Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  The ring of clinking glass and metal punctuated the opening and closing of the cabinet doors as Tyler moved with methodical quickness to prepare the various solutions of acid. Charlotte took up a pencil from the desk and rolled it nervously between her palms.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “This will probably take hours. I suggest you return home,” he replied. “I’m sure you wish to check on the lads—but don’t ring too fierce a peal over their heads. I’m to blame for their transgression, so if punishment is to be meted out, I should be the one to receive it.”

  Her gaze held his for a long moment. “I shall,” she said softly, “think of a suitable one.”

  An interesting response. Her mood seemed as changeable as quicksilver. But before he could explore the matter, the sound of footsteps—running footsteps—reverberated through the corridor.

  Griffin? Springing to his feet, the earl lunged for the door, intent on barring entry to the Runner.

  A fist thumped against the paneled oak. “Hurry, Wrex! There’s not a moment to lose!”

  Wrexford slid the bolt back and admitted Sheffield.

  “I’ve just learned that Canaday has fled the country. And Stoughton is panicking as well.” His friend paused to catch his breath. “Apparently Quill’s pen has pricked at a vulnerable spot, for his latest drawing has unleashed holy hell.”

  “What’s happening?” demanded Wrexford.

  “As you asked, I’ve been keeping an eye on St. Aubin, and a message was just delivered to him while he was playing at the gaming tables of the Scarlet Cockerel. Stoughton has summoned him to a meeting at the clubhouse of The Ancients, and if we hurry, we can catch them at it.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Tyler!” barked the earl.

  The valet was already opening a drawer of one of the storage chests. Charlotte watched him lift out a large brass-banded ebony box and set it on the counter.

  “They were cleaned just yesterday, milord.” Tyler offered Wrexford a pair of long-barreled dueling pistols.

  He took them and handed one to Sheffield.

  “And you may also pass me that pocket pistol you hid in your waistcoat, Mr. Tyler,” demanded Charlotte.

  “Who’s this raggle-taggle bantling?” asked the earl’s friend, darting a curious glance at her. “If you are asking for charity, lad, hare off to the kitchen. You look like you need a slice of beefsteak and bread, not a weapon.”

  She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Mr. Tyler, we have no time for shilly-shallying.”

  The valet looked to Wrexford, whose expression boded no good.

  Seeing the earl was about to speak, she added, “And don’t you dare tell me I’m not permitted to come along unless you wish to be wearing your guts for garters.”

  “Holy hell,” Sheffield angled a look beneath the brim of her floppy cap. His gaze then slowly slid down over her baggy jacket and loose moleskin pants.

  Perhaps they were not quite loose enough, for he cleared his throat with a cough. “It’s a woman.”

  “How very astute of you, sir,” she snapped, in no mood to deal with the usual horrified huffs on how females should know their proper place. “Let us hope you are also smart enough to stubble any insulting platitudes about women being the weaker sex.”

  Tyler swallowed a laugh. “I see that her tongue is as sharp as her quill.”

  “Give her the weapon,” said Wrexford tightly.

  “Wrex, I really don’t think that’s a wise idea,” murmured his friend.

  “Nor do I,” answered the earl. “You are welcome to try reason, but I’ll not waste my breath. She is an unholy force of Nature unto herself.”

  Sheffield stared at her warily, as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and cloven hooves.

  “We ought not waste time either.” She shoved the pistol into her pocket. “You said we must hurry.”

  “I should come with you, milord,” said Tyler. “This could turn ugly.”

  “No, I need you to stay here and run an analysis on the explosive,” replied Wrexford, and gave a terse explanation of what he wanted done.

  “Damnation, Wrex,” muttered his friend. “We can’t put a female in danger. It’s . . . ungentlemanly.”

  “Calm your conscience, Mr. Sheffield. As you can see, I’m no lady.”

  “How do you know who I am—”

  “Because she’s A. J. Quill, Sheff,” snapped Wrexford. “Which ought to explain a great deal.”

  Sheffield’s brows shot up in surprise, but he kept silent.

  Charlotte was already at the open window. She had made it her business to know exactly where The Ancients had their lair. “I suggest we go out this way, milord. I know a shortcut through the alleyways that will bring us to the clubhouse quicker than any hackney.”

  “Do lead on, m’lady,” he said with exaggerated politeness.

  He hadn’t used that moniker in ages—which proved he was no more happy with her than she was with him. Trust. Whatever fragile one had developed between them, God only knew whether tonight had shattered it beyond repair.

  The breeze rippled through the draperies as she swung a leg over the sill. Silvered by the moonlight, the mist-swirled garden had an enchanted aura to it. A sense of peace and calm that no devil or demon could penetrate. But beyond the high walls, the looming stretch of midnight blackness warned that no spell, however sublime, could promise to keep evil at bay.

  “This way,” whispered Charlotte pointing to one of the footpaths once the earl and his friend had dropped down to the damp grass beside her. “Stay close to me. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of passageways.”

  Her thoughts were quickly caught up in the coming confrontation. Was there redemption in revenge? Catharsis through tragedy? That her enemies were members of The Ancients had a certain twisted irony. The Greeks and Romans explored the conflicting complexities of human nature in their myths and drama.

  There were few happy endings. Even victory rarely came without a price.

  Slipping, sliding through the rutted mud, Charlotte quickened her steps. The darkness squeezed tighter around her, splintered boards and jagged brick clawing at her coat.

  The chorus of inner voices grew louder, chanting Anthony’s anguished cries.

  The gods punished hubris. They did not like mortals who challenged the order of the universe.

  As she well knew.

  But what more could they do to her? They had already exacted their pound of flesh.

  Charlotte skidded to a stop, lungs burning, heart pounding with the force to burst through bone and skin. She blinked, willing the haze to clear from her head.

  “We’re here,” she whispered, inching closer to the opening of the passageway. Directly across the deserted cobbled street was an elegant Italianate town house. No light peeked out through the windows. Like its neighbors, it appeared to be deep in peaceful slumber.

  Wrexford drew close—so close she could hear the hammering of his heart. Gripping her shoulders, he gave her a swift shake. “This is far more than personal now. I must have your promise that from here on, you will obey my orders. A misstep and many people may die.”

  The voice of cold, calculated reason. He was right, of course.

  Charlotte nodded, her throat too tight for words.

  He hesitated, and though the gloom hid his eyes, she could feel his gaze searching her face for a lie.

  Her lips moved, silently mouthing her pledge.

  Seemingly satisfied, the earl turned to survey the surroundings for a moment. “We’ll approach from the rear and find the tradesmen’s entrance. Follow me.”

  * * *

  The lock yielded with no resistance to the earl’s metal probe, allowing them to slip into a darkened foyer. Easing the pistol from his pocket, Wrexford noiselessly drew back the hammer.

  Sheffield did the same. Despite his reputation as an indolent fribble, his friend always showed his hidden steel when trouble threatened. As for Charlotte . . .


  She was shrouded in shadows. He could only guess at the emotions roiling inside her. But it was too late to question his decision.

  Spotting the servant stairway, Wrexford eased the door open and then led the way up to the main floor.

  The front of the house was pitch dark, but a glance to the rear showed a weak pool of light seeping out beneath a set of double doors at the end of the carpeted corridor. Within moments he had them in position, Sheffield on one side of the fluted moldings, he and Charlotte on the other.

  Had she drawn her weapon? Her hands were fisted, making it impossible to tell.

  Pressing a palm to one of the dark wood portals, he tested whether the latch was engaged. It swung open a touch, and the muffled voice within became clearer.

  “I tell you, I won’t swing for your stupidity!” It was Stoughton’s voice, wound tighter than a watch spring. “Our plan for the art forgeries was ingenious—and promised to be highly profitable with no risk! I knew nothing of your other endeavor.”

  Wrexford ventured a peek into the room. Stoughton was leaning heavily on one of the leather armchairs, his face looking leached of all color in the oily lamplight. In front of him St. Aubin was standing by the unlit marble hearth, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Come, there is no need to panic,” said St. Aubin.

  “No need to panic?” repeated Stoughton shakily. “Bloody hell, there have been two grisly murders, and now that devil-cursed artist is pointing his infernal pen at us! And once he starts poking around, no secrets ever seem to stay safe.”

  “I tell you, there’s nothing to tie us to Holworthy’s murder. All I did was steal a few moldy old books from the cathedral at Canterbury for him, that’s all.”

  “Bloody hell—why!”

  St. Aubin’s expression twisted to a sneer. “Because through my older brother I could gain access to a private archive, and was paid very well to do so.”

  “Well enough to ruin a far more lucrative plan?” retorted Stoughton. “Damnation, everything was going so smoothly. But then you and Canaday had to get greedy and spook Sloane.”

  “The fellow was mentally unstable. It wasn’t our fault he cracked and fell to pieces.”

  Wrexford felt Charlotte’s body tense, but she remained still as a statue.

  “If it ever comes to light—”

  “It won’t,” said St. Aubin. He moved to the sideboard, his lanky body casting an elongated shadow over the decanters, and poured a glass of brandy. “Here, calm your nerves,” he soothed, offering Stoughton the drink.

  Uttering an oath, Stoughton lashed out an arm, knocking the glass away. It flew through the air and hit the hearth, exploding into a shower of crystalline shards. “How can I be calm when that damnable Wrexford is asking too many questions, and is getting too close to the truth. He put the fear of God into Canaday. What if he comes for me next? I tell you again, I won’t be blamed for whatever you and Holworthy were scheming.”

  St. Aubin stepped back and watched the rivulets of amber liquid meander down the polished stone. The angle gave the earl a clear view of the man’s hand slowly dipping into his coat pocket.

  Charlotte saw it too. “Wrexford!” she whispered.

  He nodded. The miscreants were welcome to savage each other later. Right now, it was imperative to keep them both alive.

  Catching Sheffield’s eye, he indicated that he wanted to take their quarry by surprise. His friend signaled his understanding. Weapons raised, they banged open the doors and stepped into the room. Like a wraith-like shadow, Charlotte followed right on their heels.

  “As you see, I have come,” announced Wrexford.

  Stoughton spun around, his face spasming in shock. Emitting a low groan, he sagged back against the chair.

  The earl shifted his aim to St. Aubin. “Drop whatever weapon you have hidden in your pocket.”

  St. Aubin hesitated.

  The rasp of metal against metal sounded as Sheffield drew back the hammer of his pistol. “Now.”

  Bullies, observed Wrexford, were quick to lose all their bluster when the odds were not heavily stacked in their favor. Another furtive glance, and then with an ugly smile of surrender, St. Aubin drew a double-barreled pocket pistol from his coat and let it fall to the carpet.

  “Now both of you step over to the sofa and take a seat,” commanded Wrexford. “I am looking for answers and am tired of finding only lies.”

  * * *

  Charlotte had often wondered what emotions she would experience if she ever encountered her husband’s tormentors. Rage? Hate? Her fingers tightened around the weapon in her pocket, its smooth steel blessedly cool against her flushed skin. The uncontrollable urge to take a life for a life?

  She expected fire, but felt only ice. A strange alchemy. Perhaps time tampered with the elemental chemistry of revenge. In watching the two men take a wary perch on the sofa, she was suddenly, viscerally aware of only one sentiment—

  “The pair of you have two choices,” announced Wrexford, wrenching her out of her own thoughts. “You may either tell us all about your smarmy schemes now, or you have us march you to Bow Street and let the magistrates squeeze it out of you.”

  “And if we do tell you,” countered St. Aubin, “what do we get in return?”

  “That depends on what your information is worth to us,” answered the earl coolly. “You had best hope it’s of considerable value.”

  The reply sparked a feral glint in St. Aubin’s eyes, as he quickly tried to gauge how to manipulate the situation to his own advantage. Stoughton, however, was on the verge of panic.

  She had always sensed he was the less clever of the pair. St. Aubin had taken care to hover in the background, allowing his partner in crime to do the actual filthy work.

  “W-Wrexford, you must believe me,” stammered Stoughton. “I had nothing to do with any murders.” He wet his lips. “We came up with a plan involving the copying of a few paintings—a harmless one that hurt no one.”

  Charlotte shifted her stance, willing the pulsing rush of boiling blood to recede.

  Whether or not Wrexford heard the whisper-soft brush of her boots, his shoulders gave a menacing twitch. “I doubt Anthony Sloane would agree with that.”

  Stoughton’s features went slack with fear. “H-How did—”

  “Keep your gob shut,” snarled St. Aubin. To Wrexford he said, “What have you heard?”

  The earl laughed.

  “Sloane readily agreed to be part of it,” blurted out Stoughton. “We all were going to get what we wanted. It wasn’t our fault that he became unbalanced.”

  “What was he going to get for his efforts?” asked the earl. “And what were you?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Stoughton,” St. Aubin said through his teeth. “They know nothing—they can’t.”

  “Canaday was more forthcoming than you,” said Wrexford. “I want to know the details of the art forgeries. And then we’ll discuss the matter of Holworthy and stolen books.”

  For an instant, St. Aubin’s mouth pinched in uncertainty, but he quickly recovered his equilibrium. “If you want information from us, you will have to buy it at a fair price.”

  Fair. The word was an obscenity coming from St. Aubin’s foul mouth.

  “Which is?” queried Wrexford.

  “We tell you what we know, and in return, you agree that we need not face the authorities. As Stoughton said, we know nothing about any murders. The art forgeries harmed no one. Sloane’s demise was because of his own weakness. He was a deranged dreamer whose wits were addled by laudanum.”

  “No, they were deranged by the lies and false promises you fed him,” said the earl softly. “And I wonder what other poisons?”

  Stoughton flinched. His brow was beaded in sweat. “I had nothing to do with—”

  St. Aubin grabbed hold of his arm, causing him to fall silent. Wrenching him closer, he whispered something, and then Stoughton, biting his lip, sunk back against the cushions.

  “Speculate
all you like, Wrexford,” said St. Aubin, looking up at the earl with a smug smile. “The spineless slug is in the grave, and not a soul mourns his passing. As for you, you’ve naught but wild guesses to present to Bow Street.”

  Charlotte drew a shaky breath. He was right.

  “So, if you wish for information—though God knows why you think it will help you evade the gallows—you’ll have to agree to our terms.”

  “I think not.”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, he shifted again and cast a sidelong look at her. The wavering light caught the narrowing of his eyes. A wink of smoke-dark green seemed to flash a warning.

  Her finger found the crescent curve of the trigger. Would that her nerves would match its steel.

  “You see, Sloane is not unmourned. He has a son,” went on Wrexford.

  “No! That can’t be!”

  It took all of Charlotte’s self-control to mask her own shock.

  Stoughton looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost. “S-Sloane had no son. I spent time with him and his wife in Italy, so I am sure of it.”

  “An indiscretion, from before he was married, but no less kin.”

  St. Aubin was looking at her, too, but his was a reptilian stare. The cold, opaque flatness of his eyes reminded her of a snake. No remorse within that primitive, predatory brain, merely an instinct to eat.

  Keeping the brim of her hat angled downward, Charlotte forced her eyes elsewhere. The muted pattern of the Turkey carpet, the graceful gilt-edged legs of the escritoire, the exquisite fragments of classical sculpture on the fluted marble pediments—beautiful but soulless within the confines of this god-benighted mausoleum to greed and power run amok.

  A draft stirred the unlit chandelier overhead, setting the crystal baubles to a brittle clinking against each other. Like the rattle of long-dead bones.

  The sound stirred a faint echo of Anthony’s agonies. Whatever the earl had in mind, she would try to play her part.