“Yet another one?” she quipped. “If you solve this particular conundrum as well as you did the one concerning names, I may have to start paying you for your unique expertise, rather than the other way around.”
It was said lightly, but he knew her voice well enough to detect the slight edge.
Ah, so she was still touchy about having accepted his payments for providing information from her sources during the Holworthy murder investigation. He suspected as much, knowing her fierce sense of independence. And it was going to make his suggestion an exceedingly difficult one to present.
“I’m not sure it’s worth its weight in gold—or copper, for that matter. But it so happens I know a young man, the son of a tenant farmer on one of my estates, who’s recently finished his studies as a scholarship student at Oxford and is looking for work in London. He’s a fine fellow, and being from a humble background, he will have a good understanding of the lads, and be able to cater to their needs in learning.”
He paused. “It seems to me that a tutor may be a better choice than a formal school.”
“The young man sounds exemplary,” replied Charlotte. “But at present, I can’t afford a tutor.”
“You haven’t heard his terms,” murmured Wrexford.
“As a man of modest means, I doubt he is offering to work for free.”
“No . . .” Wrexford wrestled for a moment with how to tactfully phrase his next words. Then with an inward grimace, he abandoned the effort. Be damned with tact—subtlety was not his forte.
“So let us discuss exactly what the cost to you would be.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know what the young man intends to charge?”
“I don’t.” Enough shilly-shallying. “However, it doesn’t matter, as I intend to pay his fee.”
“The devil you will!” exclaimed Charlotte hotly. “I won’t—”
He raised a hand. “Do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”
She lapsed into a simmering silence. He could almost see the steam swirling up from her flushed skin.
“Both of the lads showed great courage during the Holworthy investigation, and risked their lives to keep my neck out of the noose. That I wish to express my gratitude in a meaningful way is only natural. Surely you must know that the Weasels . . .”
He paused for a fraction. “But in truth, it’s not my motives that we ought to be looking at, Mrs. Sloane, it’s yours. They’re damnably selfish.”
A ripple of shock stirred in her eyes.
Before she could respond, he continued, “Pride is all very well on a certain level, but when taken to extremes, it’s a sin.”
“I don’t believe my ears,” said Charlotte softly. “Are you, of all people, really quoting the Scriptures at me?”
“Perhaps not a sin in your case,” he conceded. “But a stubbornly misguided sentiment. Friendship isn’t something that ought to be measured in pounds and pence.”
She blinked.
“But never mind the fact that it’s an insult to my intentions. Refusing my offer is unfair to the lads and robs them of a chance to better their lot in life.”
Her flush had now faded to an unnatural white.
“Don’t be an arse,” he pressed. “Why are you so bloody afraid of letting your friends help you?”
“I . . . I . . .” Charlotte wrapped her hands around her teacup, as if its warmth might bring back some color to her face. “I’m not quite so high in the instep as you think, sir. I do accept help.”
She gave a brusque wave at the stacked boxes of her possessions. “I could never have managed the ordeal of finding a new residence in a strange neighborhood without the aid of a friend. It was he and his man of affairs who located the house and negotiated the terms of the lease for me.”
The announcement took Wrexford completely by surprise. Without thinking, he demanded, “Who?”
“Someone I’ve known since my childhood.” Charlotte turned to stare into the shadows. In the flickering lamplight her profile looked as if it had been sculpted out of alabaster, the hard-edged planes standing out in stark relief against the ink-dark murk.
“His circumstances have changed,” she continued. “Back then, he was merely the son of an impoverished gentry family. But by a quirk of fate—and fortune—he inherited a barony from a second cousin.”
A friend—a gentleman friend. Wrexford knew he had no reason to feel piqued by the unexpected revelation. And yet, he did.
Very much so, in fact.
“You didn’t see fit to ever mention this to me?” he said slowly.
Charlotte brushed an errant lock of hair from her cheek, the movement obscuring her expression. “For what reason would I have done so?”
For what reason, indeed?
His innards gave a sudden clench. He realized he didn’t wish to give the why of it a name.
“You’re quite right. Of course it’s no concern of mine.” Even to his own ears, his reply sounded pompous. Wrexford forced a smile that was likely equally stilted. “My apologies. It is I, not you, who am an arse.”
“No, you were right to rail at me about pride,” she responded. Darkness seemed to spread over her face, deepening the hollows beneath her cheekbones. “There were times in the past when it felt like it was the only weapon I had against life’s vicissitudes. I suppose it’s become a habit to keep up my guard.”
Wrexford suddenly felt like a toad, not an arse. An uncharacteristic awkwardness seemed to have come over him of late. He had stumbled through the day, making a hash of the interview with Miss Merton, and now was upsetting and embarrassing a woman who had time and again proved her grit and courage in the face of adversity.
“Mrs. Sloane, it was wrong of me—”
“You made a very generous offer, sir,” interrupted Charlotte. “It was churlish of me to refuse. If it still stands . . .”
“Of course it does,” he muttered.
“Thank you.” A conciliatory smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “Once I’ve settled in the new house, perhaps I might arrange with you to meet the young man.”
“I’ll see to it.” Wrexford rose abruptly, slopping a bit of the tepid tea on the table. He knew it was wrong to leave on such an unsettled note. But she was all too aware of his mercurial moods, his bloody awful temper. “I had best return home in order to be ready for my rendezvous with Sheffield.”
Charlotte slanted a glance at the clock and raised a brow. “The midnight hour won’t be chiming anytime soon.”
“Yes, but I wish to make sure I have ample time in which to clean and prime my pistols,” he replied. “With any luck, I’ll get a chance to shoot the miscreant.”
“You’re in a prickly mood,” she said slowly. “Is there a reason why?”
“Am I?” In the solitude of his laboratory, his handling of inanimate chemicals was unerringly precise. He understood their qualities and the consequences of combining X with Y. With people, the mixtures all too often blew up in his face.
She didn’t reply, but simply fixed him with a searching stare.
“Good day,” he murmured.
“Good hunting,” she shot back.
Unable to think of a suitable retort, Wrexford picked up his hat and took his leave.
On returning to his townhouse, he quickly sought sanctuary in his workroom. Lighting a spirit lamp, he made himself begin replicating one of Priestley’s experiments on the chemical composition of air.
The whisper of the flame, the ritual of precise measurement, the focus demanded for careful observation—Wrexford felt his personal devils give way to curiosity. The mysteries of science were far more interesting than the mysteries of mankind.
Minutes ticked by, their rhythmic cadence slowly drawing him out of his brooding . . .
Then all at once the calm was shattered by a thumping on the door.
“Grab up your coat, Wrex—there’s not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Sheffield as he burst into the room. “I’ve just come from White’s where
I overheard Davies mention that Gannett is planning to play vingt et un at the Demon’s Den tonight.”
His friend gave an impatient wave at the worktable. “Bloody hell—blow out that lamp and fetch your pistols. If we hurry, we can catch him.”
CHAPTER 8
“Arse,” muttered Charlotte. Staring down at the sheet of drawing paper, she added a few more curling lines to her sketch of the donkey.
The question, she thought ruefully, was which face she should put on the beast—hers or that of the earl.
“Who’s an arse?” Raven looked up from the book he was reading. He was lying by the stove, a candle pulled close to the pages. “Prinny?” The dancing flame caught the flash of a grin. “If ye ask me, he looks more like a pig.”
It was true, she conceded. A handsome man in his youth, the Prince Regent had an appetite for pleasure and had put on an obscene amount of weight. It was well-known that these days he wore a corset to try to contain the damage to his figure.
“Mind your tongue,” she chided, knowing full well the hypocrisy of her words. “You mustn’t speak so disrespectfully of the man who will be the next king.”
“You’ve called him far worse than that in your prints,” pointed out Raven.
“Aye,” chirped Hawk, who was playing a game of skittles on the rag rug. “Ye said he was a lecherous old goat, whose pizzle—”
“Enough of barnyard animals,” interrupted Charlotte. “Let’s keep our minds out of the muck.”
Raven made an oinking sound, much to the mirth of his brother, but stopped when she shot him a severe look.
“What are you reading?” she asked, softening her expression to a smile.
“Mr. Keating gave me a book on mathematics. Numbers ain’t nearly as boring as history. There’s all these things called equations, and ye can play games with all the different ways te make ’em add up.”
“Is that so?” Charlotte often struggled to make the modest sums of her expense ledger behave as they should, so she was bemused that subject seemed to have captured his fancy. “You find that interesting?”
“It’s kinda like putting together the pieces of a puzzle,” he answered. “So yeah, I s’pose I do.”
“According te Mr. Keating, yer wery good at it,” volunteered Hawk.
“Really?” she asked.
Raven shrugged.
It was Hawk who answered. “Aye, he says Raven’s got a gift fer it.” A pause. “I’d rather have a dog.”
As the boys fell to bantering with each other, Charlotte turned back to her drawing. The exchange had only been further proof that Wrexford had been right to press her about providing a good education for them. Not that she had needed it. In her heart, she had known he was right.
So if anyone had been an arse, it was she. Charlotte sketched in her own likeness for the donkey’s face, then added two large equine ears.
Her reaction to their confrontation had been childish. But so had his.
For all his faults, Wrexford was always quick to forgive a quarrel. This time had been different. He had left in a foul temper—for what reason she still couldn’t say. If she didn’t know better, she would be tempted to think she had wounded his feelings. However, the idea was absurd. By his own admission, Wrexford armored himself in cynicism too thick for any barb to penetrate.
Giving up on trying to figure out what was bedeviling him, Charlotte turned her attention to making a list of all the things that she needed for the coming morning.
Tomorrow would be her last day in this house. Lifting her gaze, she took in in the room, though every nook and cranny was indelibly etched in her mind’s eye. Dark and light—the silent flicker of the lamp and candles danced over the tiny details. . . the crack in the window casement that always let in a whistle of wind when it blew from the west . . . the spatter of blue pigment on the far wall where Anthony had once flung his paintbrush in frustration . . . the dent in the stove caused by a mouse who had dislodged the cast iron frying . . .
Memories, memories.
Charlotte sat staring at her own ink-stained hands for a moment longer, then shook off the shadows of the past. It was time to look to the future.
Malum consilium est, quod mutari non potest. Bad is the plan that is unable to change. The words, whether whispered in Latin or English, made it sound so simple....
Pulling a pristine sheet from the stack of blank drawing paper, she set it atop her doodles. Mr. Fores expected a new print by the following evening and as her pen and pigments had not yet mastered the art of creating satire on their own, she set to work.
* * *
A potent fugue of distinctly male smells—smoke, sweat and brandy—enveloped Wrexford as he entered the gambling hell. Red-gold flames licked up from the glass-globed wall scones, their oily light casting the jumbled scene of the crowded gaming tables in a Mars-like glow.
War was an apt analogy, he thought sardonically. A cacophony of curses clashing with drunken laughter filled the hazed air. Man’s primal urges battling against their better nature.
No question which was the stronger of the two.
“Gannett is most likely in one of the rear salons,” murmured Sheffield. “Follow me.”
His friend led the way through the press of bodies to a narrow corridor that led deeper into the bowels of the building. The rattle of rolling dice echoed loud as musket fire against the close-set walls. They passed several more dimly-lit rooms before Sheffield came to a halt by a low archway.
“The lowest pit of hell,” he quipped. “The stakes tend to be highest in here.”
Through the scrim of cigar smoke, Wrexford could make out the vague shapes of men hunched around a half dozen tables.
“Though I’m surprised Gannett is still welcome to play among these devils,” added Sheffield. “I’ve heard he’s having trouble paying off his vowels. And those who can’t settle their debts aren’t looked upon kindly.”
Wrexford watched the flash of pasteboard cards as they slapped down upon the green felt. From what Sheffield had told him of their quarry, he found it hard to believe that a wastrel like Gannett had any interest in radical reform. But perhaps the fellow simply found fomenting violence and chaos sent the same thrill bubbling through his blood as gambling did.
Danger was addictive.
“Do you see him?” he asked.
Sheffield shifted a step and squinted into the gloom. “Yes, he’s there, in the far corner.”
They waited until the hand had been played out, then made their way to the table.
“Gannett,” growled Wrexford. “We’d like a word with you.”
A man looked up. His face had once been handsome but the sallow skin now sagged from the well-cut bones, giving him the look of a dead cod.
“Can’t you bloody well see I’m busy?” His voice was slightly slurred. “Bugger off.”
The retort drew a rumble of laughter from his fellow players.
Wrexford fisted a hand in Gannett’s collar and yanked him to his feet.
The laughter stopped.
“It wasn’t meant as a request,” he said.
Gannett tried to squirm free. “What the devil—let me go!” He shot a look at Sheffield. “Hell’s teeth, Sheff, I don’t owe you—or your ham-handed friend—any blunt. Tell him to release me, or—”
“Or what?” Wrexford gave the man a shake that rattled his teeth. “You’ll murder me?”
Gannett went very still. “I-I don’t understand . . .”
“You will in a moment.” Wrexford turned on his heel, dragging his unresisting captive with him, and bumped his way to the corridor.
“What—” began Gannett, only to have the wind knocked out of his lungs as Wrexford slammed him up against the rough-plastered wall. A look of fear spasmed across his face.
“Tell us about why you murdered Ashton.”
“Murder?” The word had barely any breath to it. “There’s been some ghastly mistake.” Gannett wet his trembling lips. “I know nothing of any mu
rder—I swear it!”
“Don’t try to deny it,” said Sheffield roughly. “I recognized your handwriting on the note luring Ashton to his death.”
Gannett’s knees buckled and he would have collapsed in a heap if Wrexford hadn’t kept a grip on his coat. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a mewling moan.
Wrexford gave him another shake. “You can either speak to us or have me haul your worthless carcass to Bow Street and let the Runners pry the truth out of you.”
“Their methods,” growled Sheffield, “will be far less gentlemanly than ours.”
The threat seemed to slap away Gannett’s initial panic. Drawing a deep breath, he steadied his stance and exhaled a shuddering sigh.
“Y-Yes, I wrote a note. But it was all supposed to be part of an elaborate jest! A stranger’s handwriting was needed—or so I was told—in order that the person on whom it was being played wouldn’t recognize it. Hell’s bells, it sounded like harmless good fun . . . and I was offered money to do it.”
Gannett was babbling now. “Come, Sheff, you know what it’s like to be sinking in the River Tick. I desperately needed the blunt.”
“Why shouldn’t we believe that you needed it desperately enough to murder a man you knew was plump in the pocket?” demanded Wrexford, though in truth he didn’t think the gamester possessed the nerve to have committed such a cold-blooded crime.
“Because I don’t know whoever this Ashton fellow is from Adam!” exclaimed Gannett. “How could I plan to murder a man I’ve never heard of?”
“You’ve not read of Ashton’s name in the newspapers?” asked Sheffield. “He’s one of the leading men of science in England.”
The question drew a grimace. “The only printed sheets of paper I read are the racing forms at Newmarket.”
Wrexford was inclined to believe him. The gamester struck him as a bacon-brained reprobate. Which meant . . .
“If what you say is true and you didn’t have anything to do with Ashton’s murder, then you’d better hope to holy hell you can give us the name of the man who hired you.”
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