“As to that. . . .” Jeremy cleared his throat with a cough. “I took the liberty of bringing my housekeeper to fix some sustenance. The boys will be hungry, and I didn’t wish for them to starve.” A smile. “There are apple tarts from Gunther’s. And a custard-filled meringue.”
“A low blow,” she muttered. He knew how adamant she was about refusing any monetary aid, no matter how trifling. But in this case it was hard to be angry with him.
Raven and Hawk tumbled down from the pile of baggage, an expectant look on their grimy faces. They occasionally delivered notes to his house, where she suspected the servants plied them with sweets.
“They were spotless when we left,” said Charlotte with a harried sigh. “How it is that boys are a magnet for dirt?”
Jeremy answered with a chuckle. “It is one of those immutable truths of the universe. I imagine Sir Isaac Newton has written something about it in his laws of motion.”
“Quite likely.” She would have to ask Wrexford.
“Oiy!” Raven looked offended. He held up his hands, which for him were relatively respectable. “Look, they be clean as a whistle.”
“They are,” she corrected, even though she knew the mistake was deliberate. “Now, make your bows to Lord Sterling, and then, if your fingers pass muster when we get inside, you may have some apple tart.”
“Huzzah!” They scampered away, pulling their shirttails loose in order to scrub their hands.
“They’re good lads,” murmured Jeremy.
“They’re heathens,” she said wryly, hoping her underlying fears did not edge her voice.
“Being clever and curious makes them different. However, that’s not a bad thing.”
Charlotte hoped that was true. But given her own checkered experience, she wasn’t convinced of it. There was something to be said for a staidly conventional life.
Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for her friend added, “Living within the tight strictures of society may be safe, but it is challenges that bring out the best in us.”
“An admirable philosophy,” replied Charlotte. Assuming one was strong enough to survive.
Jeremy offered his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
She looked up. It was naught but a modest century-old stucco and wood building standing in an orderly row of similar structures that stretched the full length of the block. Two floors. A tiny attic tucked under the pitched slate roof. But compared to her previous residence it looked like a mansion.
A tiny sigh escaped as she thought of the bare rooms, and her meager furnishings. The stark emptiness of the rooms would not be an edifying sight, but she couldn’t very well take the coward’s way out and retreat. There was no other place to go.
Numquam rediit retrorsum et deinceps semper. Always go forward and never turn back.
Strangely, it was Jeremy who hesitated. “I must give you fair warning, Charley. . . .”
She stiffened, which made his expression turn more baleful.
“I brought something a bit more substantial than tarts,” he went on.
Damn him. Charlotte let her hand slip away from his sleeve. “I take it you aren’t referring to a joint of roast beef?”
“No.” Her sarcasm brought a slight flush to his cheeks, and yet rather than flinch, he took firm hold of her wrist. “A house needs more than food in the larder. Please do me the courtesy of observing what I’ve done and hearing my explanation before ringing a peal over my head.”
God knows he deserves that much. And so much more.
It didn’t mean she had to like it.
“Very well,” said Charlotte, swallowing the bitter taste of bile that had risen to the back of her throat. “Lead on.”
Set on the far left side of the house, the front door opened into a shallow entrance foyer holding a simple boot box and a Turkey carpet in muted tones of indigo and burgundy red. From there, a corridor, half-filled with a set of narrow stairs leading to the second floor, ran back to the rear of the house. The first door on the right opened to a main parlor with a wide-planked wood floor and well-proportioned mullioned windows.
Charlotte gingerly stepped inside.
A large fireplace occupied one end of the space, and in front of it a sofa covered in navy and taupe stripes faced two leather armchairs. Between them sat a brass-cornered tea table made of oiled teak.
Sucking in her breath, she shifted her gaze. A large bookcase—already half filled with various leatherbound volumes—was at the other end of the room. A game table inlaid with dark and light checkered tiles, several straight-back chairs and sideboard completed the grouping.
Without a word, Charlotte gave a curt nod, indicating she was ready for Jeremy to continue with the tour.
The kitchen and tiny pantry were at the rear—the boys were noisily eating their pastries under the indulgent eye of Jeremy’s housekeeper—then it was up the stairs to the upper floor. Her friend led her past the first door, which was closed.
“We’ll come back down here in a moment,” he murmured. “First let me show you the attic.”
Charlotte dutifully followed, unsure what to expect.
Jeremy had to duck slightly to get through the door at the top of the stairs. A small but snug little room occupied the space. Front and back dormer windows let in a surprising amount of gold-flecked light. Outside, the trilling song of a linnet rose up from the tiny back garden to echo softly against the glass.
Turning slightly, she saw two narrow beds had been placed side by side against one wall, each with a wooden storage trunk at its foot. Two desks, with a bookshelf set between them, fit comfortably on the opposite wall. A cheery rag rug covered the planked floor.
“I thought the lads would enjoy having their own aerie,” murmured her friend.
Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat. She couldn’t yet muster any words and merely gave another curt nod.
“Come, we’re almost done.” Taking no umbrage at her silence, he headed back down to the second floor.
At the foot of the stairs, he threw open the door to the rear room. “Here is the main bedchamber.”
It, too, was simply but tastefully furnished.
“You’ll find it quieter than the room facing the street, and there’s a view over the back garden.” He smiled. “Granted, it’s no bigger than a farthing, but there’s a small swath of grass and a rowan tree.”
Oh, Lud. How to respond?
All the furnishings were clearly used but of good quality. A quick mental calculation of their cost showed they would beggar her hard-won savings. She had scrimped and sacrificed in order to build a buffer against any change in her present circumstances. Life, as she well knew, could change in the blink of an eye.
But now....
Charlotte bit her lip. She would never have chosen to squander her blunt on bedsteads and draperies, no matter how pretty. But now, she had been given no choice.
Fury collided with gratitude, leaving her shaken.
Jeremy was already out in the corridor and opening the next door. “Here is another small room. I’ve told my footman to bring the furnishings from your old house up here and to arrange it as a spare bedchamber for now. However, it could easily serve as an informal sitting room if you so choose.”
Choices, choices. And yet it felt as if the decisions concerning her life were being wrested from her grasp.
“There’s just one more room to see,” he murmured.
She had seen quite enough. It was only the bonds of longtime friendship that kept her by his side as he moved to the last unopened door.
“One of the reasons I pressed you to take the house was because it had the space . . .” The portal opened “. . . to allow you a proper studio.”
A large desk was positioned to take advantage of the sunshine streaming in through the tall windows.
North light. Artist’s light.
Jeremy had thought of everything.
Tears suddenly pearled on her lashes, the sting of salt piercing st
raight through her soul. “H-How can I ever repay you?” she mumbled, holding back the hysterical urge to laugh.
Of course she knew how, and it would ruin her savings.
“I must, of course, do so,” she continued. “Though—”
He pressed a fingertip to her lips. “You agreed to hear me out before saying anything.”
Charlotte blinked, and suddenly the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Damnation—I never weep.
“I know how you feel about charity, Charley. Your fierce sense of independence is one of the things I’ve always admired about you,” he continued softly. “But pride can be taken to a fault.”
Her insides gave a lurch, his words more painful to hear for how sharply they echoed the earl’s sentiments.
“Everything here is from the attics of the late baron’s country manor,” continued Jeremy. “Rather than let it sit moldering in the shadows, please allow me to share my unearned largess with you. Fate takes strange twists. Why should I deserve a title and a fortune more than the next fellow?”
He lifted his shoulders in a wry shrug. “But there is it, so why spit in Fortune’s face? I say we should enjoy it.”
All her arguments seemed to dissolve in the space of a heartbeat. He was right—life’s vagaries were absurdly unfair. All the more reason for friendship to triumph over pride.
Friendship.
“Thank you,” she said simply, knowing the true depth of her emotions was beyond words.
Sunlight gilded Jeremy’s smile. “You’re welcome.”
It was only then that she realized she was still gripping the satchel containing her brushes and watercolor pigments. To break the emotional tension, she set it down on her new desk and began to unpack the supplies.
“This will be a very pleasant place in which to work,” she said. “A good thing, as I am in danger of missing the deadline for my next drawing.”
Following her lead, Jeremy turned the talk away from personal feelings. “Speaking of drawings, have you learned anything more about Mr. Ashton’s death?” Her recent print had garnered a great deal of attention.
“The authorities still seem convinced it was a random robbery,” replied Charlotte carefully. The evidence suggesting otherwise was not her secret to share.
“What a senseless tragedy.” He shook his head and let out a mournful sigh. “I shall miss him greatly.”
The box of pigments slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
“Y-You knew Elihu Ashton?”
“Why, yes, we were good friends.” Leaning down, Jeremy picked up the paints and set them on the desk. “In fact, I’m one of the investors in his project for a new, highly advanced mill.”
Charlotte stared at him in mute shock.
“Apparently, he was working on an innovation,” added her friend. “One that he believed would leave current technology in the dust.”
CHAPTER 10
Setting aside the morning newspaper, Wrexford took a quick gulp of his still-steaming coffee and let the brew burn a trail of fire down his throat. Would that it could scald away the coppery taste lingering in his throat. Death had a sweet-sour stickiness that clung to live flesh like a limpet. Something about blood spilled in violence refused to be washed away.
War ought to have inured him to it. But the Ashton affair had stirred feelings he thought had been long ago buried in the past.
Or were they vulnerabilities?
Swallowing the unsettling thought along with another mouthful of coffee, Wrexford turned his attention to last night’s murder. There was, of course, no account of it in the newsprint. Death was an all too common occurrence in the teeming stews of the city. Only the well-born or well-heeled merited a mention.
However, he had sent word to Griffin about Hollis’s demise, along with a warning about the presence of a radical group in London. Given how fearful the government was about worker unrest, surely Bow Street would have to devote more scrutiny to the puzzle of Ashton’s grisly death.
As for Charlotte, he owed her a report on what had happened. Quid pro quo. He couldn’t very well expect her to be forthcoming with information if he didn’t reciprocate.
“Nothing,” announced Tyler loudly as he entered the breakfast room. “You may rest easy on that account, milord. Fores’s printshop has nothing new from A. J. Quill.”
The news wasn’t surprising. Charlotte had strict scruples about keeping her word. However, it did no harm to check, in case she had learned of Hollis’s demise from her own sources. At times, her awareness of every shadowy secret in London seemed to surpass that of Lucifer.
“Mrs. Sloane has been preoccupied,” answered Wrexford. “She’s moving to her new residence today.”
“Ah.” His valet, who was aware of Charlotte’s secret identity, gave a knowing nod. “It’s not easy to uproot from one place to another, even when one has decided the auld sod has become barren ground.”
The earl regarded him with a quizzical stare. Tyler was a sarcastic Scot, who rarely gave a hint of having any personal feelings beneath his flinty skin.
His valet returned the look, his expression giving nothing away.
In no mood for verbal sparring, he let the matter drop.
“I had better pay her a visit and inform her of what happened last night.” He’d made a copy of the hidden paper found in Hollis’s room, though he didn’t have high hopes for her deciphering its meaning. Art was her bailiwick. Numbers were numbers. Their message required a different perspective.
The thought sparked a sudden idea. “By the by, perhaps we should send a copy of the list of numbers found in Hollis’s room to Isaac Milner.”
“The fellow who teaches at Trinity College?” Tyler raised his brows. “Are you conceding that Cambridge has greater expertise than Oxford in the subject?”
“In this particular case, yes,” answered the earl. “Milner is the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics. It’s a very prestigious appointment—Sir Isaac Newton is a past holder of the chair—and it’s well-known that he’s a genius with numbers. If anyone can see a hidden message in the dratted paper, it’s him.”
“I’ll make another copy,” said Tyler.
“I’ll pen a letter to him when I return. We know each other from the Royal Institution. He can be counted on to be discreet.”
“I’m no expert with numbers but I’ll take a closer look at them, too,” added the valet. “I did a little study on the subject of cryptography, and we’ve some books in the library on the subject. Perhaps some idea will come to mind.”
Wrexford nodded absently, then returned his attention to Charlotte. “Have you got the package for Mrs. Sloane ready?”
“Yes, milord. Though it was not easy to get it wrapped.” A hint of amusement shaded Tyler’s voice.
The earl ignored it. He had no idea what her reaction would be to the items he was bringing. They were, admittedly, a rather bizarre gift to celebrate the move to her new residence. But then, Charlotte was a very unconventional woman. He imagined that she might be amused.
Or perhaps she would be tempted to murder him on the spot.
His mouth twitched. That would certainly sell a lot of prints. The public, bloodthirsty as they were, would take great glee in seeing the dark-as-the-Devil Earl of Wrexford hoisted on his own petard.
He rose and consulted his pocketwatch. There was no time to waste if he was to pay her a visit and then make it to his appointment with Benedict Hillhouse at the appointed hour. “Have the coachman bring the carriage around.”
* * *
“Friends,” repeated Charlotte. Given the difference in their ages and interests, the connection between Elihu Ashton and Jeremy took her by surprise. “How did that come about?”
“During the last two years, I’ve had to spend a great deal of my time at the Sterling ancestral estate.” Her friend made a wry face. “I still have trouble calling it my home.”
Charlotte realized she had never given any thought to his life out
side of London. But of course he would have responsibilities to learn, lands to oversee.
“It’s located in Hunslet,” he explained. “And it was only natural that I became acquainted with Ashton through the soirees and dinners given by local society. I liked him very much. He was a man of great intellectual curiosity and we enjoyed talking about philosophy, as well as art and literature.”
“I see,” she murmured.
“Indeed, I was so impressed with his knowledge and his progressive ideas on social reform that I decided to join the group of investors who were funding his new venture.”
Good God.
“Not only that,” went on Jeremy. “His laboratory assistant, Benedict Hillhouse, was a very good friend of mine at Cambridge. And so that was yet another reason for me to think well of him.”
Though her mind was whirring over the unexpected revelations, Charlotte forced herself to slow down and think logically. Gather all the pieces to the puzzle—they could be put together later.
“Old friendships are important,” she murmured.
“Benedict and I had lost touch over the years,” mused Jeremy. “I was very happy to rekindle the acquaintance.”
“Understandably so.” She knew little of Jeremy’s life during his university years. She and her late husband had been in Italy . . .
“He works closely with Ashton’s personal secretary,” continued her friend, “and Miss Merton’s company has proved very pleasant as well.” His expression turned troubled. “They will both be devastated by his death.”
Merton. Hillhouse. The two names at the very top of Wrexford’s list of possible suspects.
“I’m so sorry,” said Charlotte. Murder was like a stone thrown into a calm lake—the impact sent waves rippling out far from the point of impact.
“As am I.” A flicker of unreadable emotion tightened Jeremy’s features, but it was gone in an instant. “I hope to provide some comfort while they are here in London. The atmosphere inside a house of mourning can be oppressive.”
Especially as, according to Wrexford, there was no love lost between Ashton’s widow and her late husband’s assistants.
“A walk in the park may be a balm for the spirits,” he finished.
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