Simple symbols, wrought clearly in black on white. Charlotte squinted. Surely she should be able to see some sort of clue, some sort of pattern. Picking up a pencil, she made a stab at converting the numbers to letters.
Gibberish.
Defeated, she slumped back in her chair.
“M’lady?”
Raven’s cat-footed stealth was always a little unnerving, but his sudden appearance just an arm’s length away nearly caused her to jump out of her skin.
“Sorry,” he apologized, stepping back so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of the steaming mug cradled in his hands. “I—I just thought ye might want something hot te drink.”
“How thoughtful! Indeed I do.” Charlotte patted the desktop. “Come, put it down, before you burn your fingers.”
As soon as he did so, she drew him into her arms, no matter that he usually shied away from hugs. She suddenly needed to feel the softness of his cheek and the reassuring thud of his heart through his shirt. How quickly he was growing out of childhood. He’d been all skin and bones when they first met. Now his scrawny body was filling out with frightening speed and he was shooting up like a weed.
In another year . . .
“Oiy.” Raven shifted uncomfortably. His cheeks were tinged with red, but a flicker of a smile softened his grunt.
Charlotte reluctantly loosened her hold.
“Are ye snuffling?” he asked in sudden alarm.
“A bit of dirt from your shirt must have gotten in my eyes,” she answered, blinking back tears. Ye god, Wrexford has really knocked my emotions out of kilter. “And here it was just laundered yesterday. What do you do—turn cartwheels through every mud puddle between here and Hades?”
He grinned. “Got te practice being agile if I’m te stay one step ahead of the Devil.”
She ruffled his hair. “You’ve done enough twisting and turning for one night. Go to bed.”
“Yeah, well, ye should do the same.”
“I will.” Steam swirled up from the mug. “As soon as I drink my tea.”
Raven, too, had shifted his gaze, not to the silvery plume rising up from the mug, but to the piece of paper sitting on the blotter.
“Is that the clue His Lordship mentioned?”
How would Wrexford answer? No sooner had the question formed in her head then Charlotte found herself forced to swallow a laugh. With brutal honesty, she conceded, recalling his long-ago conversation with the boys concerning death and the vagaries of the Grim Reaper. With him there was no spooning of sugar-coated platitudes. He didn’t treat them like children.
“Yes,” she replied. “It is.”
Raven craned his neck for a better look.
She pushed the paper closer to him, the shift uncovering her own silly scribbling of letters.
Propping his elbows on the dark-grained oak, he leaned in to study the numbers. Although a curling tangle of uncombed hair shaded his face, she saw his eyes narrow in concentration.
Shamed by how easily she had given up, Charlotte felt compelled to look again. Seconds turned to minutes, and still her mind remained depressingly blank.
“You seem to have a knack for numbers. Have you any ideas on what these might mean?” she finally asked.
A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth but he merely lifted his shoulders in a vague shrug. Whatever thoughts were taking shape in his head, he was, in a very Raven-like way, keeping them to himself.
“But the cove wrote them all down in this order,” mused the boy, “so they must mean something.”
Charlotte stared balefully at the paper, willing it to whisper its secrets.
And pigs might learn to sing an aria from one of Mozart’s operas.
“Yes, they must. Wrexford said . . .” She thought hard, making her recall the exact words he had said when first handing her the copy. “Wrexford said the murdered man’s last words were, Numbers—numbers will reveal everything.”
“They ain’t saying anything,” quipped Raven after several long moments of silence.
“No, they aren’t.” Swearing a silent oath, she refolded it and set it aside on her blotter. Her hand lingered on the dark leather. The dark-fingered night chills had long since squeezed the heat from the house. A gust rattled in the chimney and she felt a shiver spiral straight down through her marrow.
Grasping the mug, Charlotte took a long swallow, grateful for the ripple of warmth now pooling in her belly. This case had unnerved her—she couldn’t seem to find her bearings. Perhaps it had been hubris to think she could pick up and move from one life to another without leaving something of herself behind.
“The tea’s turning cold.” The lamplight caught the spark of concern in Raven’s dark eyes. “I can fetch ye a fresh brew.”
“Go to bed, Weasel.” Charlotte deliberately used the earl’s sardonic nickname.
That made him smile.
“I’ll do the same as soon as I finish what I have.”
That seemed to satisfy the boy. He nodded and padded off toward the door. Whether he would head to his nest in the attic aerie, or find the allure of the night too strong to resist wasn’t a question she dared confront at the present moment.
In diem vive. Live one day at a time, she reminded herself.
A hard-won lesson she’d learned in life was that to have any hope of vanquishing an opponent, one had to find a way to use one’s strengths.
“And God knows, I haven’t done that in this case,” she muttered into her tepid brew. Her best weapon was her pen, and it had been strangely silent in this affair. Poking, prodding with her art and commentary to find an enemy’s weak spot and trigger an errant move had proved highly effective in the past. She had somehow lost sight of what she did best.
Plucking a quill from its holder, Charlotte opened her inkwell and placed a blank sheet of sketching paper on her blotter. Numbers might be a mystery to her, but words and images were kindred souls. She began to sketch, letting her thoughts flow freely, without censure. Imagination could be edited.
The details of Ashton’s death and the dark suspicions concerning the radical workers couldn’t be revealed to the public. But there was always another angle to take in flushing evil from the shadows. She just had to see it.
The nib looped and looped through a series of elaborate curlicues. And then suddenly Charlotte smiled as finally an idea took shape.
Hell’s bells, it was so obvious—how had she not thought of it before?
Money was always a subject that titillated the public’s interest. Which would make patents a provocative topic for her series. One that might serve to stir a few serpents from their dark hole.
She quickly grabbed a pristine piece of watercolor paper and set to work.
CHAPTER 20
Wrexford shrugged out of his overcoat and let it drop to the floor as he turned for the sideboard, intent on pouring a much-needed glass of brandy. Or perhaps a Scottish malt. He needed a good jolt of—
“Bloody hell.” Two oaths, equally indignant, collided in the darkness.
“I think you might have broken one of my bones,” added Sheffield in a querulous mutter as he rubbed his bruised shin.
The earl winced, having tripped over his friend’s outstretched legs and hit up against the sharp corner of one of the worktables. “Why are you sleeping in my armchair rather than your own bed?”
“Your selection of beverages is better than mine,” quipped Sheffield.
In no mood for banter, Wrexford limped over to the tray holding the crystal decanters. The near-tumble had definitely tipped the odds in favor of the whisky. He poured himself a glass.
“As it happens, I’ve been waiting here since before midnight, a perfectly respectable time,” added his friend. “Which begs the question of what activities you’ve been up to in the witching time of early morn.”
Wrexford took a moment to strike a flint to the wick of the sideboard’s oil lamp and turn up the flame. “There’s been another unexpected twist in the case.”<
br />
The yawing yellow-gold light caught the sharpening of Sheffield’s features as he straightened from his slouch, suddenly looking wide awake. “Not another murder?”
“No,” he answered. “Though a rather colorful rooster did meet an untimely demise.”
“A rooster?” Sheffield raised his brows. “If I were you, I’d set aside the whisky. Your wits are befuddled enough without demon drink.”
“Not at all,” said Wrexford after savoring a long sip. “In fact, my night’s foray demanded clear-headed thinking in order to untangle all the threads. Suffice it to say, my efforts have resulted in a momentous discovery.”
“As have mine,” responded Sheffield. “And if you’ll stop being an arse and pour me a wee dram of that lovely malt, I’ll tell you about what I’ve found.”
A more than fair trade, conceded the earl. Having tasked Sheffield with mucking through the smoky, sweaty gaming hells for any rumors about Kirkland, his friend likely deserved a key to the entire wine cellar.
“Slainte mhath,” he murmured, handing Sheffield a generous helping of the whisky. Their two glasses came together in a crystalline clink, setting off a wildly winking pattern of amber light on the side wall.
“I shall cede the honor of going first to you,” Wrexford added. “My explanation will likely be the longer of the two.”
Sheffield dropped all pretense of ennui. Setting aside his drink, he edged forward in his chair. “I decided to try my luck at one of the less-frequented gaming hells in Seven Dials, as I recalled that Herrington, a fellow who’s said to run in Kirkland’s circle, tends to play faro there. And sure enough, I struck gold.”
To his credit, his friend didn’t overplay his hand.
“It cost two bottles of damn expensive brandy—for which I expect reimbursement—but Herrington’s tongue then began to wag,” recounted Sheffield. “Apparently, the current Mrs. Ashton was, some years ago, Kirkland’s paramour. He paid the rent on a charming little townhouse in the village of Morley, near Leeds, and supported her in style.”
Wrexford nodded. “Well done, Kit. That confirms what I’ve just heard.”
Sheffield’s face fell. “You already knew?”
“Only by a scant hour or two. I’ll explain in a moment, but first finish your account.”
“Herrington wasn’t sure what broke up the previous arrangement. However, he said that Kirkland has recently been telling his cronies that he’s rekindled the relationship and expects to be a very rich man once the mourning period is over and the widow can remarry without scandal.”
“That is gold, indeed.” Wrexford cocked a toast.
Sheffield looked pleased. “Now, tell me of your night’s activities.”
“One might better call them adventures,” said the earl dryly. “It all began with one of the Weasels coming to alert me that an intruder had broken into Mrs. Sloane’s house.”
“What!” exclaimed his friend in alarm. “Was she injured in any way?”
Wrexford chuffed a quick laugh. “You need ask? Given the two little demons and her own hellfire resolve, the Devil himself wouldn’t stand a chance of gaining the upper hand.”
Sheffield sank back in his chair. “Who—”
“Miss Merton, one of our suspects. You see, she was after a ceramic rooster . . .” As promised, it required a rather lengthy explanation to apprise his friend of all the evening’s surprises.
“Bloody hell.” His friend let out a low whistle through his teeth when the story was done. “What next?”
“Sterling will try to trace Hillhouse’s whereabouts and the Weasels will organize their urchin friends to keep a close eye on Kirkland’s movements—and those of the widow,” answered the earl. After a long, meditative swallow of whisky, he added, “I’m considering confronting Mrs. Ashton, now that you’ve corroborated the scandal in her past.”
“Have you told Griffin of these developments? It seems to me you’ve all but solved the case for him.” Sheffield pulled a sardonic face. “Greed, lust, and betrayal—it’s a primordial triangle that has played out countless times throughout human history.”
“So it appears, but until I’m certain, I’ve decided to stay mum. Bow Street is caught on the horns of a difficult dilemma.” Wrexford pursed his lips and stared into the amber spirits. “The government is anxious to apprehend the radical leaders quietly while letting the public continue to believe Ashton’s death was simply the result of a random robbery gone wrong. Unless there’s indisputable evidence, Griffin would be risking his own position to press them to start sniffing around a high-born aristocrat like Kirkland, especially as his father is such an influential man.”
“And you are thinking you can wrest a confession from the widow?” Sheffield sounded skeptical. “It seems to me she has ice in her veins. She won’t be easily intimidated.”
“She may have ice in her veins, but she also has a clear-eyed pragmatism whirring inside her clever brain.” The earl gave a grim smile. “Ratting on one’s partner to save one’s own neck is also a common theme throughout human history.”
“How cynical you are.”
Wrexford finished his drink. “But that doesn’t make my words any less true.”
That earned a sardonic laugh. Then Sheffield, seeing a hint of dawn beginning to tinge the night sky, gave a lazy stretch and recrossed his legs. “When will breakfast be served?”
“As soon as I’ve had a few hours of sleep.” The earl rose. “If the ivories continue to roll in our favor, the day will demand that our wits stay sharp.”
His friend gave a gusty yawn. “Wake me when coffee is brewed.”
* * *
Charlotte set down her paintbrush and rubbed at her bleary eyes. She could barely see straight, but a last inspection of the finished artwork left her feeling satisfied. Exhausted, but satisfied.
A good night’s work. Though in truth, it was well after dawn. The pale, pearlescent light was softening the shadows on the street and the houses opposite her own. Somewhere in her back garden, a wood pigeon was cooing a welcome to the new day. She slowly rose, feeling weariness penetrate to the very marrow of her bones, and rolled the drawing in a protective sheet of oilskin.
Upstairs the boys were stirring. No doubt they would welcome an early morning run to Mr. Fores’s print shop, especially if she added a shilling for a treat of hot sultana muffins from the bakery near Covent Garden.
Charlotte waited for the patter of their steps on the aerie stairs before stepping into the corridor.
Raven stopped short, fixing her with basilisk stare. “Ye told me a bouncer, m’lady. Ye said ye were going to go shut yer peepers, if I did the same.”
“I fully intended to, but I had a sudden idea.” She held up the roll containing her drawing. “And as Mr. Fores depends on me to meet my deadlines, honor compelled me to finish it without delay. He deserves no less.”
“I s’pose,” conceded Raven. He took the package. “After we deliver this, we’ll go find Pudge and have him help us alert the others that His Nibs has work fer us.”
Charlotte passed him several coins. “You must be sure to stop and buy some muffins for your breakfast.”
“Muffins!” Hawk eyed the silver hungrily. “Huzzah!”
She reached out and ruffled the younger boy’s hair. “Be off with you now.” She hesitated, then couldn’t help adding, “And be careful. You heard more than I might have wished for last night, but let it serve as a reminder that we are dealing with very dangerous adversaries, who’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.”
* * *
“Milord.” Riche entered the earl’s workroom after giving a knock on the door.
“Ah, is it time for tea?” asked Sheffield, looking up from the novel he was reading.
“Good God, we just finished breakfast. Given how much food you consume, it’s a wonder you don’t weigh more than an ox,” observed Wrexford, which earned a snicker from Tyler, who was busy polishing the scientific instruments on the far side of th
e room.
Setting aside Ashton’s technical drawings, he checked the clock on the sideboard, then raised an inquiring brow at his butler. He had only a half hour before he must leave for his appointment at the Royal Institution. “Yes, Riche?”
“Master Thomas Ravenwood Sloane wishes to speak with you.”
“Show him in.”
Sheffield looked surprised. “Has Mrs. Sloane a younger brother?”
“It was decided that the Weasels needed proper English names to fit into their new neighborhood. Be assured the civilizing effect is only skin deep . . .” As Raven entered the room, covered in more than his usual filth, the earl quickly added, “If that much.”
“We’ve alerted our friends,” said Raven without preamble. “They’ll meet me in the alleyway behind St. Stephen’s church in an hour te receive their instructions.”
“Excellent,” replied the earl. “Sheffield has ascertained that Lord Kirkland is playing cards at White’s and will be there for the rest of the afternoon. McKinlock is attending a lecture at the Royal Institution, and my footman has confirmed with Miss Merton that Mrs. Ashton hasn’t left her townhouse. So we may put the surveillance into place.”
The boy nodded alertly, but to Wrexford’s eye, his expression looked a little clouded.
“Is something amiss, lad?”
Raven hesitated before answering, “Skinny hasn’t been seen since the day before yesterday, and it isn’t like him te be gone from his spot sweeping the muck on Silver Street.”
“Perhaps he’s feeling poorly.”
“Naw, that wouldn’t keep him from work,” replied Raven. “Ye can’t afford te be ill.”
Friends were friends, reflected Wrexford, no matter what age or social standing. “Let’s give it another day, then we’ll see what we can do.” Though there was precious little, he feared. The perils for an urchin living alone in the stews were too numerous to count.
Raven knew that as well as he did, and merely shrugged. “Not much anyone can do if the Reaper decides it’s yer time.”
True, but it was sobering to hear such a hardened sentiment from a boy so young. Still, he’d not insult him with sentimental claptrap. Instead, Wrexford changed the subject.
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