Questions, questions. And precious few solid answers.
He felt strangely uncertain.
The fading light of late afternoon had left his study shrouded in half-darkness. Leaving the lamps untouched, Wrexford poured himself a brandy and took a seat by the unlit hearth. A cold-fingered chill seemed to creep out from the black coals and wrap itself around his boots.
His was not a tender heart—not since the days of his callow youth, when the razor-sharp cut of feminine wiles had left it irreparably scarred. These days, women rarely upset his peace of mind. And yet, Isobel Ashton seemed to have gotten under his skin.
The brandy filled his mouth with a sudden heat, and burned a trail down the back of his throat.
Though he didn’t want to, he found her attractive. Alluring. Intriguing. In the beau monde world, it was de rigueur for females to be colorless pasteboard cutouts. Mere silhouettes swathed in silks and satins. No wonder the widow’s aura of self-assured individuality stood out like a blaze of fire.
Wrexford spun the glass between his palms, feeling the prickle of cold cut crystal facets. He had never met anyone quite like her. Beautiful, but with an unusual strength and intelligence giving far deeper meaning to the superficial surface.
There was Charlotte, of course. But she was different.
He frowned as he tried to find words to describe how.
Irritating? No, that was unfair. She provoked him, she challenged him.
And what man liked that?
More than that, she forced him, by the sheer strength of her own unwavering passions, to care more deeply than he wished to about such notions as right and wrong.
Another swallow of brandy. Cynicism was much more comfortable.
Forcing his thoughts away from Charlotte, the earl made himself confront the specter of Isobel Ashton—and the fact that she might be involved in her husband’s murder.
No question in his mind that she was clever enough. She had fire, but it was tempered by ice.
And that, he slowly realized, was the elemental difference between her and Charlotte. The widow, he sensed, would be capable of murder. While Charlotte’s elemental warmth would never—never—allow for such a cold-hearted act.
That he might have misjudged Isobel’s character so badly stung. After the painful lesson of his youthful folly, he thought his brain had become a less primitive organ than other parts of his anatomy. But perhaps he was mistaken.
Brooding, however, was the coward’s way out. Whatever the spell that had drawn him to Isobel, it was broken by the fact that he could think her capable of cold-blooded murder.
Wrexford rose and went to his desk. A spark of flint and steel lit a single candle, and after quickly penning a note, he sealed it with a circle of molten wax.
“Weasel,” he called, as he returned to his workroom.
Tyler held up a warning finger. “A moment, milord. Let us finish.”
“Finish what?” Curious, Wrexford approached the counter where Raven was sitting, shoulders hunched, head bent low. The sound of pencils scratching over paper rose above the faint hiss of the oil-fueled Argand lamp.
The valet gestured to an open ledger book sitting amidst a bunch of other books. “The bantling saw the open ledger when I was showing him our work. He thinks he’s spotted an error in my addition of the monthly expenditures. We are both in the process of rechecking the final tally.”
“By all means, carry on.” Another minute or two of delay would make no difference.
Scratch, scratch.
And then Tyler let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Bloody hell. My apologies, lad. You’re right.”
Raven made a last calculation before setting down his pencil with an owlish blink. “Yeah, looks that way.”
Wrexford moved closer and surveyed the page. “You first found the error by adding this all up in your head?”
The boy nodded. “Are ye angry at me fer pointing it out?”
“Not in the least,” replied the earl. “You appear to have a knack for numbers. It’s an excellent skill to have.”
“Ye think so?” Raven slowly met his gaze, a hint of a question lurking in his eyes. “Dunno what’s so special about it. But Mr. Linsley says a great many interesting things can be explained by numbers.”
“He’s quite right, it’s a fascinating subject, lad.” Yet another surprise in a day filled with surprises. “And I look forward to talking with you at greater length about the wonders of mathematics.” Wrexford held up the sealed note. “At the moment, however, m’lady is waiting for my reply.”
* * *
Punctuating the papery crackle with a low oath, Charlotte crumpled the earl’s missive and dropped it into her desk drawer.
“We have much to talk about,” she muttered, repeating the first of the two sentences he had deigned to write. The second one merely stated, ‘The carriage will call for you tomorrow at noon.’
His high-handedness caused a clench of resentment in her chest, even though she knew he was right to respect the strictures of society. It was the brusqueness of his message that felt a little like a slap in the face. Charlotte had thought their friendship, though fraught with complexities, was a bond that had grown into something deeper than mere pragmatism. Perhaps she was wrong.
Which brought into question her judgment on a great many things concerning the earl. Including her own feeling for him . . .
The clench suddenly tightened with a fierceness that forced the air from her lungs, and for an instant she feared her ribs might crack.
No, I am stronger than such weak-willed longings, she told herself, forcing away thoughts of the earl. Survival depends on being pragmatic.
Willing the iron-fisted grip to relax, Charlotte found she could breath again.
Picking up her pen, she returned her gaze to the unfinished drawing on her desk. There was nothing like the need to put bread on the table to focus a clear-minded clarity on the moment at hand. She had promised it to Mr. Fores by tomorrow and had never failed to keep her word to him. With that in mind, she set to work.
It was close to midnight before Charlotte scraped back her chair and flexed the stiffness from her shoulders. The composition had demanded a dramatic balance of black and white, one that required a laborious series of crosshatched shadings. But as she cast a critical eye over the details, she decided she was satisfied with the result.
Painting in the colored highlights could wait until morning. Fatigue was hazing her head and hanging heavy on her lashes. Charlotte found she could barely keep her eyes open as she rose and made her way into the night-dark corridor leading to her bedchamber. Still, she paused by the narrow set of stairs leading up to the attic aerie and cocked an ear to catch the soft stirrings of the boys asleep in their beds.
Rustling wool, a snuffled breath—the sounds were reassuring. Of late, their nocturnal ramblings had grown less frequent. A sign, she hoped, that they were adapting to a more settled life.
For the moment all was well, and yet Charlotte lingered, thinking about the hopes and fears that came with love.
Love.
The heart was safer in solitude. Was that what was keeping Raven at arm’s length? The boy had seen enough of life’s cruelties to sense the dangers of caring too much.
As for her own emotions . . .
Charlotte looked up, though the slumbering gloom revealed no answers. She was curious as to what had happened at the earl’s townhouse. Hawk had come home looking blissfully happy—the pungent smell of horse that clung to his clothing explained why. Raven, too, had seemed pleased about something, though her gentle probing had failed to elicit more than a cryptic smile.
She wished . . .
“Ah, but if wishes were winged unicorns, I could fly a chariot to the moon and back by dawn.” A yawn punctuated her murmur. Time for sleep, before her thoughts spun any further quicksilver silliness.
* * *
A discreet knock on the workroom door roused Wrexford from his brooding.
Thank God for small favors, thought the earl. He hadn’t been in any mood to go out searching through the stews again. “Show him in, Riche.”
As the surgeon shuffled into the room, looking even more disheveled than usual, Wrexford added, “Where the devil have you been? Gabriel Hollis has been murdered.”
“An outbreak of influenza had hold of the rookies near the Foundling Hospital. I’ve been there for several days.” Henning came closer, and as he ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, the lamplight caught the circles of fatigue bagged beneath his eyes. “As for Hollis, I heard.” He withdrew a small packet from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “That’s why I thought you had better see this without delay.”
As Wrexford snatched it up, Henning let out a sigh and looked around. “Might I pour myself a wee dram of that lovely malt?”
“You may have the whole damn bottle,” muttered the earl as he stared down at the words written on the outer wrapping.
From Gabriel Hollis. To be given to William Nevins in the event of my death.
“I found it shoved under my door when I returned home this evening,” said Henning as he shuffled to the sideboard. “Hollis was a prescient fellow, it seems.”
“Yes,” muttered Wrexford. “Sheffield and I found him wheezing his final breath night before last. Like Ashton, his throat was sliced open.” Taking up his letter opener, he cut a slit in the wrapper. “Any idea who Nevins is?”
“I’ve just learned he’s one of the leaders of the Workers of Zion.”
Inside was a duplicate of the sheet of numbers he had found in Hollis’s rooms. That answered one conundrum—it was indeed written by the radical leader. And it seemed Nevins was the key to deciphering it. “I need to speak with him right away.”
Henning’s expression, never terribly encouraging to begin with, turned even grimmer. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, laddie. One of my patients told me his body was discovered in one of the side alleys near Seven Dials this morning. With his throat cut.”
The bloody villain, fumed Wrexford, was staying one teasing, taunting step ahead of him.
After taking a loud slurp of the whisky, Henning leaned in for a closer look at the paper. “Any idea what that means?”
“No. And now, without Nevins, our chances of guessing which sort of code he’s using is virtually nil.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve been listening to talk in the stews, and word is Hollis and Nevins were shocked at Ashton’s murder and claimed they had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m inclined to believe them,” replied Wrexford. “But proving it has just become a great deal more difficult.”
“Aye. But then again, you seem to like dancing along a razor’s edge.” Henning drained his drink. “Just take care not to lose your balance.”
* * *
A breeze ruffled through the night mist, stirring a sudden swirl of ghostly tendrils that kissed up against the windowglass. The thick twines of ivy growing up the stucco and timber wall sighed, the breathy whisper just loud enough to cover the quick-footed steps moving over the damp grass. Clouds drifted over the moon, cloaking the garden in darkness.
Crouched low, the black-clad figure melded into the leafy shadows of the shrubbery as it moved slowly, stealthily to the back of the house. Darkness hid the flick of a knife blade sliding between the window frames, seeking the latch.
* * *
Charlotte came awake, unsure what had dragged her from the depths of slumber. Her heart was jumpy, her muscles tensed.
“A bad dream,” she whispered, trying to chase away the sharp sense of unease.
She slowly sat up and looked around. The armoire . . . the dressing table . . . the washstand with its cream-colored pitcher glowing softly in the dappling of moonlight. Nothing was amiss.
Exhaling a self-mocking sigh, Charlotte made herself relax. All the little flitterings and creaks of her new residence were still unfamiliar. Like the tit-tit of the yew bushes against the back of the house as the breeze set them to swaying.
The sounds ceased, making her feel even more the fool. At least she was not yet imagining the clank of chains or the moan of a spectral ghost.
And then the scrape came again, this time louder and sounding more metallic.
Charlotte threw off the bedclothes and snatched up her wrapper. Sending up a silent prayer that the floorboards wouldn’t give her away, she moved swiftly to the stairs and crept down just far enough that she could steal a peek at the main corridor.
Footsteps sounded, moving from the pantry to the kitchen.
Only then did she realize she hadn’t thought to grab up a weapon of some sort.
Too late for that now. Someone was coming.
Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, Charlotte clenched a fist. Her late husband had taught her to throw a decent punch. And besides, the thought of an intruder harming the boys made her angry enough to commit murder with her bare hands.
However, the shadowed figure hurried past the stairs and ducked into the small drawing room.
Charlotte waited for several moments, then tiptoed down the remaining treads and took up a position to one side of the doorway. From her vantage point, she could make out the dark-on-dark silhouette making a slow circuit of the room. She eased in a breath and tried to quiet her pounding heart.
Thankfully the intruder appeared unaware of her presence. Steeling her spine, she made herself study her enemy, looking for any weakness. His face was hidden by the upturned hood of a cloak, whose heavy folds fell to mid-calf of the snug-fitting leather boots. He was of ordinary height and looked to be slim and wiry—an in-and-out man rather than a bludgeoning brute.
His steps halted, his head swiveled from side to side . . . Looking for valuables, no doubt.
An experienced thief would have known better than to expect silver candlesticks or precious baubles in this neighborhood. But perhaps word had gotten around that a fancy carriage had been spotted during the hustle and bustle of moving day.
The man had made a grave mistake in choosing his victim, thought Charlotte, fear giving way to primal fury as she watched her home being violated. Her blood was up. Even if the miscreant tried to scamper away empty-handed, she didn’t intend to let him escape.
He turned his back and headed to the side table.
Charlotte seized the chance to slip inside the room and took cover behind one of the armchairs. Several moments passed and then she heard a faint scrabbling, followed by the swoosh of wool. Venturing a quick look, she saw the intruder turn from the table and in one herky-jerky motion slip the majolica rooster inside his cloak and set off for the door.
Another step or two would bring him abreast of her hiding place—
The silence was suddenly shattered by a pelter of thumps and clanging steel as Raven charged in from the corridor brandishing one of Wrexford’s swords. Hawk was just behind him, trying manfully to keep his weapon from bumping along the floor.
“Oiy!” cried Raven, taking a swing as the intruder tried to dodge past him. The flat of the blade smacked the fellow’s leg, knocking him to the ground.
“No!” screamed Charlotte, springing to her feet and rushing to put herself between the boys and danger.
Agile as an eel, the intruder wriggled back just as Raven slapped out another strike. It struck only a glancing hit as, with a grunt, the man managed to dart around the sofa.
Hawk dropped his sword and, fists flailing, flew toward the other end of the sofa to cut him off.
“No!” cried Charlotte again. The boy was no match for a cornered man. She lunged to stop him, just as his older brother did the same. They collided and Raven’s sword clattered to the floor as they fell in a welter of tangled limbs.
Twisting free, she saw the intruder knock Hawk aside with a flying elbow and bolt for the door, the stolen bird still cradled in his cloak.
No, no, no!
Raven was on him in a flash, fists punching at the hooded head. Not to be outdone, his brother flung himself on the man’s kicking legs and held on like a limpet.
Pushing the hair out of her eyes, Charlotte snatched up Hawk’s sword. “That’s enough!” she shouted, stepping up and placing the point just inches above the intruder’s throat. His head was turned to the side, the folds of fabric still hiding his face. “Get off him now and back away.”
The two boys reluctantly obeyed.
“Ye ought te let us chop him into mincemeat,” muttered Raven, rubbing at his knuckles.
“Oiy,” agreed his brother, who couldn’t resist giving a last little kick to the prisoner’s shins.
A muffled sound rumbled from within the wool.
“Gentlemen don’t strike an enemy once he’s surrendered.” Charlotte looked away to wag a chiding finger. “It’s not honorable.”
Taking advantage of the distraction, the intruder made one last grasp for escape. Rolling sideways, he popped to his feet. Freedom was just a scant few strides away.
She had no choice. Steel flashed as the weighty sword sliced through air and smacked a hard blow between his shoulder blades. The force of it staggered him. Charlotte struck again—a palpable hit that spun him around.
Half-crazed by a surge of battle lust, she dropped her weapon and seized him by the cloak. “Bloody bastard!” she cried, swinging him and slamming him up against the wall.
The rooster slipped free and fell to the floor.
The crack snapped Charlotte out of her daze. Shaking her head to clear away the last vestiges of madness, she looked down in dismay, just as Raven rushed in to help.
“Holy hell,” hissed the boy, staring at the shards. He crouched down and plucked a shaft of tightly bound papers from the broken pottery.
“Holy hell,” echoed Charlotte as her gaze flew from the papers back to her captive.
The hood had slipped during the struggle, revealing a pale face—now sporting a fast-purpling bruise on the tip of the chin—and a mass of tumbled wheaten curls.
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 18