No wonder her emotions were out of sorts.
Taking up her cloak and marketing basket, she headed out to the street.
* * *
Coffee—thankfully as dark and scalding as boiling pitch. Blowing away a cloud of steam rising from the cup, Wrexford took a quick swallow, hoping its burn might jolt him fully awake. He had slept for a goodly number of hours—a glance out his work room windows showed that dusk was already falling—and yet his brain still felt muzzy. He needed to get his thoughts in order.
And quickly.
Riche had left a note on his blotter informing him that Griffin had stopped by earlier. The Runner couldn’t afford to be patient much longer. The government was likely pressing him for answers about the radical group’s involvement in Ashton’s murder.
Wrexford reread his butler’s missive. Griffin would be heading to Henning’s surgery later that evening after finishing his official duties, and expected the earl to be there. The 10 o’clock rendezvous time was clearly an order, not a request.
Damnation. He had been hoping to have an idea or two about who might have murdered Kirkland to offer Griffin. But unless any of the others had a suggestion . . . He rubbed at his temples, then took another swallow of coffee.
Still no inspiration.
He decided there was nothing to lose by paying another visit to Mrs. Ashton. Between her husband’s business and her own personal problems, she had been in the thick of the plot. Surely she must have some conjecture, now that she had had some time to think on it.
After finishing his coffee, Wrexford shuffled through the documents he had on the investigation, and then jotted down a few more notes. His overcoat and hat were still on the armchair where he had tossed them, and perhaps the short walk in the brisk air would help clear his head.
He exited his house and circled around from the elegant square to the alleyway behind the mews, following the way through several sharp turns before it intersected with an even narrower passageway. Overhead, clouds scudded over the rising crescent moon and scattering of stars, dimming what little glow was left by the fading twilight.
As he ducked through the opening, the earl heard the pelter of footsteps up ahead. They were coming towards him, and at a dead run. On instinct, he closed his hand around the butt of his pistol and moved quickly to take cover within the crevasses of the uneven buildings.
A small black blur came flying out of the gloom.
“Weasel!” called Wrexford as the boy took shape, feeling a spurt of alarm at his obvious agitation. His first thought was of Charlotte and how vulnerable she was.
“M’lord! m’lord!” Raven skidded to a stop and hurriedly grabbed a paper from inside his jacket. “Look! Look!”
The clench in his chest relaxed. A note from her meant there was no reason to panic. The boy would never have left her alone if she were in any danger.
“What is it, lad?” Wrexford asked, the rush of relief sharpening his voice.
“The answer!” The boy waved the paper as he gasped to catch his breath. “The answer!”
A cryptic reply, considering how many lethal mysteries they were facing.
“Slow down,” he ordered. “What has Mrs. Sloane discovered?”
“Not m’lady,” responded Raven in rush. “Me!”
Wrexford found the paper thrust right under his nose.
“Look, sir! Mr. Tyler was right—the numbers are a code! M’lady left the copy ye gave her on her desk, so I borrowed it and began te play to with the patterns he showed me.”
The earl grabbed both the paper and the boy, then hurried to a spot in the passageway where a weak dribbling of light from an overhead window afforded a bit of illumination.
“Ye see, Mr. Tyler said he thought it was some sort o’ Vigenère Square, so I just decided te make some tries with the diagram he showed me,” explained the boy. “Ye use a keyword to encrypt the message, otherwise it will just come out as goobledy-gook. Then ye got to convert the numbers te letters of the alphabet—A equals 1, B equals 2 and so on.”
Raven paused to gulp in a breath. “Mr. Tyler had been trying a passel of words, like Ashton and steam. But m’lady told me the murdered cove who wrote the note said numbers—the numbers reveal everything.” Another gulp of air. “So I tried numbers.”
Good God—the simple insight of a child. Wrexford heard no more. He was too engrossed in reading what Raven had decoded.
Nevins—I’ve been duped and set up to appear
Ashton’s killer. I know who the real culprits are.
The earl swore on reading the names, as all the topsy-turvey pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.
And I can guess why—I’ve learned from a friend that Ashton truly did plan to use the profits from a patent to better the lives of his workers rather than line his own pockets. I think the miscreants intend to take the inventions for themselves. You must unmask them for the blackguards they are, for they’ve made our group appear guilty of the heinous crime.
He looked up to find Raven watching him expectantly. “Did you show this to Mrs. Sloane?” he demanded.
“She was out when I came home and started work on it. And she hadn’t returned by the time I finished. So I decided I’d better come show it to ye.”
“You did exactly the right thing, lad.” Wrexford pocketed the note, along with his pistol. “Now, let us hurry back to your house and tell her what you’ve discovered.”
A new clench of fear had taken hold of him. One of the villains had seen Charlotte with Miss Merton. No matter that McClellan was a crack shot, he worried that she was now in grave danger. From now on, until all the miscreants were under arrest, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight.
“Then we’re all going to head to Henning’s surgery,” he added, turning away from the light and urging the boy forward. “Griffin will be arriving there later this evening, and we can finally put the wheels of justice in motion.”
* * *
Her basket brimming with purchases, Charlotte turned the corner to her street. She had been away longer than expected, but a stop at the workshop entrance of her modiste’s fancy shop had resulted in the invitation to share tea with Madame Franzenelli. It had been a very pleasant diversion to talk about Tuscany’s beauty and the latest fripperies of fashion instead of ghoulish murders and menacing dangers. Indeed, she had lost track of time. It was now past suppertime, and the boys would likely be starving.
A quick rummaging in her reticule located her key. She unlocked her front door—and froze at the sound of voices coming from the parlor.
Setting down her basket, Charlotte groped for the small pocket pistol concealed in her cloak pocket. Thank God she’d been wise enough not to venture out unarmed. She cocked the hammer, careful to make no noise, and started forward, feeling as if her pounding heart had leapt up and lodged in her throat.
A lamp was lit inside the room, its outer ring of light just edging out through the open doorway and into the corridor. Charlotte crept along the wall, and then, weapon held ready, she ventured a peek inside.
A sound—something between a gasp and a laugh—slipped free from her lips.
Hawk turned quickly, the heavy sword nearly twisting from his grip and whacking the captive seated in the wooden chair.
“I captured another intruder!” exclaimed the boy proudly.
“I knocked,” said McClellan, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And on finding the door ajar, I took the liberty of entering, to make sure nothing was amiss.”
“My apologies,” said Charlotte, lowering the pistol. “Untie her, Hawk. At once, if you please.”
His face fell. “She ain’t the enemy?”
“She isn’t,” replied Charlotte.
“But I commend you on your vigilance, young man,” said McClellan as Hawk fell to unknotting the ropes binding her to the chair. “You were entirely right to be on your guard. Better to be safe than sorry.” A pause as she looked back to Charlotte. “Did His Lordship inf
orm you I was coming?”
Charlotte had, in fact, let the fact slip her mind. “Yes, but—”
“But you’re not pleased.”
“It’s not that,” she answered. “It’s . . .” How to explain?
“It’s just that you prefer that other people don’t make such decisions for you,” suggested McClellan.
She gave a wry grimace. “That’s one way of putting it.”
McClellan chuckled. “I understand. But perhaps I may be of practical use while I’m here.” Flexing her freed wrists, the maid thanked Hawk politely and stood up. “I’m a credible cook. Allow me to fix supper while you take a moment to settle in from your errands.”
“I don’t expect you to toil at household tasks,” protested Charlotte.
The reply was brusquely dismissed. “Nonsense. I’m far happier when I’m not sitting in a corner twiddling my thumbs. And besides, my feeling is you have more pressing things to think about.”
Charlotte decided not to argue. The suggestion made sense. “Thank you. But first, allow me to show you to your quarters. I must warn you, though, you won’t have the same fancy comforts—”
McClellan cut her off. “I’m comfortable anywhere, Mrs. Sloane.”
Charlotte turned to Hawk—and suddenly realized that in the unexpected helter-pelter of her return she hadn’t registered Raven’s absence. “Where’s your brother?”
“I dunno. He was here one minute, and then when I looked again, he was gone.”
Raven was often running in and out, so there was no reason for alarm. “Well, if he doesn’t return soon, he will have to eat his stew cold.” She reached out and ruffled Hawk’s hair. “That was very brave of you to protect our castle.”
“Oiy, well, the earl says a gentleman must always take care of his family and friends.”
She held back a skeptical laugh. Wrexford would rather eat nails than ever voice such a maudlin sentiment in her presence. But she found it rather endearing that he had said such a thing to the boys.
“Indeed. However, I think we’ll have no further need for swashbuckling adventure tonight. Pick up your sword and carry it back in your room.”
* * *
Quickening his pace, Wrexford emerged from the passageway and crossed the small square at the head of Adam Street, his boots beating a staccato tattoo on the uneven cobbles. Behind him, still hidden in the murky darkness, Raven broke into a run to catch up.
The slap-slap of the hurried steps brought him out of his brooding. He came to a halt and turned, surprised the boy had been dawdling.
“You’re usually swift as quicksilver,” he said. “What’s—”
“There’s somebody following us,” whispered Raven.
Wrexford came instantly alert. If the boy sensed trouble, the earl was sure it was there.
Sure enough, an instant later, a man burst out from the shadows, a pistol in each hand. At the same time, a second figure clattered into the square from the adjoining alley. He, too, was armed, though only with a stout cudgel.
Wrexford cursed himself for a bloody fool. He had been one precious step ahead of the enemy but had let the advantage slip away. Mind whirring, he sought a way to salvage what he could of the situation.
“Don’t move, milord,” ordered the man with the pistols, as he slowed to a stop a short distance away. “I would dislike putting a bullet through your brain, but I’ll do so if necessary.”
“Aren’t blades more to your liking than bullets?”
The retort earned a nasty laugh. “I’m equally skilled with either.”
“No need to shed any blood,” said the earl calmly. “Let me get rid of the beggar boy and then we can conduct our business in a civilized manner.” From his pocket he pulled the folded paper and, keeping it hidden in his palm, quickly passed it to Raven.
“Here’s a farthing, brat, now be off,” he barked, punctuating the order with a sharp shove and praying the boy would understand that flight was a far better choice than senseless heroics.
Raven, to his credit, flew for cover.
The man with the pistols hesitated for a heartbeat, then seemed to realize his mistake and squeezed off a shot.
Shards of stone exploded just as Raven darted around the corner of a building.
Had the boy been hit? Wrexford couldn’t tell.
Swearing, the man took aim with the second pistol, then thought better of it. “Smythe!” he cried. “Go after the guttersnipe and finish him off.” To Wrexford, he demanded, “What did you give the filthy brat?”
“Naught but a coin,” said the earl calmly “I hope he spends it wisely.”
The man’s face darkened for an instant, but he quickly released his anger with a laugh. “You’re a clever fellow, milord. That bodes well.”
For what? But before Wrexford could begin to parse its meaning, the man’s accomplice returned.
“There’s a trail of blood—quite a bit of it—but it leads into a maze of alleys. Seemed a waste of time to follow,” called Smythe as he reappeared from the gloom. “I swear, I saw the bullet hit him. He won’t last long.”
“Say your prayers. You’ll soon be a dead man,” said Wrexford softly to his captor.
Another laugh. “No, I’ll soon be a very rich man,” sneered the man. He flashed a hand signal to his accomplice. The cudgel swung through the air with a sudden whoosh and cracked against the earl’s skull with a sickening thud.
* * *
Feeling a tad guilty, Charlotte listened to the faint clatter of dishes being washed and dried in the kitchen before returning her attention to her sketchbook. McClellan had proved to be an excellent cook, and after the meal refused to allow any help with the cleaning. It would have seemed like a luxury, save for the fact that it forced her to confront the taunting, devil-cursed dangers still at large.
Who was the enemy?
Charlotte uttered a frustrated oath. She felt she should have seen the answer by now. Noticing the telling little details was supposed to be her strength. And yet, her mind remained blank as a pristine sheet of paper.
Picking up a pencil, she forced herself to set aside conscious thought and simply start sketching. Why not let intuition have a try, as intellect had failed?
To her surprise, Charlotte found she was drawing Lord Kirkland’s face. How strange, she thought, as she had seen it only once and for just a few moments as it lay devoid of life and painted a sallow yellow by the greasy flicker of lamplight. Even so, the viscount’s features had possessed a saturnine beauty.
Why do they seem familiar?
She moved the pencil point to a blank part of the page and started again. This time, another face—similar, yet different—took shape. She stared at it, trying to place the slightly hooded eyes and well-shaped mouth.
And then it hit her—a man brushing past her in the closeness of a corridor, his face all the more memorable because of his fire-bright eyes.
Dear God. It took a stretch of the imagination, but all at once she saw how it all could make perfect sense.
Charlotte quickly folded the sketch and hurried to her bedchamber to change into her urchin’s garb. After tucking the paper safely into her shirt, she went downstairs and found McClellan busy reorganizing the shelves in the kitchen foyer.
“I’m going out,” she announced, feeling McClellan deserved her trust. Besides, she needed her to keep the boys in check. “I have to find Wrexford.”
The maid slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “The thing is, His Lordship ordered me to stay with you, Mrs. Sloane, and not allow you to hare off on your own.”
“Circumstances demand that we improvise,” she shot back. “Time is of the essence, and I’ll move faster alone.”
McClellan’s brow pinched as she considered what to do.
“It’s vitally important,” added Charlotte. “Lives may depend on it.”
“Then I suppose,” said the maid slowly, “we had best act on the old adage that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permiss
ion.”
Charlotte nodded her thanks.
“Do you need a weapon?”
“I have one, though apparently I’m not nearly as skilled as you are in its use.”
“Like anything, marksmanship takes practice,” said the maid. “It is, perhaps, a skill you would find useful to acquire.”
“Quite likely.” Charlotte tugged at her cap. “I need you to keep Hawk from dashing after me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And when Raven returns, you must see to it that he doesn’t leave,” she added. “Though that won’t be an easy task.”
“I’ve a good deal of experience with fiercely stubborn lads,” assured McClellan.
“Thank you.” Charlotte reached for the latch of the door leading out to the back garden, only have it flung open by some unseen hand.
“Raven!” she cried as the boy stumbled in, his face half-covered in blood.
“Never mind that!” he exclaimed, fending off her attempt to enfold him in her arms. “It’s just a scratch from flying stones!”
McClellan had been quick to fetch a wet cloth from the kitchen and offered it to him. “She’ll calm down if you don’t look like death warmed over.”
“It ain’t me who’s in any danger of meeting the Reaper! It’s His Nibs—he’s been coshed on the head and abducted.” Raven plucked a paper from his pocket. “By a bloody bastard named Geoffrey Blodgett!”
CHAPTER 26
It was the throbbing pain—like an iron spike hitting with a clanging rhythm against the back of his skull—that slowly brought Wrexford awake. He squeezed his eyes open and shut several times, feeling dizzy and disoriented as he tried to bring the murky gloom into focus.
He was lying on a stone surface, surrounded by a strange dampness that seemed both hot and cold. The metallic rattling grew louder, punctuated by a steady stream of hissing and whooshing.
Perhaps I’m dead and consigned to the bowels of Purgatory or the belly of a dyspeptic dragon.
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