“Of course I can!” Hope lit in Gannett’s eyes as he sensed an escape. “It was Gabriel Hollis.”
A ruse? wondered Wrexford. He doubted the gamester was that clever. “Why would he ask you? Is he a friend?”
“No! That, is, we knew each other at Cambridge, but I hadn’t seen him since then until our paths recently crossed at a tavern near Covent Garden. We fell into conversation and . . .” Gannett made a face. “After several tankards of ale, he asked me to write that god-benighted note.”
Ah—perhaps they were getting closer to the real culprit. “Did he say where he was living?”
“No, but . . .” He gulped in a shallow breath. “But he seemed on very friendly terms with the tavernkeeper. Ask at the Crown and Scepter on Cross Lane off Cattle Street. The man may have the information you seek.”
“I know the place,” confirmed Sheffield. “It appeals to ruffians and reprobates.”
The trail seemed to be growing clearer, the scent stronger. But as for the miscreant’s motive, Wrexford wanted to confirm they weren’t barking up the wrong tree.
“A last question—has Hollis ever shown himself to hold radical political ideas?”
Gannett blinked away the beads of sweat clinging to his lashes. Or perhaps they were tears of relief. “Good God—yes! He was always ranting about the ills of society, and how the monarchy and the Church stood in the way of creating a true utopia.”
His gaze shifted and suddenly he pointed into the gloom. “Just ask Kirkland!”
Wrexford spun around and spotted the dark-on-dark silhouette of a figure standing deep in the shadows. And yet he’d been sure the corridor was deserted just a few minutes ago when he’d slammed Gannett up against the wall.
The man stepped forward, bringing with him a flutter of chill air as he fumbled with the fall of his trousers.
That explained it, thought the earl. The back alleyway would serve as a pisspot for the patrons.
“Come, Kirkland, you knew Hollis during our undergraduate days! Tell them how he was expelled as a troublemaker,” pleaded Gannett. “Remember how he was always rattling on about the rights of the common man and the oppression wrought by church and state?”
“No,” replied Kirkland. He turned to the earl, and the weak light of the sconce caught the haughty curl of his well-shaped mouth. “I remember no such thing.”
“But you must!” exclaimed the gamester, terrified that his alibi was slipping away.
Kirkland expelled a martyred sigh. His face was handsome, with chiseled features—and the look of arrogant boredom that Wrexford so loathed in his peers. He appeared to consider the plea for a long moment before drawling, “I suppose the name rings a faint bell.”
With a careless tug, he pulled on a pair of soft leather gloves that matched the burgundy color of his coat. “And yes, as you say, the fellow was a thoroughly dirty dish.”
“You see!” said Gannett quickly. Grasping to keep hold of the chance to throw the blame on someone else, he added. “Now that I think of it, Carruthers knew Hollis too. He’s throwing dice in the next room—let’s go ask him if he knows the bloody bastard’s address.”
“There seems little to lose,” observed Sheffield.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me . . .” With a brusque nod, Kirkland brushed past them. “I must be going.”
Wrexford watched him walk away. The man looked vaguely familiar . . . but then, he had likely met every donkey’s arse who moved within the beau monde’s privileged circle.
“A conceited coxcomb,” muttered Sheffield, sensing the earl’s interest. “He gambles often and deeply, though usually in fancier places than this one. Not that he has much success, but his purse always seems full.” A grimace. “A generous father, I suppose. Which is bloody unfair.”
“Aye, bloody unfair,” agreed Gannett. “Fortune ought to favor—”
“We’re wasting time,” cut in Wrexford. “Let’s see if Carruthers knows where Hollis resides. If not, we’ll head on to the Crown and Scepter.”
As he expected, the visit to the dice table brought no luck. Against the squawking of Gannett, Wrexford took the precaution of paying the owner of the gambling hell to lock the gamester in a storage closet for the night. However unlikely a villain the man now appeared, the earl wasn’t willing to risk making a lethal mistake.
* * *
The tavern was, as Sheffield had said, a dingy, dirty hole in the wall that catered to a rough crowd. The owner pretended to know nothing of Hollis, but a fistful of guineas soon loosened his tongue, and they were given an address.
“It’s not far away,” said his friend as they exited through the back of the building. “Follow me.”
Wrexford felt his pulse quicken, their loping footfalls over the uneven cobbles echoing the rush of blood through his veins.
After a quick traverse through a twisting alleyway, Sheffield stopped at the head of a narrow lane and motioned at a brick building on their right.
Pulling the two pistols from his coat pockets, the earl hurriedly checked the priming and handed one over. “I’ll lead the way from here,” he whispered.
Clouds scudded over the moon, hiding their approach to the rickety entranceway. He slid a thin knife from his boot, prepared to pick the lock. But a touch to the iron keyhole showed it was broken.
The door swung open with a tiny groan.
Up the stairs he went, swiftly and silently taking the treads two at a time. It was dark as Hades, and on reaching the top floor, Wrexford was forced to feel his way along the wall to find the latch to their quarry’s lair.
It, too, yielded to the pressure of his palm . . .
Which stirred a sudden prickling at the nape of his neck.
Taking hold of Sheffield’s arm, he quickly positioned him on one side of the door. Then, after drawing back the hammer of his weapon, he kicked in the door, and ducked low.
Nothing. No shot exploded from inside. Indeed, the room was dark and unnaturally still. Wrexford waited for another moment before cautiously edging over the threshold. After several steps, his boot hit up against a smashed chair. He reached down and felt broken glass on the floor. The odor of lamp oil swirled up from the planks.
“Damnation.” He found a fallen candle and struck a flint to the wick. The spark of light revealed a scene of chaos. A table and three other straight-back chairs had been knocked to flinders. The small desk lay overturned, the contents of the drawers strewn helter-pelter through the puddles of oil. Feathers from the slashed bed pillows had fallen atop the debris, the downy curls looking absurdly delicate against the splintered wood.
The flickering flame also showed a number of pamphlets strewn over the floor. Though the ink was already turning illegible on the paper, Wrexford easily recognized the symbol and headline.
The Workers of Zion. They had come to the right place.
Sheffield found another candle and lit it. Just as he was about to speak, Wrexford held up a warning hand and went very still.
The sounds were barely discernable—a ghostly creaking from the unseen rafters, a faint whoosh of air through the crack in the window . . .
A whispery groan, rhythmic in its rise and fall.
Muttering another oath, the earl moved into the alcove off the main room. A man lay spread-eagle on the floor, his breath going in and out with a labored gurgle.
Crouching down beside him, Wrexford held the candle closer to the sound and saw why. A deep slash cut across the man’s throat, leaving the windpipe half-severed. Blood had turned his shirtpoints scarlet.
As the light touched his face, the man’s eyes fluttered up, resignation pooled in the dark and dilated pupils.
Perhaps he could see the specter of death moving inexorably closer and closer.
“Hollis?” asked Wrexford.
A tiny nod.
“Who—” he started to ask, but seeing Hollis was trying to speak, he quickly stopped and leaned closer.
The man’s lips were moving—a zephyrous stir
ring of air tickled against the earl’s cheek. But no words came forth. Just a deathly wheezing, low and horrible to hear, from the ruined windpipe.
Wrexford untied his cravat and carefully wound it around Hollis’s throat, hoping to keep the Grim Reaper at bay for a little longer.
“A-Ashton.” Hollis finally managed a sound. “Didn’t . . . k-kill . . . Ashton.”
“Do you know who did?” he demanded.
Hollis moved his head ever so slightly, setting off a sputtering cough.
The devil take it—the man is choking on his own blood.
“I . . . I know . . .” Another cough. “Find . . .”
“Here, let me make you more comfortable.” Pulling off his coat, the earl pillowed the dying man’s head to help him breathe.
Hollis grimaced. “Find . . . find . . .”
“Find who?” pressed Wrexford, trying to keep a rein on his frustration. Placing a hand on Hollis’s shoulder, he gave a squeeze, willing him to hold on.
Exhausted by his efforts, the man let his eyelids fall shut. Pain twisted his features. The Reaper’s scythe was cutting ever closer. Wrexford could hear the last gasps of breath dying in Hollis’s lungs.
Think, think! Grasping at straws, he mentally ran down the list the widow had given him.
“One of Ashton’s investors? His assistants,” he suggested.
A flash of emotion in Hollis’s eyes seemed to say no. “F-Find N-Nevins . . .” Lifting a hand, he fluttered a wave at the main room. “Numbers . . . Numbers will reveal everything.”
“Who’s Nevins? And what numbers?” coaxed Wrexford.
No response.
“Damnation—don’t die yet,” he muttered, sliding his hands beneath the man’s head and trying to win him a few more precious seconds.
Hollis opened his eyes. His lips formed the faint whisper of an ‘H’, but in the next heartbeat it was gone.
“Bloody hell.” The earl leaned back from the corpse and stared at his gore-covered fingers. If only the carriage had rattled over the cobblestones just a little faster, if only the tavernkeeper hadn’t played coy in his haggling . . .
If only he had never walked through the stinking, scum-smeared alleyways of Half Moon Gate.
Sheffield touched his shoulder, bringing him out of his brooding. “I wouldn’t second-guess yourself, Wrex. Guilty men are wont to proclaim their innocence right down to their dying breath.”
“On the contrary.” Wrexford slid his coat free from beneath the dead man’s head, grimacing at the blood saturating the soft melton wool. Tyler would likely faint over the task of trying to clean it.
“During the Peninsular War, I saw far more hardened criminals than Hollis shuffle off their mortal coil,” he went on. “When faced with meeting their Maker, most men want to make a clean breast of it.”
“So you believe him that he didn’t do it?” asked Sheffield.
“Yes.” A gut reaction. But according to Charlotte, he should learn to trust his instincts.
“But if Hollis didn’t kill Ashton . . . who did?”
Wrexford’s mouth thinned to a grim line.
“I haven’t got a clue.” He looked around at the ransacked room and swore again. “And we’d need the Devil’s own luck to find anything useful here.”
He rose, and out of frustration kicked at one of the overturned desk drawers. The savage crack of it exploding into shards was so satisfying that he swung another kick at the second one.
Crack. The base panel split apart, revealing a small hidden compartment in the false bottom. The guttering candles showed a pale glimmer of paper caught in the splinters.
Crouching down, Sheffield quickly eased it free. “Satan be praised,” he murmured as he took a quick glance. “Have a look.”
Numbers.
Wrexford studied a page full of what looked to be a random jumble of numerals. “Rooms like these are rented furnished,” he pointed out. “We’ve no idea how long this has been in the drawer.”
A list of debts, an inventory of some sort—bloody hell, it could be anything!
“True,” replied Sheffield. “But perhaps we’ve gotten very lucky.”
“It wouldn’t be luck, Kit. It would be a miracle,” retorted the earl. Nevertheless, he carefully folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
CHAPTER 9
“Goodbye,” murmured Charlotte.
Like the rest of the tiny house, the main room was now bare of belongings. Somehow, it looked smaller, not larger. The emptiness seemed to amplify how little of the place was lodged in her heart.
Memories.
Precious few of them were ones she wished to take with her. She thought hard, trying to recall moments of happiness. Most, however, were less easy to define. They were shaded in subtle hues of regret rather than any brilliant bursts of pure sunshine.
Anthony. Her late husband had been unwell here, both physically and mentally. His ghost still shadowed the place. She turned in a slow circle, watching somber shades of grey dip and dart over the dingy walls. All color had long ago been leached from the space. Even the light had a dullness to it.
Now that she was quitting the house, perhaps he, too, could move on to a better place.
As if in response to her musings, a chill draft—a farewell kiss?—blew in through the damnable crack in the molding that had defied her every effort to fix it. Charlotte gave a wry smile and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.
I am leaving an old life to start a new one.
She felt as if she should perform some momentous ritual to mark the occasion. Light a red-tongued bonfire . . . offer a libation to the gods . . . sacrifice a virgin . . .
“M’lady, the carter says the wagon is packed, and he can crack the whip soon as yer ready te be off.” Raven moved to her side, and to her surprise, the boy twined his fingers with hers. He usually held himself aloof from physical contact, far more so than his younger brother.
Perhaps that was why the unexpected warmth of his touch felt so comforting.
They stood silently in the shifting shadows for another few heartbeats before he added, “We’ve saved a spot on the driver’s perch fer ye. Hawk and I will ride atop the boxes.”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Raven hurried off. Her own steps were slower, but closing the door for the last time didn’t feel as daunting as she had feared.
Respice finem. One should only look back at the end.
Keeping careful hold of the satchel carrying her paints and brushes, Charlotte climbed up to her place on the wagon. A flick of the whip set the dray horses in motion. Mud squelched as the wheels lumbered over the rutted lane. In a few short minutes, the house was well behind her.
She didn’t twist around for a last glance.
The mud turned to cobblestones as they progressed from the fringes of the stews to a more prosperous neighborhood. Behind her, she heard the boys chattering like magpies. Charlotte wished she knew what they truly felt about their new nest.
But in all fairness, her own emotions were not yet sorted out. It would take time. She must be patient, both with them and herself.
Patience. A self-mocking smile touched her lips. It was not one of her virtues. In that she was like the earl.
Thoughts of Wrexford drew her back to their argument over Ashton’s murder. His high-handed order to stay out of the fray had touched a raw nerve. Granted, his arguments had make sense. But that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Her independence had been won at great cost. It was hard to surrender any of it.
Stubbornness, she conceded, was yet another of her many faults.
With her musings straying in such an uncomfortable direction, Charlotte was happy to hear the driver announce that the next turn would bring them to her new street.
She looked up to see a handsome carriage standing by the curb in front of her new abode, its forest green door bearing a discreet crest painted in dark tones of taupe.
Dear Jeremy.
Despite all the upheavals in their lives since the days of filching apples together from the local squire’s orchard, he had never wavered in his loyalty. They had been the best of friends since childhood. Without his support during her darkest days . . .
“Halloo!” Jeremy—Baron Sterling—stepped into the street and gave a welcoming wave. As usual, he was dressed faultlessly, today’s attire being biscuit-colored breeches, polished Hessians, and a coat fashioned from a subtle shade of azure blue merino wool.
If anyone deserved to be a titled aristocrat, it was Jeremy, thought Charlotte with an inward smile. He had always had exquisite taste and an eye for quality. And now he had the blunt to afford to indulge in his passion for the arts and fashion.
He gave an additional hand signal, sending a liveried footman darting forward as the dray rolled to a halt.
“Good heavens,” murmured Charlotte, reluctantly accepting the servant’s offer of a hand down. “You needn’t fuss as if I’m royalty.”
Jeremy enveloped her in a quick hug. “You will always be a princess to me,” he replied gallantly, just loudly enough for her ears.
She let out a wry laugh. “I seem to have misplaced my enchanted tiara on the journey here. So I’ll have to settle on remaining my humble self for now.”
“One never knows what the future holds.”
“It’s only in fairie stories that a common wench is magically transformed into royalty.”
He stepped back, his brow crinkling in concern.
Pretending not to notice, she turned to the carter. “Mr. Hol-son, if you carry everything into the corridor, I shall then direct you as to where it all goes.”
Not that it would take much thought.
“My footman will help,” called Jeremy. Turning back to Charlotte, he said, “But first, come inside. You look tired.” His pause was barely perceptible, as was the tightening around the corner of his mouth. “Let us have some tea.”
His jovial tone sounded a little forced. Charlotte knew her friend well enough to sense he had left something unspoken.
“I’m sorry but my kettle is packed somewhere among the boxes,” she replied. “So I’m afraid we’ll have to forego refreshments.”
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