Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  “Perhaps Miss Merton would welcome the company of another woman,” said Charlotte slowly.

  His face wreathed in a smile. “That’s exceedingly kind—”

  Honesty compelled her to interrupt him. “I’m not merely being altruistic, Jem. You know I’ve been working on a series of prints entitled Man versus Machine. So for professional reasons, I should very much like to hear her viewpoint on the subject—and that of Mr. Hillhouse.”

  It wasn’t a lie, simply a partial truth, in which she left her part in the murder investigation unsaid.

  “If they are friends of yours,” she went on, “I’m sure they will be both thoughtful and articulate.”

  Jeremy hesitated. “They are. And I think you would all like each other very much. However . . .”

  “However scandal is my bread and butter,” said Charlotte softly. “And you fear I may make a meal of them.” She watched a dappling of the north light skate across her desk top. How ironic that it was known for its piercing clarity. With each passing moment she felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into the tangled murk of secrets within secrets.

  “I understand the demands of what you do,” replied Jeremy. “And ought not make you decide between friendship and earning a living.”

  “I would have thought you know me well enough to know which will always come first,” she said slowly.

  He reached out and slowly uncurled her fisted fingers. “I’d trust you with my life, Charley.” His faced paled. “In fact, I have. We both know that.”

  “Just as I’ve entrusted you with my deepest secrets.” Charlotte hardly dared ask the next question. “I’ve never regretted it for an instant. Have you?”

  A ripple of emotion darkened his eyes. “No. Never.”

  Her insides unclenched. “I may use my pen as a barb to puncture the pompousness of those who think themselves above the rules. But in cases such as Ashton’s death, I hope I am always a voice for truth and justice.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Jeremy pressed his palms to his temples. “But the truth can be twisted by others.”

  What is he so afraid of? Charlotte thought it a strangely pessimistic comment for someone who had mastered the art of graceful good cheer. But for the moment she forced the question from her mind.

  “All the more reason to introduce me,” she pressed. “I can, you know, be a powerful force in shaping public opinion—for good as well as for bad.”

  An involuntary laugh slipped from his lips. “I daresay the Prince Regent himself quakes in his boots at the thought of becoming a subject of your drawings.”

  “Prinny quakes—and quivers—because he consumes far too many rich pastries and bottles of claret,” she responded, hoping to ease the tension in the air.

  Jeremy laughed again. He rarely stayed blue-deviled for any length of time, though he had, she well knew, his own personal demons to wrestle with.

  Don’t we all?

  “True,” he said in answer to her quip. “But I happen to know that he took to his bed for several days after seeing your parody of his shopping for corsets.”

  Charlotte carefully shifted the boxes of her pigments. “I have never turned my pen on innocent people. Your friends have nothing to fear from me.”

  Unless, of course, they were guilty of murdering the inventor. In that case, she believed that Jeremy would also agree that truth must triumph, no matter the personal cost.

  And yet....

  Their gazes met and held for a long moment. It was he who looked away first, and while it might have only been a quirk of light, a flicker of shadow seemed to cloud his eyes.

  “I know that.” After perching a hip on the desk, Jeremy smoothed a wrinkle from his trousers. “Forgive my hesitation. I’m happy to arrange for you to meet them. Though I assume it will not be as A. J. Quill.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Just as a longtime friend of yours. Given the connection all three of you have with Mr. Ashton, and the public reaction to the series of prints on Man versus Machine, I don’t think it will strike an odd note if I’m curious about their views on the subject.”

  He nodded. “As it happens we’ve made a plan to meet for a walk in Green Park tomorrow afternoon. Would you care to join us?”

  “Yes,” replied Charlotte quickly, even as a chorus of voices inside her head began to chant a warning.

  Beware of the dangers that lie along that path.

  She’d been very careful to stay outside the circle of Polite Society. The Greek myth of Persephone showed the perils of moving back and forth between the land of the living and the land of the dead.

  “Then it’s settled.” Jeremy brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his breeches and then quickly rose again, though without any of his usual grace. “And now, I’d best toddle off and allow you to settle in to your new abode.”

  “Thank you again for everything, Jem,” murmured Charlotte. “I’m . . . I’m truly grateful.”

  Her friend snapped a jaunty salute and turned with a whisper of well-tailored wool.

  As Charlotte watched him walk away, a frown slowly furrowed her brow. They had been kindred spirits since childhood and with her artist’s eye for faces, she had always been good at reading the subtle nuances of his expression.

  It wasn’t that Jeremy had been lying . . .

  But for all his show of sunny candor, she was sure he was hiding something from her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Wrexford took a moment to survey the surroundings before announcing himself at Charlotte’s new residence with a rap of the knocker. Though modest, the neighborhood was far more pleasant than her previous one. The street wasn’t a hellhole of muddy ruts, the air didn’t ooze with the unwashed scents of the city, and the house showed no threat of imminent collapse.

  Her friend—the baron, he reminded himself—had chosen well.

  Another mystery regarding Charlotte’s past. But like the others, one she fiercely guarded.

  The earl was about to bang the weighty brass ring again when the door flung open.

  “Wot’s that ye got?” demanded Hawk, regarding the canvas-bundle with bright-eyed interest.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he responded.

  A grin split the boy’s face. “ ’S’alright—I’m a weasel!”

  “Close enough. They are both small, furry beasties.”

  “Oiy, but a weasel is much cleverer than a kitty.”

  “Not if the little beastie thinks it’s amusing to annoy a large and irascible predator whose arms are growing tired,” warned Wrexford.

  The retort provoked a laugh.

  Alas, how low the mighty have fallen. His august title no longer intimidated anyone in this household. He shifted his hold on the bundle. “Might I come in?”

  Hawk quickly stepped aside. “M’lady, m’lady! His Nibs is here!”

  A clatter of steps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later, a breathless Charlotte came hurrying down the corridor.

  “Lord Wrexford!” She halted and lifted a hand to catch an errant lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek, twisting it slowly around a finger before tucking it awkwardly behind an ear. “I didn’t expect . . . any visitors.”

  “Forgive me if I’m intruding at an inconvenient moment.”

  “No—that is, I didn’t mean. . . .”

  He had never seen Charlotte so flustered.

  “It’s just that I was arranging some of the furniture upstairs,” she finished lamely.

  “I imagine there is much to do,” he answered. “I won’t keep you from your tasks. However there are several things I thought you ought to know. It won’t take long.”

  Charlotte hesitated, and then reluctantly gestured for him to step into the corridor. Her agitation struck him as odd. He was familiar with her old abode and its spartan furnishings—though judging by the entrance foyer, the new house had come with some basic amenities.

  “I . . .” Charlotte moved stiffly to a half-open door, her face pinching in embarrassment
. “I suppose we can have a word in here.”

  Wrexford expected the room to be empty. “Mrs. Sloane, there is no need to be . . .” His voice cut off as he crossed the threshold.

  “M-My friend—” she began.

  “Your friend has excellent taste,” he interjected, as he gazed around at the well-chosen arrangements of furniture.

  “I-I had no idea of his plans,” she stammered. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  Wrexford almost smiled at seeing her so tongue-tied. But the depth of her distress was no laughing matter.

  “It’s a very pleasant parlor,” he said. “Clearly your friend knows you well. You’ll be very comfortable here.”

  Her face turned pale for an instant, then flooded with color. “This was a complete surprise!”

  “Good heavens, you need not feel you owe me any explanation,” replied Wrexford with a careless shrug. “The sofa looks quite comfortable. Might we sit down? My arms are growing quite tired.”

  “Do not tease me, sir!”

  The earl was glad to see her usual fire finally flare to life.

  “In fact, this is . . . this is . . .” Charlotte huffed in frustration, then allowed a wry grimace. “In fact, this is all your fault!”

  He raised his brows. “My fault?”

  “Yes.” Her mouth quirked, hovering between a frown and a smile. “Your lecture on accepting help from friends impelled me to let down my guard.”

  “Which is all for the good,” murmured Wrexford.

  “Is it?” Uncertainty shadowed her features. Looking away, Charlotte drew a steadying breath. And then another.

  Wrexford remained silent. Whatever battle she was fighting, he sensed he was not the enemy.

  When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “It feels as if my life is at sixes and sevens.”

  Humor, he decided, was the best way to defuse the situation. “Speaking of numbers, that happens to be the reason I’m here. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Charlotte chuffed a laugh.

  A good sign

  “Impossible man,” she said. “Do you not take anything seriously?”

  “On very rare occasions. But this is not one of them.” He looked around again, and then added, “In my humble opinion, you are making a tempest in a teapot about this. Your lordly friend has gifted you with some furnishings—which I daresay came from acres of attics crammed with the flotsam and jetsam of past generations. It is a gesture of friendship, not pity. To argle and bargle over it is an insult to his intentions.”

  She lowered her lashes, hiding her eyes.

  “But then,” he added dryly, “you’re well aware of my sardonic outlook on human nature.”

  Charlotte shifted her stance, and suddenly her grim expression surrendered to a smile. “If you were looking to singe my hubris, consider it done. I doubt the Devil himself could have raked me over any hotter coals.”

  “I think you know my intention was not to cause pain.” Wrexford quelled the urge to reach out and touch a reassuring hand to her cheek. “You’ve often told me that looking at a problem from a different perspective can help one see the solution.”

  “How very lowering to have my own words thrown back in my face,” she murmured.

  “Especially when they are right?” He smiled. “If it’s any consolation, the reason I’m here is because I, too, am at sixes and sevens. Ashton’s murder has taken another serpentine twist and I would greatly value your view on it.”

  “You’ve discovered another clue?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes,” Wrexford set down his awkward burden. “But first—”

  A quicksilver flutter in the corridor caught his eye. “You may step out of the woodwork, Weasels. This concerns you.”

  The two boys darted into the room.

  “See, I told ye,” whispered Hawk to his brother. “It’s a corking big bundle.”

  Charlotte fixed them with a basilisk stare. “Spying on one’s elders is ungentlemanly.”

  Raven returned the look without a flinch. “We weren’t spying. We were simply making sure you didn’t need our protection.”

  “Gentlemen are s’posed te be knights in shining armor,” piped up Hawk. “Isn’t that right, m’lord?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Wrexford replied dryly. To Charlotte, he added, “You may have new reason to be furious with me, but the lads mentioned there was a small swath of garden here. And so I took the liberty of bringing . . .”

  He gestured at the canvas-wrapped bundle. “May they go ahead and open it?”

  * * *

  Charlotte took a seat on the sofa before answering. The day was unraveling into a series of surprises. She wasn’t quite sure she wanted another. However, Wrexford’s expression was somewhat reassuring. Despite his show of sardonic humor, he looked a little uncomfortable.

  What in the names of Hades was beneath the canvas wrapping? Had it been wriggling, she might have guessed a snake.

  Oh, surely he wouldn’t . . .

  “M’lady?” Hawk’s wistful voice roused her from her reverie. “May we?”

  Wrexford, she noted, had perched a hip on the arm of the facing chair and folded his arms across his chest. His face gave nothing away.

  “Yes,” she answered, and steeled herself for . . . only God knew what.

  The boys flew to the bundle and made quick work of unknotting the cording. With a grunt, Raven lifted it upright while his brother stripped away the cloth.

  Metal clinked against metal as a glint of light flashed off polished steel.

  Mother of God.

  The earl must have read her thoughts. “Before you’re tempted to cut out my liver, allow me to say that the points have been ground off and the blades have been dulled.”

  “Swords!” Two gleeful shouts rose in tandem.

  Charlotte couldn’t contain herself. She started laughing.

  Clang! Clang!

  “Are you mad?” she sputtered, as the two weapons hit together.

  “Stop!” called earl.

  The boys instantly obeyed.

  “There are rules,” he intoned. “And a code of honor. Break either and the weapons will be revoked. Understood?”

  Raven and Hawk nodded solemnly.

  “The list is short. Swordplay is only permitted in the garden. No thrusting, and you may only hit with the flat of the blade. And never, ever lash out in a moment of anger, as you may cause serious injury.”

  Well done, conceded Charlotte.

  “Lastly, I leave it to Mrs. Sloane to decide whether any blood or bruises merit the weapons being taken away,” continued Wrexford. “Have I your promise to abide by what I’ve spelled out?”

  “Aye, sir,” answered both boys.

  “Then off you go, Weasels. And mind you, lopping off any tree limbs is also strictly forbidden.”

  “Huzzah!” In a pelter of playful pushing and shoving, Raven and Hawk shouldered the weapons and staggered off.

  Charlotte took some consolation in the fact that the swords were heavy enough that the boys were unlikely to wield them well enough to inflict lasting damage.

  Wrexford eyed her warily, waiting for her to speak first.

  Any anger she might have felt for his high-handed gift dissolved upon recalling how the boys had told her about a conversation they had had with the earl many months ago, one involving ancestral swords and his long-ago duels with a younger brother.

  Raven and Hawk had been wide-eyed in wonder at such swashbuckling adventure.

  That Wrexford had sensed their awe was all to his credit. More than that, it revealed a soft spot in his armor—one he took great pains to hide.

  “I suppose,” she said slowly, “I should take heart from the fact that you somehow managed to survive such brother-on-brother battles.”

  “There may be a black eye or two, but that does a lad no harm,” he replied. “Broken bones or bruises are badges of honor.”

  “So I gather.” Charlotte sighed.
“You seem to think such youthful testing of each other’s mettle forges a special bond of brotherhood.”

  His expression turned unreadable. A Sphinx-like mask of impenetrable stone.

  Was he thinking of his dead brother, slain on some bloody Peninsular battlefield? She could imagine the sense of loss must seep into the very marrow of one’s bones.

  “Do you miss Thomas?” she asked abruptly.

  He turned, the play of afternoon light and shadow skittering over the austere angles of his face. Perhaps it was merely a fluttering reflection in the windowpanes, but for an instant the chiseled arrogance seemed to give way to a ghosting of pain.

  “Every day,” replied Wrexford. “He was a good man. A far better one than I.”

  She had expected his usual sarcasm, not such naked honesty. “I’m so sorry.”

  A careless shrug, and the moment was gone. “As Raven so wisely pointed out a while back, the Grim Reaper cares naught as to whether you are a lowly pauper or a highborn toff when he swings his scythe.”

  Clang, clang—the ring of swords floated in from the garden, punctuated by peals of boyish laughter.

  “They will sleep well in their new house,” he remarked.

  A deliberate deflecting of tender sentiment. His cool smile seemed to challenge any further probing on the subject. Speaking of emotion wasn’t something either of them did well.

  “If physical exhaustion helps to counter the excitement of having beds and room of their own, I shall be profoundly grateful,” answered Charlotte, following his lead. “Though I fear they . . .”

  The clang-clang of steel against steel echoed her own jumpy nerves.

  “I fear they won’t be as happy as I wish for them to be,” she finished.

  “Trust your instincts, Mrs. Sloane,” murmured the earl. “I do.” Without further ado, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “You’ve much on your mind. If you’ll allow me to explain the real reason for my visit, I shall then leave you in peace.”

  “A new clue?” The flutter of paper chased all other thoughts from her head. “Did you find Gannett?”

  “Yes, and you were right to suspect that he wasn’t working alone.” Wrexford came to sit down beside her on the sofa. “He pointed us to a man named Hollis, who, judging by all the pamphlets we found in his room, looks to have been a leader of the Workers of Zion.”