I’m famished.”

  “I’m used to savages,” she quipped, and did the same. “There is bread and cheese if you wish additional sustenance.”

  “Thank you, but I shall survive.” He popped the remaining pastry into his mouth. Unlike the boys, he waited until he had swallowed before speaking again. “I take it from your earlier statement that you now know the meaning of the paper you took from Holworthy.”

  “I know what it is,” corrected Charlotte. “As to its meaning, I have no clue.” It wasn’t that she meant to be melodramatic, but she found herself needing to draw a deep breath before she went on.

  “It’s a book marking, one that indicated where a volume belongs in a private library. The numbers indicate a place on the shelf. And the symbol is the mark of the owner. . . .”

  Wrexford had gone very still. Yet the air seemed to thrum with an unseen force. Powerful muscle and wolf-sleek strength, coiled to strike.

  “And that gentleman is Lord Robert Canaday.”

  “You are sure it’s a mark from Lord Canaday’s library?”

  “Quite,” answered Charlotte firmly.

  “I trust you will understand,” said Wrexford softly, “that I feel compelled to ask you to explain how.”

  “And I trust you will understand,” she countered, “that I feel compelled to refuse to reveal the exact reasons. You will have to take my word that I am telling the truth.”

  “The truth as you know it.” He expelled an audible breath, the first sign that whatever hold he had on his volatile temper was beginning to slip.

  “Something sinister is afoot here. Two men lie dead, each foully murdered. So before I step deeper into this serpent’s nest of twisted intrigue and vague innuendos, I would prefer to be sure that I am not chasing after the wrong clues. A mistake, as you can see, might prove lethal.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard. It was a reasonable request, one she would make in his position. Yet she would not—could not—reveal the source of her certainty for it would put her own hard-won life at risk.

  There was, perhaps, a compromise.

  “Lord Wrexford, I am willing to show you the paper. You will see the crest on it, and I’m sure you have ways of confirming that it is indeed the marking of the Canaday estate library.”

  He turned in profile, the lamplight catching the purse of his chiseled lips. He wanted more, but he could not have it.

  “That is all I can offer,” said Charlotte. To do otherwise would make her too vulnerable.

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “I told you, sir, I do what I have to in order to survive.”

  “Get it,” he growled.

  Damnation. She hesitated, now caught between a stone and a wedge of granite.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Ah, I see.” Wrexford watched the war of conflicting emotion play across her face. “You don’t wish to reveal the place where you keep your most secret possessions hidden.”

  Serving as part of a special military intelligence-gathering mission in Portugal, he had gained some rudimentary training in searching for hidden information. And a quick look around her quarters made him certain that it would take him less than half an hour to discover all the places where she might be keeping private treasures.

  People were predictable. More so than they wished to believe. However, he decided to keep mum about it. Life had left her with precious few illusions. He would allow her to keep this one.

  “I shall be happy to step outside while you retrieve it.”

  Still she hesitated.

  Charlotte did not frighten easily. What sort of secret could elicit such a look of apprehension? A dark one, he decided. Let her keep that as well. He had enough of his own demons to wrestle with.

  “You may feel free to lock the door to make sure I do not interrupt you,” he added.

  The offer spurred Charlotte to action. Rising, she took down the iron key from the peg by the entrance and led the way to the outer door. “I shall fetch you shortly.”

  The lock, noted Wrexford, was not very sturdy. He must look into having a better one installed. Edging back into the shadows of the eaves, he considered how the events of the morning had given a new and alarming twist to things.

  He had drawn Charlotte into something more dangerous than he had imagined. The victims of her pen might curse her, but they had not sought to kill her.

  That, however, might change.

  Which was cause for further concern. Tyler’s tracker was good, but there would be plenty of other men lurking in the underbelly of London who could be hired, and for a pittance, to learn where A. J. Quill resided. The boys, though quick and clever, were not yet a match for the ruthless cunning of a hardened criminal.

  She was not stupid—she knew the life she had chosen entailed risks. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt.

  A conscience was a cursedly inconvenient encumbrance.

  Perhaps Henning, with his razored array of scalpels, could surgically remove it.

  “You may return now.” Charlotte’s voice drew him back from such mordant musings.

  Wrexford stepped through the half open door and shut it behind him. “I assume you keep it locked at all times?”

  “As a lone woman, I’m aware of the need to take precautions,” replied Charlotte.

  “Then I shall not shilly-shally around my meaning, Mrs. Sloane,” he said. “This second murder has, shall we say, painted a whole new picture of things. Until I’ve discovered how and why they are tied together, you had best be on guard.”

  “We,” she said coolly. “Until we have discovered how and why they are tied together.”

  It took him an instant to absorb her meaning. “This isn’t your fight,” he said softly. “My neck may be in peril, but yours is not. Turn your quill on another subject, so you’re not drawn into further danger.”

  The weak flicker of the lamplight caught the tightening of her jaw.

  “And you need not fret. I will continue to honor our original bargain,” he took care to add. “You will be well compensated for the loss of income suffered by looking at some other scandal.”

  Her smile only accentuated the ice in her eyes. “Gentlemanly honor demands that you protect the fairer sex?”

  Her sarcasm was like a pinprick—shallow but painful, all the more so for being unexpected.

  “You surprise me, Lord Wrexford,” she went on. “I took you for a man ruled by pragmatism, not sentiment.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he replied. “As of yet, I have no blood on my hands. I’d like to keep it that way.” He perched a hip on the edge of the table. “Too messy otherwise, and my valet abhors it when I get troublesome stains on my linen.”

  “God forbid we upset your valet.”

  “He’s a very useful fellow.”

  Charlotte sighed, which seemed to trigger a retraction of her prickly hedgehog spines. “You need not try to shield me from unpleasantness. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I have the utmost respect for your survival skills, so don’t take it amiss when I point out that you’ve never faced a cutthroat killer who may decide you’re sticking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”

  Her reaction was cleverly evasive. “I thought you were all afire to see the scrap of paper.”

  “I am.” Wrexford held out his hand. “Consider me a slave to fusty old notions of manly traditions, but I would also like to ensure that you aren’t burned to a crisp.”

  * * *

  Charlotte placed the Canaday library marking on his palm. “I may also have another useful bit of information for you,” she said. “I shall explain once you are satisfied with my judgment about this clue.”

  “A day of revelations.
What has prompted it?” he asked.

  “One thing at a time, sir.”

  His mouth crooked, the left corner dropping a touch lower than the right. She was beginning to recognize his subtle quirks of expression—he was used to being in command and didn’t like having his questions ignored.

  Deal with it, she thought, holding back a smile. Disappointment chiseled away the weak parts of one’s character. Tap-tap. Steel against stone, it shaped resolve.

  Ignoring her silence, the earl was studying the symbol and numbers inked on the paper. His irritation was gone, replaced by a more pensive look. Charlotte tugged nervously at her skirts, though why she cared whether he believed her or not was a question she didn’t care to contemplate too closely. Instead she made herself study the planes of his profile, and found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil and sketchbook.

  Light and shadow, hard and soft. His face was infinitely intriguing. A contradiction. Which made it a conundrum.

  He was right—there were too many puzzles, too many missing pieces. The unknown was dangerous.

  The brusque sound of Wrexford clearing his throat drew her back to the problem at hand.

  “The letter C could stand for a great many names. I’m not familiar with Canaday’s family crest, so I don’t know—”

  “The Canaday family crest shows two wolfhounds rampant serving as supporters of the escutcheon,” she interrupted. “The library symbol is clearly a variation, twining the canines with the C. Consult your copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage and you will see I am right.”

  He fixed her with a searching stare. “How is it that you are familiar with Debrett’s?”

  “I don’t live in the wilds of Siberia, though it may seem so to you, milord,” replied Charlotte. “Ye god, the book is no havey-cavey secret! It’s the bible of the beau monde, and is mentioned nearly every day in the drawing rooms of Mayfair. Of course I’m familiar with it.”

  For an instant he looked a little nonplussed, but quickly seized the offensive. “That may be, but”—his gaze shot to her desk and back—“I see no copy of it among your books, so unless you have magical powers of memory, how is it you know the exact details of Canaday’s crest?”