Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  “Merde,” said Octavia Merton, her shoulders slumping in resignation.

  CHAPTER 17

  Her mind flooded with a myriad of questions—but Charlotte forced them aside. First things first.

  “Hawk, find some rope,” she ordered, keeping a firm grip on her captive. “Raven, have you got your pocket knife?”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The blade opened with an ominous snap.

  “I’m no threat to you,” said Octavia softly.

  “Two people have been murdered, their throats sliced open with gruesome precision, so I prefer to err on the side of caution.” Charlotte darted a look at Raven. “Hand it over.”

  To her relief, he did so without arguing. Unlike her, he wasn’t tall enough to keep the point pressed against Octavia’s neck. “Now search her for any weapons. And if you so much as twitch, Miss Merton, I won’t hesitate to add a third corpse to the count.”

  “There’s a knife in the right pocket of my cloak—only because I needed something to pry open the window latch,” said Octavia calmly. “Other than that I’m unarmed.”

  Raven fished it out. “She’s telling the truth,” he muttered a few moments later. “Now what?”

  Charlotte saw Hawk emerge from the pantry, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. “Take your brother and fetch a chair from the kitchen,” she answered.

  The two of them were back in a trice.

  “Place it there,” said Charlotte, indicating a spot by the sofa.

  “Your sons?” asked Octavia, watching them jump to the task.

  “My wards,” answered Charlotte, giving her captive a small shove forward. “But no less dear to my heart. You made a grave mistake in threatening those I love.”

  “They were never in any danger.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You’ve been lying through your teeth about a great many things.”

  “I have,” conceded Octavia, allowing herself to be seated on the hard slats of the straight-back chair. “But not about what you think.”

  Charlotte gave a noncommittal grunt. “Raven, tie her to the chair—snugly enough that she can’t wriggle free.”

  “Let yer arms hang down by yer side, miss,” he ordered before looping the rope around her middle. Moving swiftly and methodically, he had the job done within moments.

  The knots, observed Charlotte as she lit a single candle, would have done a naval midshipman proud.

  “Excellent. Now go fetch your coats and boots. I need for you to deliver two messages.” Wrexford must know about this. And so, she decided, must Jeremy. The earl wouldn’t like it, but her friend deserved her trust . . . until he proved unworthy of it.

  “They seem very brave and resourceful lads,” murmured Octavia as they raced off. “Most children would have been paralyzed by fright.”

  “They are,” replied Charlotte curtly, “unlike most children.”

  Octavia nodded thoughtfully, then turned her head to stare out the window facing the street. Charlotte wasn’t sure why. The mist had thickened to an impenetrable veil of ghostly greys and the opaque glass showed naught but the blurred reflection of their silhouettes limned in the weak candlelight.

  What thoughts were swirling in Octavia’s head? wondered Charlotte as silence settled over them. The young woman’s face was expressionless.

  She felt a chill tickle at the nape of her neck. A ruthless killer would need just such a cold-blooded detachment. And unlike most people, Charlotte had no illusions about whether a woman was capable of murder.

  The boys soon reappeared, dressed and ready to brave the night.

  “Raven, you go rouse Wrexford.”

  Octavia started at the earl’s name, her first real sign of emotion.

  “Tell him to come immediately,” went on Charlotte. “Hawk, you must head to Lord Sterling’s residence and give him the same message.”

  Raven gave a solemn nod. “We’ll fly like the wind, m’lady.” A low whistle to his brother, and they were gone.

  “Wrexford,” repeated Octavia. “So, you were spying for him.”

  Charlotte didn’t answer. She was slowly unrolling the sheaf of papers that had been hidden inside the rooster.

  “Who are you—his mistress?”

  Ignoring the insult, Charlotte took a seat on the sofa and smoothed open the top sheet. And then another and another.

  Dear God. Curled in the roll were page after page of technical drawings, rendered in meticulous detail. Ashton’s missing sketches?

  “It is I who should be hurling nasty accusations, Miss Merton.”

  The low light caught the flush of color rising to the other woman’s cheeks. “I-I can explain . . . But you won’t believe me.” Her mouth twisted. “Isobel Ashton seduces most every man who crosses her path. Clearly the earl is under her spell. And you . . .”

  “And I had never met the widow before this afternoon,” pointed out Charlotte. “She has, I agree, a certain magnetism. Whether that makes her guilty of any crime is not something I feel ready to judge. Your behavior, however, has been highly suspicious.” She paused. “There is an old adage—if it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it likely is a duck.”

  “You’re hunting the wrong bird,” replied Octavia bitterly. “Look to the swan. A beauty now, but since you wish to throw out adages, keep in mind that a swan is notoriously ugly in her youth. And does one ever really change one’s feathers?”

  The young woman’s passion was palpable. Octavia was either a consummate actress. Or she believed what she was saying.

  Charlotte looked down at the papers, feeling a twinge of doubt. She was beginning to question her judgment of people. And the realization left her a little shaken. “An elemental question, I agree. But let us wait for the gentlemen to arrive before we pursue it. They’ll have questions, and I doubt you wish to go through an interrogation twice.”

  Octavia shifted slightly, setting off a harsh whispering of tightly wound hemp.

  “I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable. But I imagine you understand why, Miss Merton.”

  “Of course I do.” Octavia drew in a ragged breath. “I’m a woman who’s dared to defy the conventional path for those of our sex. In my experience, prim and proper ladies of the ton are appalled by that—and their reaction is even more vitriolic than that of gentlemen. I threaten all you hold dear, so of course you’re willing to think me guilty of any horrid crime—even murder.”

  “I am,” murmured Charlotte, “more open-minded than you might think. If you are innocent, I’m perfectly willing to be convinced.” The candle flickered, sending skitters of light across the shadowed sketches. “But it will require more than mere histrionics.”

  She held up the top drawing, depicting an intricate meshing of gears and levers. “The late Mr. Ashton knew it was imperative to show clearly why something was true. Like him, you’ll need to build a solid argument for why we should believe you.”

  “Benedict and I have carefully assembled an explanation for what has happened, and can draw you a perfect diagram,” shot back Octavia. “Our suspicions have been confirmed by several sources. As for proof . . .”

  Charlotte waited as a spasm of pain pinched the other woman’s lips to a taut line.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” went on Octavia in a bleak whisper. “Without Benedict, all hope is gone.” Her face had gone ashen, accentuating the bruises from the struggle. “Go ahead, throw me in Newgate Prison. But it will mean that Mrs. Ashton will, quite literally, be getting away with murder.”

  “That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Merton.”

  “Yes, it is,” came the unhesitating reply. “Which is why I wouldn’t say it unless I was certain it was true.”

  * * *

  Wrexford looked up sharply from the book he was reading. The sound came again—the ping, ping of pebbles hitting up against the diamond-shaped panes of glass.

  He rose and twitched back the half-closed draperies of the workroom’s windows. The back garde
n was a netherworld of dark, leafy shapes rising up from a quicksilver sea of mist. The low ornamental trees swayed in the fitful breeze, their black-fingers branches twining with the tendrils of fog.

  Squinting into the night, the earl tried to spot any furtive movement within the plantings. The stones hadn’t launched themselves. He waited another moment, then unlatched the casement and cracked it open.

  “Hell’s teeth,” he muttered as a gust of night-damp air slapped against his cheeks.

  “Yer not supposed to swear in front of children.” A hand appeared from the gloom below and grabbed hold of the ledge. Wrexford heard the rustling of ivy an instant before Raven swung a leg up and hauled himself to a perch on the narrow jut of stone.

  “You’re not a child. You’re an afreet who’s been released from some devil-cursed bottle in order to plague mankind.”

  “What’s an afreet?”

  “A demon.” He offered a hand. “Come inside. It looks like a squall is blowing in.”

  “Can’t,” replied Raven. “M’lady says ye’re to come quick-like.”

  Wrexford felt a frisson of alarm. “What’s happened?”

  “An intruder broke into the house—”

  “Was she hurt?” he interrupted sharply.

  “Naw, we pummeled the miscreant into submission,” answered the boy. “And then tied ‘em to a chair right and tight. M’lady’s standing guard, but she wants ye to see what happened.”

  “What the devil is that supposed to mean?” called the earl as he hurriedly fetched a pistol from its case.

  “You’ll see fer yerself,” said Raven darkly. “Shake a tail feather, sir. We need te hurry.”

  Bloody Hell. All sorts of dire possibilities flashed through his head. Why was she always so infernally afire to charge straight into the maw of danger?

  An idiotic question. Wrexford blew out a breath, exasperation warring with admiration. Because she was the Warrior Queen, possessing more passion and principle than was good for her.

  “Meet me on the far side of the square,” he called. “It will be quicker to take a hackney part of the way than to go the entire distance on foot.”

  The flash of gold urged the driver to fly through the deserted streets like a bat escaping from the bowels of hell. They careened to a halt a few streets from Charlotte’s residence, and Raven led the way through a series of alleys to the back garden.

  “Through here,” said the boy, loosening several hidden pegs and shifting a loose board to make a narrow gap in the fence.

  The house was completely dark, which stirred yet another pinch of worry as Wrexford waited for Raven to refasten the secret entrance.

  “Hurry,” he snapped. “The cursed fellow may have gotten free.”

  “Not from my knots,” replied Raven as he signaled for the earl to follow him. “And even if the prisoner did get free, m’lady would knock her arse over teakettle again.”

  Her? The rustling leaves must have distorted the words.

  “Let me go first,” whispered Wrexford, holding Raven back once the boy’s key released the kitchen door’s lock. Drawing his pistol, he eased through the opening and entered the darkened corridor.

  The faint sound of voices was coming from up ahead. He slowly eased back the hammer and started forward.

  Then came a loud clink—metal hitting against metal. Wrexford broke into a run.

  The drawing room door was half closed, the weak aureole of light making it hard to see what was going on. Charlotte had her back to him. She was leaning over . . . a sudden silvery flicker flashed behind her—

  “Don’t anyone move!” he ordered, kicking open the door and raising the snout of his pistol.

  Charlotte slowly turned. “Thank you for coming, Wrexford. My apologies for rousing you at such an ungodly hour.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Would you care for some tea?” she added, gesturing at the steam-swirled pot sitting on the pewter tray.

  “Ye untied her,” said Raven with a scowl as he joined Wrexford in the doorway.

  “Yes, she convinced me she was no threat,” replied Charlotte.

  Wrexford stepped into the room and slowly looked from Charlotte to Octavia, who was seated on a straight-back chair and chafing her wrists amid a tangle of rope. “Is this your idea of jest?” he demanded. “If so, it’s not remotely funny.”

  “I assure you, sir, I would never stoop to such puerile pranks,” replied Charlotte. “Though there are times when your high and mighty attitude richly deserves it.”

  The earl bit back a retort as he took in Octavia’s disheveled clothing and the bruises on her face. It was only then that he realized Charlotte was wearing naught but her nightrail and a wool wrapper. Her feet were bare.

  His gaze then found the shards of shattered pottery on the floor and the two swords propped against the wall. “Might I ask—with all due humility, of course—what’s going on here?”

  “Sit down, milord.” She indicated one of the armchairs, which along with the sofa had been knocked askew. “It’s going to be a lengthy conversation. However we must wait for one other person to arrive before we begin.”

  If he were in need of a libation, decided Wrexford, it would be brandy, not tea.

  “Hawk will be bringing—” She cocked an ear. “Ah, I believe they are here now.”

  The earl turned to see the boy’s familiar face—though covered with more than its usual streaks of grime—appear in the doorway. Behind him, still mostly in shadow, was a tall, slender stranger, whose well-tailored garments announced he was a gentleman despite looking as if they had been thrown on in a hurry.

  “Charley, are you sure you’re not injured?” exclaimed the fellow to Charlotte. “And Miss Merton . . .” He paused to take in the disarray of the room. “Good Lord.”

  “I’m quite fine, Jem,” replied Charlotte. To Wrexford she said, “Allow me to introduce Lord Sterling.”

  Her dear friend and benefactor. The reminder did nothing to improve his mood.

  “This may be a tea party, but let’s dispense with the bloody formalities, shall we?” growled the earl. “I’m Wrexford,” he said brusquely to Jeremy. “Now, can we cut to the chase? I assume that we’re both anxious to hear why we’ve been summoned here by Mrs. Sloane.”

  Jeremy raised his brows at Charlotte, a silent seconding of the earl’s statement.

  She wordlessly picked up the sheaf of papers from the tea table and held them up.

  Jeremy made a choking sound in the back of his throat. “Are those Ashton’s missing drawings?”

  “That,” replied Charlotte, “is something I’m hoping Miss Merton will explain to us.” A pause. “Along with a great many other things. She’s made some serious allegations to me, which she claims can be proven. ”

  Plumes of pale vapor wafted up from the teacup Octavia had cradled in her hands, blurring her face. It struck Wrexford as an apt illusion. Everything about the inventor’s murder seemed to dance in and out of focus, taunting every sense of perception.

  “Let me begin with an explanation of what happened here earlier, before I let Miss Merton speak for herself,” went on Charlotte. “I awoke to hear an intruder entering my house and went downstairs to investigate.”

  “Did it not occur to you how dangerous that was?” said Wrexford.

  She ignored the question. “I saw a cloaked figure slip into the drawing room—Miss Merton, as I later discovered—and steal the majolica rooster which Mrs. Ashton had given to me. Intent on stopping the theft, I confronted her, and with the help of the boys—and the earl’s swords—we managed to subdue her.”

  “Good God.” Wrexford shook his head. “You risked your life for a piece of pottery?”

  Her chin rose to a pose he had come to think of as Stubbornness Personified. “It was a matter of principle.”

  Principle. A word that brought out the best and the worst in her.

  “And besides, it turned out to be a very valuable bird. During the struggle, it fell and shattered—
revealing the technical drawings hidden inside.” Charlotte hesitated and took a moment to pour herself some tea. She suddenly looked exhausted, but several swallows seemed to revive her. “Those are all the facts I possess. For further explanations, we must turn to Miss Merton.”

  Silence filled the room. Even the boys stopped fidgeting. Octavia looked away. She seemed to shrink into herself with each slow undulation of the candle flame.

  “Enough shilly-shallying, Miss Merton,” said Wrexford impatiently, deciding it was time to play the iron fist to Charlotte’s velvet glove. “Would you rather we summon Bow Street?”

  “Octavia,” appealed Jeremy. “Please. If we are to have any hope of helping you and Benedict, you must tell us the truth.”

  The young woman slumped forward and took her head in her hands. “I confess—Benedict and I did it.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The tea turned cold on Charlotte’s tongue. Octavia’s passionate avowals of innocence while waiting for the gentlemen had struck a deep-seated chord within her—and so she had trusted her instincts.

  A mistake, apparently.

  Charlotte set down the cup and closed her eyes, feeling like an utter fool.

  “Did what, exactly?” asked the earl dryly, breaking the taut silence. “There are a number of heinous crimes for which you and Mr. Hillhouse are the prime suspects.”

  Octavia’s head snapped up. “Good God, I didn’t mean . . . that is . . . Forgive me, I’m not making any sense.” She gave a self-mocking sigh. “Truly, I’m not usually a featherheaded peagoose. I—I had better start from the beginning.”

  “Take your time,” encouraged Jeremy, assuming a seat on the sofa and crossing his legs.

  Wrexford, noted Charlotte, perched a hip on the arm of the upholstered side chair. In the harsh shadows, the sharp planes of his face looked even more forbidding than usual as his eyes narrowed and he fixed the poor woman with an intimidating scowl.

  “Sterling might be willing to dally here until dawn,” he snapped. “But I’d prefer to get on with it, Miss Merton.”