“Allow me to explain,” he replied.
She hesitated and then gave a brusque nod. So far, all her arguments had been for naught. There was little to lose.
Wrexford turned to Raven. “Pick a proper Christian name—any choice will suffice.”
“But—”
“Just do it, lad.” A note of command edged his voice.
The boy drew in a wary breath. “What was yer brother’s name—the one who’s dead?”
“Thomas,” answered the earl softly.
“Then I choose Thomas.”
“Excellent.” Wrexford performed an elaborate formal flourish.
Drat the man—he was clearly enjoying himself, thought Charlotte. At my expense.
His deep, plummy voice drew her back from her momentary brooding. “Allow me to present Thomas Ravenwood Sloane—known to all as Raven.”
Charlotte started to speak but he waved her to silence. “In the beau monde, men are very rarely called by their Christian name. It’s a time-honored tradition that you acquire a nickname. I am always called Wrex, John Nottingham Allerton is Notty . . .”
The earl shrugged. “So there you have it—two birds with one stone, if you will. The lads need only mention their full names once, and then never have to deal with the question again. And you have what you need for any official purposes.”
“Yeah, I s’ppose I can live with that,” allowed Raven.
“But I—” she began.
“If you are concerned about the choice of Sloane as a surname, my thought was, you can explain the lads are orphaned relatives from your late husband’s side of the family. Again, it seems the simplest solution, but it is entirely up to you if you wish to choose another.”
She drew in an uncertain breath. “No, what you suggest makes sense.”
“Excellent.” Wrexford shifted his gaze to Hawk. “Your turn.”
“Wot’s your Christian name, sir?”
The question seemed to take him by surprise. Charlotte realized that she, too, had no idea of the answer.
“I can’t remember,” quipped Wrexford.
“Come, sir, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” she murmured.
He frowned in mock concentration for a long moment. “I believe it’s Alexander. But I ought to check Debrett’s Peerage to confirm it. It may be Agamemnon or Aloysius.”
Raven snickered.
“I choose Alexander,” said Hawk solemnly.
Another flourish. “And here we have Alexander Hawksley Sloane—known to all as Hawk.”
“Alexander Hawksley Sloane,” repeated Hawk in an awestruck whisper. A delighted smile spread the width of his narrow face.
“It’s an awfully big handle for an awfully small runt,” teased his brother.
Although the older boy was very good at hiding his emotions, Charlotte could sense that he was secretly just as pleased.
“Thank you, milord,” she murmured.
Hawk took up a pencil and began to write out his new name in large, curling copperplate script letters.
“I see that no more serious study can be expected,” observed Charlotte wryly. “So you two might as well take your swift feet—and exalted monikers—and fly off to Mr. Henning with my note. Lord Wrexford and I have some private matters to discuss.”
* * *
“How do you know that?” inquired Wrexford as he watched the boys gratefully snap their books shut and scamper for the door.
“Because, as you’ve taken pains to point out, you despise social pleasantries. You’re a pragmatic man, milord. So since you are here, I assume there’s some sordid matter in which my skills or my knowledge can be of use to you.”
Am I really that unfeeling to my friends? Sheffield’s oblique criticism suddenly cut a little more sharply against Wrexford’s conscience. Despite the complexities that shaded their relationship, he did think of Charlotte as a friend.
“Perhaps I have come to wish you well in your new residence.”
She let out a low laugh. “And perhaps pigs have learned how to fly.”
Some men might have been offended. However, he liked to think hypocrisy was not one of his many faults.
“I may always count on you to bring my vanity down to earth,” he murmured.
Charlotte turned away and began straightening up the jumble of books and papers on the table. “It was merely an empirical observation, not a criticism. We both know you despise tender sentiments.” Her hands stilled on the paper bearing Hawk’s carefully written name. “That said, I’m truly grateful to you, sir. Your solution resolved a very thorny problem.”
“As we both know, seeing a problem from a different perspective often reveals a simple answer.”
More shuffling. Charlotte shifted her stance, and in the flickering of the shadows, he thought he detected a look of uncertainty pinch at her features. However, it was gone in a flash as she looked up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
A thin smile twitched on her lips. “Which, I take it, is why you are here.”
Wrexford allowed an answering smile. “Close enough to the truth that I won’t quibble over semantics.”
She sighed and signaled for him to have a seat on one of the stools. “Why is it that I suspect this concerns last night’s murder?”
“Because you have very good instincts.”
“I thought you told the lads it was merely a falling out among criminals.”
“And so I believed at the time,” he replied.
She sat down opposite him, her expression unreadable. “Go on.”
Tit for tat. He’d debated with himself on whether to draw her into this conundrum. But given her profession and her network of informants throughout the city, there was little chance that the suspicious circumstances wouldn’t come to her attention.
That didn’t mean negotiations would be easy, he thought wryly. As in chemical experiments, putting two explosive elements together was always a risk. She’d never settle for vague generalities, which would force him to balance on a razor’s edge of truth and diversion.
“If I had my druthers, I would prefer that the scandalmongers not stir up a tempest of lurid speculation,” he began.
“Cut wind, milord,” she interrupted. “Who was it?”
There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. “Elihu Ashton.”
A ripple of awareness darkened her gaze. “The inventor?”
He nodded. “And owner of the most productive textile weaving factory in the country.”
“Ye god,” she murmured. “You must be mad to think this won’t stir the press into a frenzy.” A pause. “So why come to me with the secret when you know my bread and butter is scandal?”
“Because you’ll find out soon enough. The news will very shortly become public,” admitted Wrexford. “However, there are facts to which only I am privy. And I’m hoping that if I reveal them to you, I may count on your sense of justice to temper you pen until the authorities have a chance to uncover the truth.”
“The truth?” Her tone mingled mockery and regret. “We both know what an elusive concept that is.”
Her view of the world was nearly as cynical as his. The difference between them was that her principled idealism had remained uncorrupted by harsh reality.
“Be that as it may, I would rather not drag a man’s name through the mud until more facts are known. I think you can help with that.”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir,” muttered Charlotte.
“We expect no less from each other.”
The warring of emotions was writ plain on her face as Charlotte took a moment to consider what he had said. “Look, I can’t very well ignore the murder. It’s exactly the sort of thing A. J. Quill would comment on, especially given my latest series on Man versus Machine.”
“I understand that,” he replied. “But perhaps the thrust of your next print could simply be the shock of a notable figure meeting an untimely death, rather than your usual insightful commenta
ry that digs deeper into the heart of a crime.”
Seeing her scowl, Wrexford quickly added, “We both know you have the power to fan the flames of public opinion. And that, in turn, influences how the authorities handle an investigation. Any hope of a fair assessment can easily go up in smoke if the prints are too incendiary.”
“That’s a low blow, sir.” They had first met because the earl was the main suspect in a heinous murder—and her satirical drawings had whipped up speculation that his neck would soon be in a noose.
This time his smile was more pronounced. “Yes, well, I’m an unscrupulous fellow. I’ll stoop to any means to get what I want.”
Her eyes narrowed, but not quite enough to hide the flicker of humor. Unlike most people, she understood his sarcasm. “Before I agree to your terms, I need to know how you learned that the victim was Ashton. More importantly, I need to know why you care.”
Wrexford blew out his breath. It was for good reason that A. J. Quill was recognized as the sharpest, savviest commentator on human nature in all of London.
“His wife—or rather, his widow—came to visit me earlier this afternoon,” he answered. “And knowing your next question will be why, Ashton and I were acquainted through the Royal Institution. We didn’t meet in person, but corresponded regarding a question on the chemical composition of iron. I was able to help him solve a technical problem he was having.”
After reaching for a pencil and paper, Charlotte started to make some notes.
“Mrs. Ashton was aware of my connection with her husband,” he continued. “She had also heard from Humphry Davy that I’d been involved in solving another diabolically difficult murder.”
Charlotte looked up. “I take it you’re implying she thinks this is not the work of random footpads.”
“Correct.”
“For what reason?” she pressed.
“Ah.” Wrexford stretched out his legs and stared down at the tips of his well-polished boots. “Now we have come to the metaphorical Rubicon, Mrs. Sloane.”
She set down her pencil and tapped her fingertips together. “You mean if I cross the river, there is no going back.”
“I see your classical education goes beyond a command of Latin,” he said dryly. “At some point, I would be curious to know how that came about.”
“At some point, I may be willing to satisfy your curiosity. But now is not that moment.” She raised her brows in challenge. “What promises do you need from me?”
“That the information I tell you will be held in confidence and not color your drawings.”
“What if I learn the same information from other sources?” asked Charlotte quickly.
“Bloody hell—are you training to be a barrister?” he grumbled.
“It’s a pity women aren’t allowed to practice law,” she shot back. “We’d be far better at it than men because we care more about practical results than prosing on like pompous windbags.”
Wrexford chuckled. “Point taken.” He hesitated, his expression turning grave, and then added, “As for what promises I require, I will trust you to decide what is right, Mrs. Sloane.”
A spasm of surprise flitted over her face, along with an emotion he couldn’t read.
“But allow me to repeat that I am deadly serious about the dangers of inciting wild speculation merely to sell more newspapers or satirical prints. Innocent lives can be put at risk, reputations can be ruined, and the guilty party may have leeway to manipulate the truth.”
“Have you reason to think I don’t take such responsibilities to heart, Lord Wrexford?”
Their eyes locked.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here,” he replied softly.
CHAPTER 4
Charlotte rose abruptly and went to put the kettle on the hob. “I feel in need of some tea. Would you care for some as well?”
“I would prefer brandy, but tea is probably a wiser choice.”
She had noticed the dark hollows beneath his eyes and the taut lines etched around the corners of his mouth, but refrained from comment. The earl’s moods were best described as mercurial. However, his personal life was none of her business.
After adding several heaping spoonfuls of Lapsang souchong leaves to the pot, Charlotte turned and set a hand on her hip. “Nebulous as they are, I agree to your terms, milord.” A sigh. “Though likely we will clash incessantly over their interpretation.”
A glint of amusement lit in his eyes. “That goes without saying.”
“You speak as if that is . . . entertaining.”
“My valet tells me that I am a very difficult fellow to live with when I am bored,” he replied. “You never bore me, Mrs. Sloane.”
The kettle began to hiss, sending a cloud of steam into the air. “No, I drive you to distraction.”
“Let us just say you challenge me. Few people do.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a castigation.”
“Yes you do,” murmured Wrexford.
Impossible man. At times she was sorely tempted to strangle him. And yet, a smile curled at the corners of her mouth as she carried the tea tray to the table.
“Enough of verbal sparring, sir.” Charlotte passed him a cup. “You’ve come here to discuss business.”
A plume of steam rose up, blurring the sharply chiseled planes of his face. And yet, even when softened by the silvery vapor his features radiated an elemental strength.
Or perhaps stubbornness was a better word. Charlotte ducked her head to hide another smile. Birds of a feather. Honesty compelled her to concede that she saw the same unyielding expression every time she glanced in the looking glass.
The earl took a sip of the scalding brew, then set it aside. “Ashton’s widow is convinced her husband was murdered because he was on the verge of a momentous discovery.” He pursed his lips. “I’m inclined to give her suspicions credence because of the state of the body.”
Charlotte went very still. “How so?”
He raised a brow. “The lads didn’t describe it to you in gory detail?”
“No. They merely said you had stumbled upon a body and were of the opinion that it was a quarrel among thieves.”
“Don’t look daggers at me,” he replied. “That was what I thought at the time. Given the information I have now, I see things differently.” The earl took up a spoon and turned it slowly between his fingers. “Ashton’s clothing was ripped at the seams—clearly his murderer was searching for something. And his belly was slashed, indicating rage at not finding it. Logic says it wasn’t a random crime.”
“What was the murderer after?”
“Presumably technical drawings or a description of the invention. According to Ashton’s widow, a patent on it would be worth a king’s ransom.”
Patents. While researching her latest print series, she had become aware of how powerfully profitable they were. That ideas were, like estate lands and Old Master paintings, valuable property whose rights could be owned had been an unfamiliar concept. But she could well understand how a new technological innovation—and the riches it would generate—might be a motivation for murder.
“I take it you found no clues at the scene.”
“No. I heard someone racing away from the body, but it was too dark to see anything. However, I do know that Ashton was lured to the area by a note from a so-called kindred spirit in science who wished to discuss a special partnership.”
“In St. Giles?”
He made a face. “Both Ashton and his wife are unfamiliar with London. He had no idea that he was heading into the very heart of the city’s darkness.”
Charlotte felt a welling of anger at such deadly deceit. It seemed horribly wrong than a man’s brilliance should cost him his life.
“Does she have any idea who the culprit could be?”
“I asked her to send me a list of those who knew of the invention.” He shifted on the stool. “She was very careful not to make any outright accusations, but she did suggest any ques
tioning ought to begin with his secretary and laboratory assistant.”
“Did she say why?”
“No in so many words. But it was obvious that there is no love lost between the three of them.”
Interesting. But first things first. “Getting back to the actual murder—describe the corpse and its surroundings as precisely as you can.”
His mouth tightened.
“For God’s sake, milord, the lads saw the scene—and I daresay they can tell me every bloody detail even more accurately than you can!”
“I don’t doubt it.” Wrexford chuffed a grunt. “What I was about to say is, I’m hoping you won’t show the slashed clothing or mutilation in your drawing. If the murderer doesn’t suspect that the crime is being seen as anything other than a random act of violence in a dangerous part of the city, it will make it easier to investigate and learn the truth.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” she said softly. “Just as I’m aware that my livelihood depends on being one step ahead of my competition. I survive by feeding the public’s need for speculation.” A pause. “Misery loves company.”
Wrexford rose and began pacing the perimeter of the room. He was a big man and his long-legged stride made the space seem even smaller than it was.
“I realize that I am asking a great sacrifice on your part,” he said. “I would offer recompense for your loss of earnings—if I didn’t think you’d hurl it back in my face.”
“Taking a bribe to suppress facts would be the first step down the road to perdition.” Charlotte expelled a sigh. “Which is not to say I won’t act on moral principles, even if it means starving.”
“You’re the most popular satirical artist in London,” he murmured. “I daresay you won’t starve.”
“An exaggeration. My stock in trade.” Charlotte stilled the twitch of her lips. “I asked about the details only to decide how else to frame my drawing. The angle of the building, the lighting, the depth of the muck. I’d at least like to get some of the scene depicted correctly.”
Acknowledging her reasoning with a curt nod, he went on to describe the setting without further protest. His eye, as she well knew from their previous encounters, was just as sharp as his sarcasm.
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