“Love makes us see the best in those for whom we care,” interjected Charlotte. “Even if circumstances have forced them to be less than we wish them to be.”
Raven drew a shuddering breath. “So you’re not going to try to prove her innocent?”
“Of course we’ll look into her disappearance,” said Charlotte. “But given the facts we know—”
“The facts all said your cousin was guilty as sin!” exclaimed Raven, his voice rising to a near shout. “But you refused to accept it could be true.”
The accusation was like a knife stab to the heart. “You’re right. I didn’t give up, and nor shall any of us do so in this case.” Two quick strides brought her close enough to enfold the boy in a fierce hug.
“We will do our best, sweeting, I promise you that.” His bony shoulders felt sharp as knife blades against her chest. So hard, and yet as fragile. “But you must steel your heart for the fact that it might not be good enough.”
He stepped back, looking very small and uncertain in the flitting shadows. “I think you’re wrong. So . . . so . . .” Fisting his hands, he spun around and darted away into the darkness.
She stared at the ink-black shadows, wishing she could force them to surrender their secrets. “Lud, as if I needed life to become any more complicated,” she whispered.
“Speaking of which,” said the earl, “there was something else you wished to discuss with me.”
“Never mind that now,” replied Charlotte, suddenly feeling too overwhelmed to think straight. “I fear Raven won’t leave this alone. I must think about how to keep him—and Hawk—from getting into any real trouble.”
“Leave the Weasels to me,” said Wrexford.
She mustered a smile of thanks, but trepidation quickly squeezed it from her lips.
He sat in silence, and though she looked away, Charlotte felt his gaze probing, probing. Damnation. How was it that he always seemed to see more than she wished to reveal?
“You know, sharing worries helps to rob them of their power,” he murmured. “I would hope that by now you would trust me to confide what else is troubling you.”
“It’s not a matter of trust, Wrexford,” she replied. “It’s . . .” A sigh. “It’s just that I feel I burden you with enough of my problems as it is.”
“Friendship isn’t a burden.”
Their eyes met, entangling her in a connection she didn’t dare try to define.
“If you’re wrestling with two conundrums,” he added, “chances are you won’t deal with either of them very well.”
“Ever practical and logical,” she murmured.
A flicker of amusement lit in his gaze. “Yes, well, you know me—my outlook on life is blessedly unclouded by feelings.”
“Impossible man,” she muttered.
Which made him laugh.
The rumbled sound somehow seemed to loosen the tightness in her chest.
“If you must know,” conceded Charlotte, “Alison informed me this afternoon that my brother Hartley, the present Earl of Wolcott, now that my father and his first heir have shuffled off their mortal coils, reached out to her and would like to meet with me.”
Pursing his lips, Wrexford considered the news. She didn’t need to explain any further—he was well aware that her stiff-rumped family had disowned her years ago, when she had eloped with her drawing master.
“And you don’t wish to do so?”
“The thought terrifies me,” she admitted. “I’ve no idea what he’ll think of me.”
“Of course it terrifies you. The unknown is always frightening,” he replied. “But you’re no longer a green girl of seventeen. You’ve experienced life and conquered adversity, which has given you strength and courage, as well as the confidence to determine your own life.”
Charlotte felt her a lump rise in her throat.
“He has no hold over you or what makes you happy,” said Wrexford. “If he’s unpleasant in any way, you can simply spit in his eye.”
All at once, the conundrum seemed to unknot itself. “I can, can’t I?” She considered the thought. “But Hartley was always kinder to me than my father or eldest brother.”
He shrugged. “That wasn’t so difficult. As I said, problems often untangle themselves when you attack them en masse.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Yet again.”
“As I’ve said before, we’re not keeping a ledger,” replied Wrexford. “Though if it makes you feel any better, I would welcome your advice on what to do about Kit.”
So he, too, had realized their earlier silence with Sheffield was fraught with profound consequences.
“We’ve kept him in the dark about what you witnessed between Lady Cordelia and her brother. And then there’s the murder at Queen’s Landing . . .” His brows rose in question.
“You must tell him about Lady Cordelia,” she said without hesitation. “Otherwise he will see it as an elemental betrayal of your friendship—and the damage to your bond might not ever be repaired.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “I know you’re right.”
“If it’s any solace, I think we can in good conscience make no mention of the murder. It’s likely nothing to do with her brother, so until there’s any evidence to the contrary, there’s no reason to say anything.”
“Still, I fear Kit is liable to go off half-cocked and get into trouble. He hasn’t our experience in how to conduct a discreet investigation.” Wool rustled as he turned in profile, casting his features in shadow. “It’s likely that the disappearance of Lady Cordelia and her brother is due to personal family travails. But if, perchance, it’s part of a greater web of intrigue, then he could find himself ensnared in danger.”
“I worry, too,” answered Charlotte. “And yet he wouldn’t thank us for trying to shield him from danger. So we’ll just have to do our best to keep him from coming to grief.”
* * *
“Pssst.”
Sheffield whirled around and peered into the silvery swirls of mist ghosting through the deserted street. Too agitated to sit still in a hackney, he had decided to walk back to Mayfair from Charlotte’s residence. But perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest of ideas.
“Pssst.” The sound came again, this time from within the muddled gloom to his left.
He slid his grip down on his walking stick, ready to brandish the brass knob.
The fog quivered as two shapes suddenly darted out and skidded to a stop.
“Put that away, Mr. Sheffield,” cautioned Raven. “If you threaten a cove with a stick in this neighborhood, you better know how to use it.”
“What makes you think I can’t hold my own in a scrum?” he retorted.
“Cuz you’ll fight like a gentleman,” piped up Hawk. “And your opponent won’t.”
“What are you Weasels doing out this late at night?” grumbled Sheffield, letting his arm drop. “You should be home doing your schoolwork.”
“Bugger schoolwork,” retorted Raven. “I overheard you telling m’lady and His Nibs that Lady Cordelia is in trouble. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well, as to that . . .” Sheffield tapped the stick against his boot.
“His Nibs says you have to look at a problem with logic, so you need to have a plan,” counseled Hawk. “Running around niffy-piffy won’t do anyone any good.”
“My brain may not be quite as sharp as that of Wrexford,” replied Sheffield a little defensively. “But yes, that thought had occurred to me.”
Raven fixed him with an unblinking stare. “Actually, Lady Cordelia says you’re quite smart when you put your mind to it. So you just need to think on it.”
“I—” Sheffield flinched as a shutter swung loose on a nearby building and banged against the sooty brick. “I have been thinking. And it seems to me that a first step would be to have a look around her brother’s townhouse and see if there are any clues as to where they might have gone.”
“Oiy, that makes some sense,” replied Raven. “But how are yo
u going to do that? I don’t suppose you have a key to the front door?”
“No.” Sheffield shifted his stance as a feral growl sounded from the alleyway. “However, I wasn’t intending on going in through the main entrance.”
The boys exchanged looks.
“I think,” said Raven, “that we had better come with you.”
“Oiy,” agreed his brother.
“When?” demanded Raven.
“The sooner the better,” responded Sheffield. “It’s too late to try it tonight, so let’s make it tomorrow.”
Raven nodded. “We’ll meet you in the center garden of Grosvenor Square at midnight.”
“Don’t wear those fancy boots,” added Hawk. “You need soft-soled shoes so you don’t sound like a cart horse galloping over cobblestones. And bring a dark knitted toque to hide that flaming gold hair.”
“Anything else?” asked Sheffield.
The boys were already lost in the skittering shadows. “Oiy,” answered Raven. “Don’t tell m’lady, or she’ll have all our heads on a platter.”
* * *
Wrexford clicked open the door to his unlit workroom and stepped inside. It was late, and with the coals in the hearth having crumbled to ash, a chill pervaded the air. He paused for a moment to draw a deep breath, the familiar scents of vellum and leather from the bookshelves mingling with the faint tang of chemicals . . . and then released it in a low oath.
“Hell and damnation, what a coil,” he added, shrugging out of his overcoat and letting it drop to the floor. It troubled him that he hadn’t told Charlotte about his loan to Sheffield. The secret wasn’t his to share, and yet it somehow felt wrong to have held it back. Stepping over the tangle of wool, he found a flint and steel on the work counter and struck a spark to an oil lamp.
A flame hissed to life.
“Ah, you’re back.” The flare of light showed Griffin seated in one of the armchairs by the hearth. “A pity. I was about to help myself to a second glass of your costliest brandy.”
“Tyler may be looking for another position come morning,” muttered the earl.
“Then please tell him to let Bow Street know. He would make an excellent Runner.”
“You couldn’t afford him. He has very expensive tastes.” Wrexford moved to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, then stalked over to refill Griffin’s glass. “Given the hour, I take it this isn’t a purely social call.”
“Correct.” Griffin savored a sip of the brandy before going on. “I’ve uncovered some further information about the clerk who was murdered at Queen’s Landing. It seems he had a cousin, the Honorable David Mather, who’s employed at C. Hoare & Co.—you know, the private bank. Mather is the son of a baron, so he moves in more exalted circles than his late relative. And yet they were apparently close friends.”
“It’s a heartening tale of family loyalty,” interjected the earl as he returned the brandy bottle to the sideboard and took a seat. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
“If you’ll permit me, I’m getting there, milord,” said the Runner dryly. “In my slow and plodding way.”
Wrexford waved him to continue.
“Naturally, I paid Mather a visit, to see whether he might have any ideas of who might have wished his relative dead.” Another leisurely sip. “His reply was that he couldn’t imagine such a thing—the clerk hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“It’s bloody late, Griffin, and I’m in no mood for a bedtime story—”
“The trouble is,” went on the Runner, “beef-witted as I can be at times, I have a good nose for sniffing an untruth. The fellow was lying through his teeth.”
The earl stopped fidgeting in his chair.
“So I decided to take a closer look at Mr. Mather’s activities. Interestingly enough, he’s had some recent business dealings with the Earl of Woodbridge.”
The Runner now had his full attention.
“As has Woodbridge’s sister—though of course, not officially, as a female has few legal rights to manage money or own property in her own name.” Griffin was now eyeing him over the rim of his glass. “Am I right to assume you’re acquainted with Lord Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia?”
“Yes,” answered Wrexford, aware of an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck. Until he had a chance to think through all that he had learned earlier in the evening, he wouldn’t be ready to share the recent information he had learned about Woodbridge and his sister—especially the fact that they had gone missing. “But I don’t see what that has to do with the murder.”
“I’m not sure it does have any connection, milord,” replied Griffin. “And yet . . .” The Runner paused. “I can’t help but be curious about the fact that Lady Cordelia and your friend Mr. Sheffield recently opened an account at Hoare’s for a newly formed company. The bank clerk who assisted them with the paperwork distinctly recalls the conversation between the lady and your friend. She was quite vocal about it being damnably unfair that she couldn’t be listed a shareholder—because she was, in fact, part owner and running the company.”
Wrexford kept his face expressionless.
“So Sheffield is listed on the official papers as one of the two stockholders. However, he holds only a small percentage of the shares.” Griffin set down his glass. “The majority owner is you, milord.”
A sound—something between a grunt and a growl—rose in his throat before the earl could stop it.
“Were you not aware of that?”
Wrexford was forced to shake his head. “I made him a loan, and he did insist that it was to be a business arrangement, so I would be given stock.” He hesitated, but there seemed little point in further prevarication. “When I asked about his partners, he told me he wasn’t at liberty to disclose that information for the time being.”
“And you accepted the assertion without more probing?” The Runner lifted a shaggy brow. “You appear to have a very cavalier attitude toward your money. It was a rather large sum.”
“Sheffield is a friend. I trust him without question.”
“I see,” murmured Griffin. “I’m aware that your friend likes to gamble.” The Runner allowed a sliver of silence before adding, “I hope he’s improved his skills, for past experience has shown he isn’t very good at it.”
What the devil has Kit gotten himself into?
Wrexford pushed aside the unsettling question. Until he had time to carefully consider the revelation and all its ramifications, he had no intention of discussing it with Griffin.
“Whatever business they are in, I don’t see Sheffield and Lady Cordelia as cutthroat murderers,” drawled the earl, though it wasn’t quite the truth. Like Charlotte, Cordelia possessed a core strength and courage, but he wasn’t entirely sure that her sense of right and wrong was forged from unbreakable steel.
Griffin didn’t crack a smile.
“So I suggest we turn our attention back to Woodbridge and his dealings with the bank,” he pressed. “What sort of business is he doing with the dead man’s relative?”
“That I can’t tell you, milord,” answered the Runner. “I had no authority to interrogate the fellow about it, and the junior bank employees were tight lipped when I tried a few discreet questions.”
“Couldn’t you ask the Bow Street magistrates for official permission to pursue the matter?”
A snort. “You know as well as I do that the government starts breathing fire on Bow Street’s collective arse when any of the Runners start sniffing around the aristocracy. So unless the magistrates decide there’s a damnably good reason to suspect the bank business relates to the murder, I won’t be allowed to ask any more questions.” A shrug. “And there isn’t a shred of evidence that it does.”
“Be that as it may,” mused the earl, “there’s nothing to stop me from asking around about our highborn suspect and his activities.”
“I was rather hoping you might suggest that, milord.” Griffin finally allowed a glimmer of humor. “You have to adm
it, past investigations have proved that we make a very efficient team.”
“Yes.” Wrexford drained his whisky in one swallow. “I buy supper, and you eat it.”
That drew a low chuckle. “I’ll bid you good night, milord. Do keep me informed if you turn up anything interesting. Preferably over a beef and kidney pie.” Griffin picked up his hat and rubbed at a grease stain on the brim. “And while you endeavor to learn more about Mather, you might also consider looking more closely at Mr. Sheffield, as well as Lord Woodbridge and his sister. As I said, my superiors won’t allow me to question you lordly aristocrats without compelling evidence of wrongdoing. But simply because they are your friends doesn’t mean their hands are lily white.”
CHAPTER 7
Releasing a harried sigh, Charlotte took a seat at her worktable and lit the lamp, grateful that supper was over. Dusk was fast giving way to night, and as darkness curtained the windows and the neighborhood settled into slumber, she finally had an interlude for quiet contemplation.
Choices, choices. She had struggled all day to keep her mind on household matters. The questions of how to deal with family and friends were demanding such difficult decisions. And yet . . .
“And yet I’ve no clue of what to do.” Saying it aloud only exacerbated the sense of uncertainty churning inside her chest. Sheffield’s hurt feelings, Cordelia’s disappearance, her own brother’s request for a family meeting . . .
Thank heavens that Raven hadn’t added to her worries. She had feared that he might hare off on his own and attempt to learn more about Cordelia’s mysterious absence. A dangerous undertaking for a boy, no matter how clever . . . God only knew what nefarious doings were afoot.
Charlotte dipped her pen in ink and began to draw the stark, sinuous outline of a slithering serpent. She had long ago learned that the aristocracy’s glittering façade of civility hid a dark core writhing with fanged vipers....
But to her relief, Raven had gone without protest to his afternoon lessons with Mr. Linsley, and he and his brother had retreated to their attic aerie after finishing supper, grumbling about how much work the tutor had assigned for their next session.
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