Murder at Half Moon Gate

by Andrea Penrose

  “Yes, yes, no need to get yourself in a pucker, Geoffrey.” Blackstone rose, his eyes never leaving Wrexford, and went to stand close to his bastard son.

  The earl wondered whether the move was meant to calm Blodgett or to block him from making a rash move for the weapon on the desk. Either way, his needling seemed to be getting under the skin of both men.

  “You have no evidence to link us to anything,” continued the marquess. “We were very careful. And now, with Hillhouse’s disappearance, it will be believed that he is the guilty party. Once we clear out this warehouse and move the machinery to another location, his body will never be found.”

  “On the contrary, said Wrexford calmly. “We have a witness who saw Blodgett’s face clearly when he was walking with Kirkland. He saw the two of them enter the building, and then, a few minutes later, he also witnessed Blodgett run out and toss away the knife. We have the weapon, still covered in your heir’s blood.”

  “That’s a lie,” spat Blodgett. “No one was there.”

  “The fellow was pissing behind the crates where you threw the knife.” He shook his head. “It was rather sloppy of you not to notice. Hubris can be a weakness, too, Blodgett. A fatal one.”

  Blodgett started to take a step but his father held him back. “Is it true, Geoffrey?” he asked. “Did you throw away the knife as he described?”

  “Yes, damn him. It’s true. But I tell you, it doesn’t matter! The authorities aren’t going to take the word of some drunken street sweep over that of a marquess. You can swear I was with you.”

  “The witness is the son of a duke, whose lineage goes back even further than your father’s family,” lied Wrexford, sensing Blackstone was listening carefully and coldly calculating all the ramifications. The marquess was known to be a brilliant but ruthless man in business. The flat opaqueness of his lordly eyes reminded the earl of a snake. A sleek, sinuous predator, devoid of emotion.

  “Not that you have a peerage to protect you, Blodgett,” added Wrexford, driving his needle in deeper. “In the eyes of the authorities, you’re no better than the street sweep you just disparaged.”

  A look of pure hatred twisted on Blodgett’s face. “He’s lying, Father. Let me shoot him.”

  Blackstone held his position, blocking the way to the desk. Eyes narrowing in speculation, he looked back to the earl. “The son of a duke? Pray tell, who?”

  Wrexford’s skill at bluffing was well known in the gaming hells of London. Without batting an eye, he replied with another lie. “Lord James Greville.” The man had returned from the West Indies several weeks ago, but from what the earl knew of the fellow, he was not prone to pissing in alleyways.

  “Greville?” Blackstone lapsed into a pensive silence.

  As his son watched him with growing dismay, Wrexford slowly inched toward the desk and the weapon.

  “Greville,” repeated the marquess. A mournful sigh followed.

  Wrexford could almost hear the aristocratic gears turning in Blackstone’s head. A life of well-oiled privilege, of ingrained entitlement, was allowing him to spin the wheels to align with his own self-interest.

  “An unimpeachable witness,” pressed Wrexford, as he slid a touch closer. He knew the arrogant assumption of God-like privilege held by many of his fellow peers. Blackstone would think himself above the law. All he had to do was give the marquess another little nudge. “But of course, there’s no witness to you being part of any perfidy.”

  “Then I suppose . . .” Blackstone sighed again, the only sign of emotion. “I suppose Geoffrey will have to swing for the crime. A pity—he’s intelligent, but apparently not quite as clever as he imagined.”

  “Father!” gasped Blodgett.

  Blackstone eyed him coldly. “It’s purely business, my boy. When a deal goes bad, you simply have to cut your losses.” Turning back to Wrexford, he added, “You’re right—there’s no evidence to prove I knew about any of this. I’ve been away in Wales and have people who will swear to that.” An evil smile touched his lips. “And who would ever believe that a father would have his heir murdered? ”

  “But it was your idea!” exclaimed Blodgett. “Y-you promised!” His voice broke for an instant. “You promised we would build a glorious business empire together! You promised I would be rich! Important! Respected!”

  “So I did,” said his father calmly. “But the key to success in business is the willingness to improvise.”

  Blodgett sucked in a shuddering breath, his face turning white with fury. His hands fisted for an instant, then quick as a cobra, he yanked a knife from his boot and before Wrexford could react, lunged and stabbed the marquess in the chest.

  Blackstone looked down in disbelief as blood spurted from the wound, turning his snowy shirtfront crimson. He staggered back a step, his fingers feebly touching the hilt.

  As his father’s body crumpled to the floor Blodgett spun around and snatched up a hammer from the tools lying on the side table. Swinging it high with a keening cry, he rushed at the earl.

  A sudden flash of fire flared in the gloom outside the open doorway just as Wrexford pivoted and threw up his arm to parry the attack. Too late! The devil-dark hammer was but a hairsbreadth from—

  Crack!

  Wrexford flinched as a second flash exploded with a deafening bang. Blodgett stumbled and fell, the weapon slipping from his hand as the echo of the gunshot died away.

  The thumping bounce of steel on wood sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

  “Ye god, another dead peer I have to explain to my superiors,” drawled Griffin. The scrim of smoke floated away, revealing the Runner standing in the corridor. He lowered his pistol. “At least you didn’t set half of London on fire this time, Lord Wrexford.”

  “I am growing more cautious in my old age,” replied the earl dryly. “My thanks, by the by, for not letting that madman smash my skull.”

  “Oh, it isn’t me you should be thanking . . .”

  It was only then that he noticed Sheffield standing in Griffin’s shadow.

  “My weapon misfired, but thank God your friend is better at marksmanship than he is at gambling.” The Runner flicked a speck of burnt powder from the barrel of his weapon and slid it into his coat pocket. “It seems he’s a clever fellow when it counts.”

  “Clever, indeed.” Wrexford locked eyes with Sheffield and held them for a long moment before giving a gruff nod. “I’m most grateful, Kit.”

  A smile twitched on his friend’s lips. “A purely selfish reaction. Who else would be so generous with his port and brandy?”

  “Aye. I’m grateful as well,” interjected Griffin. “I would sorely miss my excellent suppers.”

  “I owe you an extra apple tart for rushing to my rescue,” replied the earl.

  A flash of humor sparked beneath the Runner’s heavily lidded eyes. “And a wedge of Stilton.” His gaze then moved back to the bodies of Blodgett and Blackstone.

  Wrexford looked down as well, watching the dark rivulets of liquid pooling together on the planked floor. Tied together by blood, in life and in death.

  “On second thought, milord, you owe me the whole bloody wheel of cheese,” murmured Griffin with a martyred sigh. “You’ve given me an unholy mess to explain to the government.”

  “Actually it’s as simple as the Seven Deadly Sins to explain. Greed, envy—mankind simply can’t resist the Devil’s temptation,” said the earl. “To spare themselves the embarrassment of having to admit that we aristocratic arses are as bad as the rest of humanity, your superiors can blame it all on Blodgett, a bastard son who murdered Blackstone and Kirkland, as well as Ashton, in hopes of stealing the patent for himself.”

  “That will likely work,” mused the Runner. “The only trouble is, given the swarm of your urchin informants flitting around here, it’s almost certain word of what really happened here will reach that infernal scribbler, A. J. Quill. He has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “The urchins and I have an understanding. T
rust me, A. J. Quill will have nothing to say on what transpired here today.”

  “Hmmph. If you manage that miracle, then it’s I who owe you dinner.”

  “Given the fact that you kept me from sticking my spoon in the wall, I’m happy to fork over the blunt for a beefsteak and ale.” As Wrexford paused to blink the grit from his eyes, he suddenly realized that Sheffield had come to stand beside the Runner. And behind Sheffield was a slender figure wreathed in shadows . . .

  And then suddenly, the figure—moving nearly as quickly as the pistol’s bullet—shot past Griffin. The Runner made to follow, but Sheffield grabbed the latch of the open door and swung it shut in both their faces.

  CHAPTER 29

  “What the devil—” began Griffin.

  “Come, come—don’t you think you and your men ought to search and secure the rest of the building before badgering Wrexford with any more tedious questions?” Sheffield released his hold on the latch, and spun around to place a restraining hand on the Runner’s chest. “The corpses aren’t going anywhere, whereas their villainous minions might be making their escape.”

  Griffin’s gaze narrowed to a suspicious squint.

  Sheffield batted at the ghostly puffs of steam that were swirling up from the floor below. “Not to speak of all the devil-cursed racket the machinery is making. Shouldn’t you see to having the bloody things shut off so they don’t blow us all to Kingdom Come?”

  “Why is it I smell a rat, Mr. Sheffield?” growled Griffin, looking to the oaken door and then back at the earl’s friend. “Was that Phoenix—”

  A shout from one of his men echoed from the bowels of the building before he could go on.

  “We’ve found another prisoner!” A flurry of muffled bangs and thumps followed. “Says his name is Hillhouse!”

  “Ah, Ashton’s missing assistant!” Sheffield gave Griffin a little shove. “Let us hurry. Surely he’ll know what to do about all the infernal hissing and clanking.”

  * * *

  The perversely sweet stink of death clogged her nostrils as Charlotte darted around the slowly spreading pools of blood and flung her arms around the earl. His coat smelled of horse dung, noxious chemicals—and some indescribable male essence that she had come to recognize as uniquely his own.

  “Wrexford!” She pulled him into a fierce hug and held him tightly, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart shudder through every tiny fiber of her body.

  Thud, thud. Its pulsing warmth slowly penetrated through the layers of damp wool and softened the clench of dread that had hold of her vitals.

  Thud, thud.

  Filling her lungs with a ragged inhale, Charlotte pulled back in one swift, herky-jerky motion and smacked her fists against his chest.

  Thud, thud.

  “Of all the bacon-brained, beef-witted, foolhardy things to do!” Thud, thud. “God in heaven, you bloody idiotic, infuriating man! What were you thinking to confront a vicious killer and goad him into a fury?”

  Wrexford raised a dark brow. “I am,” he drawled, “assuming that is a rhetorical question.”

  How dare he appear amused! One didn’t taunt the gods by cocking a snoot at Death. Not when its snapping, snarling jaws were a mere hairsbreadth away.

  “However, as to my state of mind—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze pinching to a wary stare. “Are you crying?”

  “No, of course not!” She blinked the tears from her lashes. “Bloody hell, I never cry.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek and gently wiped away a bead of moisture. “It must be the steam from Ashton’s invention.”

  Charlotte nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. Now that all her pent-up fears had spent their fire, her mouth felt filled with ashes. She hadn’t realized just how terrified she had been at the thought of losing him from her life.

  And how terrified she was now at having to face her innermost feelings.

  “It works, you know. Ashton was right about the new design,” went on Wrexford, seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil.

  Thank God—one never had to fear that the earl’s ironclad scientific reasoning would ever bow to emotion.

  “I suppose we may take a small measure of satisfaction that its power has been saved from falling into evil hands,” he mused, “and will, as Ashton intended, be used for good.”

  “No small thanks to you, Wrexford,” pointed out Charlotte. “You refused to give up on finding the truth.”

  “As did you.” His smile had its usual mocking curl. “You have to admit, we make a formidable team.”

  “Yes, God help any miscreants who cross our path,” she murmured, taking care to match his sardonic humor. “They usually end up dead.”

  At the offhand mention of death, her brooding concerning the earl quickly gave way to another unsettling thought. “Speaking of which, if Blodgett was the villain, what of Mr. Hillhouse? Poor Miss Merton—”

  “There’s no need to worry,” interjected Wrexford. “Hillhouse is safe in one of the rooms below. It turns out the fellow is entirely innocent. He was abducted and forced to build the valves—the one missing part to the new engine design—because Blodgett threatened to harm Miss Merton. And then Blodgett nabbed me because . . .”

  He paused. “Well, it’s rather a long story—”

  “Then I suggest you wait to tell it,” said Charlotte. “As Miss Merton and Jeremy, along with Mr. Sheffield and Mrs. Ashton, have played an integral part in fighting Blackstone and Blodgett’s evil plot, they deserve to be present to hear all the gory details at the same time as I do.”

  Charlotte darted a glance at the massive iron-hinged door. “And besides, I’m not sure how long Mr. Sheffield can hold off Griffin. The Runner didn’t see through my disguise last time we met, but it would be foolhardy to press my luck.”

  At the far end of the room, lit by the oily glow of a single lantern, was a narrow stairwell.

  “So I think it best if I slip away.” A coward’s retreat perhaps. And yet she suddenly wasn’t sure how to express her emotions—or whether Wrexford would welcome them. “But first, promise me something.”

  The floorboards creaked loudly as Wrexford shifted his weight from foot to foot, an oddly uncertain expression rippling to life in the shadow-dark depths of his eyes.

  “Promise me that you will be more careful next time you decide to take it upon your lordly self to solve a heinous murder.”

  A short, cynical laugh rumbled deep in his throat. “I would think my demise would be cause for celebration—you wouldn’t have to endure any more of my awful moods and irascible snarls.”

  It was said lightly, yet the simple statement seemed to quiver in the air, tangling itself in multiple meanings. Or perhaps it was just her own overwrought imagination that was tied in knots.

  “If you’re implying that I would be happy if you had met your Maker, I do confess my first impulse was to throttle you myself. However . . .” A pause. “However, life might be a trifle dull without your sharp sarcasm and overbearing arrogance to stir scandal and gossip.”

  Charlotte let her gaze trace the angled ridge of his cheekbone, where the faint stubbling of a bruise was darkening to purple. Strange how all the subtle contours of his face had become so familiar—the shape of his eyes, the aquiline jut of his nose, the tiny creases pulling at the corners of his mouth when he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he wished to appear.

  It was that small hint of vulnerability that impelled her to go on. “Do I hope there won’t be a next time?” she said. “Yes, of course I do. However, I fear a passion for justice has burned itself into your blood.”

  “I don’t have passions,” pointed out Wrexford. “Merely ill-tempered flaws.”

  “But you have an unyielding sense of honor.” She reached up and tucked a tangled lock of his hair behind his ear. “Which may be even worse.”

  “Me? Honor?” He made a self-mocking face. “Ye god, don’t let that cat out of the bag.”

  Their ey
es met and Charlotte couldn’t hold back a smile. “I—” The rest of her words caught in her throat as he suddenly caught her hand and brushed his lips to her knuckles.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs. “Was that a . . .”

  A kiss? No, surely not.

  “If it was,” he murmured, “don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

  “As you know, I’m very good at keeping secrets,” she replied, too confused to think of a clever quip.

  “Speaking of secrets . . .” Wrexford suddenly took her arm and drew her toward the stairwell. “To the devil with Griffin. He’ll have his hands full cleaning up this sordid mess, so he can wait until tomorrow to question me. Given all the secrets within secrets we’ve unraveled, you are right to insist that our friends deserve to hear the report without delay.”

  They were quickly swallowed in shadows, the clump-clump of their boots sounding unnaturally loud on the age-worn stone steps.

  “I take it the Weasels are close by? And Skinny?” he asked as the stairs made a tight turn and continued downward.

  “Yes. McClellan was clever enough to bring Skinny back from my house in your unmarked carriage to where Griffin and Sheffield were waiting. The boys are waiting with them.” The darkness was giving her a welcome respite in which to compose her emotions. Though Wrexford had appeared not to notice, she feared her face couldn’t help but give away the true state of her feelings.

  “Excellent. We’ll have the Weasels go spirit Hillhouse away from the Runners, and then we can all head to Mrs. Ashton’s townhouse.”

  “McClellan already dispatched word to Jeremy in Cambridge telling him about your abduction. I assume he’s already on his way back to London,” said Charlotte. “Her efficiency is very impressive, as is her fortitude. She seems remarkably un-rattled by the havey-cavey antics of my household. Most maids would swoon at the sight of her mistress dressed as an urchin and brandishing a pistol.”

  “McClellan is no ordinary maid,” murmured Wrexford, “and no stranger to havey-cavey antics.”