Wrexford seemed to retreat into himself. All the chiseled planes and angles of his face became as emotionless as granite. Charlotte was tempted to take up her sketchpad and try to capture the supreme sense of self-command. But she felt too spent to reach for paper and pencil. Far more appealing was the thought of taking refuge in her upstairs bedroom and seeking blissful oblivion in sleep.
But then, bad dreams might be even worse than her own wakeful imagination.
The earl finally responded to Henning’s question.
“As to that, I’ve an idea. It’s time for the hunter to become the hunted.”
CHAPTER 19
It was nearly midnight, but the shadows flitting through the dimly lit room couldn’t quite hide Tyler’s disgruntled expression. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?”
“Quite.” Wrexford eased the thin steel probe in a touch farther and delicately pressed it up, and then down. “There, you see?” The lock had released with a satisfying snick. “That’s three times in a row.”
He removed the blindfold. “Your tutelage over the past hour has knocked the rust off my skills. I’ll have no trouble opening the door.”
“Yes, but creating a diversion is key to getting you inside the building without being seen,” argued his valet. “Do you really think it wise to entrust the task to a pair of unfledged urchins?”
The earl had weighed the risks and decided there was no danger in asking Raven and Hawk to make enough of a disturbance outside the Royal Institution to draw the ire of the night guard. The plan was for them to lead the man on a merry chase before disappearing into the night, and he had every confidence that they were far too quick and agile to be in any peril.
“Those unfledged urchins responded with exactly the same question when I mentioned that I was considering using you,” replied Wrexford dryly. “Along with a number of very rude observations on the abilities of a Mayfair man-milliner.”
Tyler looked bemused by the insult. “Me? A man-milliner?” The term was a bawdy disparagement of a fellow’s manhood.
“Their words, not mine. But they do have a point. They’ve lived all their lives on the streets. Raising holy hell with watchmen and shopkeepers is second nature to them. A few well-flung stones rattling against entrance lanterns and the guard won’t hesitate to leave his post to box their ears.”
He wrapped the set of picklocks in a piece of chamois and slid the roll into his boot. Unless his wits were turned arse over teakettle, they were finally in a position to take the initiative away from their adversary. Let it be his turn to react to unexpected attacks. The plan, which he and Tyler had worked out in meticulous detail over the last few hours, was to break into Lowell’s basement laboratory and look for proof that darker passions lay beneath the gossamer tales of collecting butterflies.
“Don’t sulk,” he ordered, slanting a sidelong look at his valet’s face. “We can’t take a chance of you being spotted anywhere near the building. I’ll be exceedingly careful, but Lowell is a clever dastard. There can’t be any connection to me if he notices the place has been searched.”
“What if the brats are caught?” asked his valet, who was still looking unhappy at ceding his place in the action. “Or don’t show up?”
“They won’t let us down,” assured Wrexford. The boys had greeted the request with undisguised enthusiasm. What Charlotte’s reaction would be if she knew of it was a moot point. Like the knives, it was decided this midnight foray was to be a secret between men.
He rose from his crouch by the door and entered his workroom, followed by a still-scowling Tyler. “Your task is just as important. Read over Edward Howard’s lecture on the early alchemists that Henning gave me. Then I need you to search through the library shelves and gather everything you can on his work with mercury.”
“I shall have it all bookmarked and a summary written waiting for your return.” A long-suffering sigh punctuated the reply. “If you return.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Wrexford checked his pocket watch. “Time to be off.”
“Let us hope the urchins also carry gold timepieces,” muttered Tyler under his breath.
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“It must have rubbed off on me from you,” huffed his valet.
“The church bells ring the hour,” pointed out the earl as he slipped on a black coat and knitted cap. “And those who live on the street are attuned to the natural cycle of the day. I’ve tested the boys, and they’re more accurate than my fancy Breguet ticker.”
Tyler surrendered his pique with a resigned sigh. “You have the special lantern?” Clever fellow that he was, the valet had designed a pocket-sized metal apparatus with a glass lens that focused candlelight into a narrow but powerful beam. Useful in illuminating experiments, it would also prove an asset in more clandestine activities.
Wrexford patted his coat pocket in answer, and then opened the window overlooking his back garden.
“Godspeed, milord.” The whisper was quickly lost in the ruffling night breeze.
* * *
Unable to sleep, Charlotte pulled on her wrapper and padded down the stairs, intent on brewing a cup of chamomile tea. She paused halfway down and cocked an ear.
The whisper of rustling blankets and low-pitched voices rose up from the gloom. She tiptoed down several more treads and stopped to listen again.
A boot scuffed against the planked floor.
“Shhhh, you’re gonna wake her,” hissed Raven.
“Sorry.”
It was unusual for the boys to be going out at this hour. They either hared off after supper or settled in by the stove for the night. Of late, they had been loath to leave her alone.
Puzzled, she abandoned any pretense of stealth and hurried down to the main room.
Raven spun around, the dappling of moonlight from the window catching the spasm of guilt that flitted across his face.
Charlotte feigned a yawn. “I couldn’t sleep. And it seems neither could you. Will you join me in some tea? There’s sugar in the pantry so we can sweeten it.” Wrexford had left another purse that morning and she had splurged on a treat for the boys.
“Naw,” said Raven, evading her gaze. “Me ’n’ Hawk just feel like a breath of fresh air, that’s all.”
Suspicions roused, Charlotte turned to his younger brother. “What are the two of you up to?”
“N-Nuffink!”
Her senses were now on full alert. Hawk only said “nuffink” when he was nervous about something.
“Nothing,” she corrected softly.
Hawk hung his head. “Sorry.”
“I hope ‘nothing’ truly means you have no mischief in mind.” Charlotte ran a hand over the thick nighttime braid of her hair, wishing she dared to gather them in her arms. “I worry about you,” she said honestly. “If you run afoul of the authorities, I haven’t the connections or the money to secure your freedom.” Boys of their age were routinely transported to the Antipodes for stealing an apple or a loaf of bread.
“We’ve no mischief planned, m’lady,” said Raven. “I swear it.”
The boy was an excellent liar, but she had dealt with far more jaded scoundrels.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Another false yawn. “Lud, my eyes now feel heavy again. I think I shall forego tea and return to bed.” Hugging her arms to her chest, she started back up the steps. “Please take care.”
“Aye, we will!” they chorused.
Weasels. Wrexford’s teasing moniker popped to mind. They were, she knew, sneaking out on some adventure—and one of which she would definitely not approve.
I’m not their mother or legal guardian, she reminded herself. They were free to do as they pleased.
As soon as she turned the corner of the landing, Charlotte took the treads two at a time, moving swiftly and silently to her bedchamber. Crouching down at the window, she watched the street below and waited. Several moments passed, and then two small shapes slipped out into the shadows, th
eir stealthy steps heading west.
Charlotte dressed in a flash, grateful that breeches and boots were so much easier to don than the cursed layers of feminine frills, and hurried out into the night. A thin haze of mist dulled the starlight, and puffs of pale vapor skittered through the darkened streets. The boys were no longer visible, but thank God, she was familiar with their favorite routes to the heart of Mayfair.
Be damned with legalities. If danger lay ahead, she wasn’t about to let them face it alone.
The sky was fast darkening with clouds. Hat pulled low on her brow, Charlotte wove her way through the maze of alleyways and side streets, avoiding the occasional tavern and gin-hole where trouble might gather. It was near the markets at Covent Garden that she spotted the boys up ahead. They were moving at a cautious pace and taking care to blend into the surroundings. But she knew what to look for. The hunch of their shoulders, the angle of their heads, the rhythm of their gait—she knew every nuance by heart.
As they cut up Coventry Street and crept into Piccadilly Street, she slowly but surely shortened the distance between them. The boys were skilled, but they made one cardinal mistake.
Charlotte ducked into a gap between the buildings and held herself very still as she checked the way behind her.
No sign of movement or sound of footsteps. She took up the chase again, just in time to see the boys take shelter in a passageway by the corner of Albermarle Street.
The nape of her neck began to prickle.
I have an idea. Wrexford’s eyes had taken on a dangerous glint earlier in the day, just before he had rushed off. If what she suspected was true, she would save the Crown the bother of an execution and hang him herself!
She, too, took cover and made a quick assessment of the situation. A glance showed the boys were still in hiding. Guessing that the Royal Institution building was their ultimate destination, Charlotte considered her options. Darting up Old Bond Street, which lay directly to her right, would allow her to circle around to the other end of Albermarle Street and find a vantage point from which to observe what trouble was brewing.
Damn the earl. It was one thing to risk his own neck....
Slipping out from her hiding place, she followed the line of darkness cast by the buildings, anger giving impetus to her steps.
In a matter of minutes, the massive fluted columns of the Institution rose out of the gloom, the pale stone taking on a pearlescent glow as the moon broke free of the clouds. Finding a recessed set of stairs, she took up position just as a nearby church bell struck a single ring.
Charlotte tensed.
The sound seemed to reverberate through the air for an eternity.
Nothing.
A chill licked down her spine. She shifted uncertainly, trying to swallow her fear. Had her instincts been wrong? As if taunting her doubts, the shadows came cruelly alive, flitting and rippling under her confused gaze.
But suddenly a distinct shape materialized at the corner of the building. A silhouette of a man, stark black against the dark-on-dark charcoal swirling. It was gone in an instant, hidden by the unyielding stone—
Thwack!
A rock ricocheted off one of the pristine pillars, then several more.
Charlotte bit back a cry as the boys ran closer and flung another fusillade at the stately entrance.
The main door flung open. “Oy!” A beefy guard lumbered out, waving a cudgel. “Be off with you or I’ll call for the authorities!”
Raven shouted an obscenity as he reared back and launched a missile that hit the man square in the chest.
Enraged, the guard stumbled down the steps, bellowing for help from the night watchman who patrolled the local streets.
The boys backed off, just slowly enough to invite a chase.
Run! Charlotte kept the warning bottled up as she knew what they were doing. Though she didn’t see the earl slip into the building, she was sure he was already inside.
Raven must have sensed it too—or more likely, Wrexford, with the focus of his scientific precision, had spelled out exactly how long the diversion should last. No matter how angry with him she was at the moment, she didn’t believe he would expose them to foolhardy risk.
Sure enough, after tossing a few more insults at the guard, the boys broke into a run and were gone in the blink of an eye.
Charlotte had seen enough. She slipped away from her hiding place. But instead of retracing her steps east, she turned and headed west.
* * *
Forty . . . forty-one . . . forty-two . . . Moving noiselessly across the wide entrance hall, Wrexford entered the stairwell and descended to the basement well ahead of schedule.
“Well done, weasels,” he murmured as he paused to pull the picklocks from his boot. Less than a minute had now passed since the first stone had been thrown. The boys should be flying for home.
Assuming Raven obeyed his orders to the letter. The guard, he knew, couldn’t outrace a slug. But unexpected complications could happen....
The earl forced such worries from his head. The boy was bright and understood that the streets were always teeming with unexpected dangers.
Easing the basement door open, he hurried down the pitch-black corridor, navigating by touch rather than sight. Lowell’s laboratory was the last one on the left, the entrance hidden behind a jog in the wall. He felt around for the keyhole, and after exploring the opening chose two of his thinnest probes.
Practice had been a wise precaution. The supervisor had installed a complicated German puzzle lock. A difficult challenge.
Snick. But not impossible.
After closing the door behind him and rebolting it, he lit his tiny lantern, courtesy of Lowell’s ingenious invention. Tyler had only recently received a supply from Scotland of the highly reliable lucifer matches. The irony was amusing, but only for an instant. If what he suspected was true, the brilliant chemist’s talents had been turned to far darker pursuits.
He turned and shadows spooked to life, their crypt-like leers a taunting reminder that death was taking perverse pleasure in following his every move. Angling the beam of light to the near corner of the laboratory, Wrexford began a methodical search of the space.
After a half hour of peering and poking into every nook and cranny, he sat down at the desk and steepled his fingers. A prayer to the Almighty? Divine intervention was unlikely to save a sinner such as himself. He would have to rely on his own wits.
Ah, but I like conundrums.
He tap-tapped his fingertips together. The place was spotless. Too spotless. The display cases of exotic butterflies, prominently arranged on the work counters according to color, had nary a speck of dust on the glass. As to any chemical components, only a rudimentary assortment of glass beakers and metal crucibles was in the storage cabinets, and the spirit lamp’s gleaming brass bespoke of its never having been used.
Leaning back, Wrexford closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. And yet a faint whiff of acid tinged the air.
The laboratory itself may not have been used for clandestine activities, but some chemical compound had recently been stored here. So far, Lowell had outwitted them all, but however diabolically clever, no man was perfect. There had to be a clue as to what it was.
He just had to find it.
Taking up the lantern, the earl returned to his original starting point and began again, this time looking more carefully for any signs of hidden compartments or places of concealment. The work was tedious, and his candle was soon burned down to a stub. He stopped to slide in a replacement, gauging that he had perhaps an hour left before the city streets began to stir.
The desk and storage drawers yielded no secrets, save for a few love notes from an amorous Lady Clothilde, written in French. He moved on to the cabinets. But after a meticulous examination, he was forced to concede defeat. Damnation. He had to be missing something. Logic dictated that Charlotte’s discovery was too compelling to be wrong.
Lowell was no more an innocent aficionado of Lepidoptera
than the Man in the Moon was made of Stilton cheese....
A glint of iridescent blue caught in the lantern light. Wrexford blinked to clear his vision—and then slowly walked over to the fancy wood display cases. In each one of the four, the butterflies were pinned on a board covered in pristine white felt, with tiny labels neatly placed beneath each specimen. Crouching down, he studied the height of the ornately carved oak before carefully unfastening the brass latches on the first case and lifting the lid.
Using his pocketknife, Wrexford carefully worked the board free of its base and lifted it out. Beneath was naught but empty space. The lantern flickered, warning that little light was left. And the precious seconds were ticking away. He quickly replaced the board and relocked the case, then blew out his breath and forced himself to think.
Blues, reds, browns, yellows—his gaze skimmed over the cases. Lowell had chosen to display his collection by color rather than size or wing shape....
Yellows. He looked more closely at the specimens, noting that they ranged from pale buttery hues to deeper shades of gold.
“Oh, you clever devil,” muttered Wrexford as he slid the tip of his blade around the board and eased it up and out. But once again, the lantern beam revealed that the space was empty.
He stared in disbelief, refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him. Thinking of Charlotte’s urging to trust one’s instincts, he set the lantern down and ran his fingers over the fine-grained wooden bottom. Grit rubbed against his skin, and almost immediately he felt a burning sensation. Something had been stored here, and recently. There was still a bit of moisture in the substance.
Retrieving the light, he angled the beam around the perimeter of the box.
He would have missed it if he hadn’t been so stubbornly certain his reasoning was right. Lodged upright in the V created by the rear left corner block was a tiny glass vial, no more than an inch high and half the width of a pencil. Wrexford freed it with his knife tip and rolled it to the center of the space.
Its top was sealed with thick black wax, and beneath the covering a pale granular powder gleamed within the glass.
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 23