“You cut a very imposing figure, sir. Even disguised in shabby clothing, there’s no way for you to go unnoticed in the stews.”
He didn’t argue.
“If it would put your mind at ease, I suppose I could ask Raven and Hawk to shadow me—”
“Let us leave the Weasels out of this part of the investigation,” counseled Wrexford. “If even you and I are wrestling with the complexities of friendship and loyalty, imagine what Raven is feeling. We ought not to put him between a rock and a stone.”
It was an astute observation, and one that showed softer sentiments lay hidden beneath his outward show of snaps and snarls.
Holding back a smile—she didn’t wish to spoil the moment by making some teasing comment—Charlotte merely nodded. “Then you’ll simply have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
She rose and began to reroll the mechanical drawings. “I have a dratted engagement to attend, an evening musical soiree at Lady Becton’s residence with Alison. I would consider crying off, but she feels it’s important for me to attend a few more social events to ensure my acceptance in the beau monde. And it may prove useful, as several of Lady Cordelia’s friends from Lady Thirkell’s Bluestocking salon will also be attending, which will allow me to probe as to her mechanical interests.”
The papers crackled. “But after that, I shall go to the dockyards and make contact with Annie Wright,” added Charlotte. “Whatever she is hiding, she’ll soon learn that secrets, no matter how carefully guarded, have a way of slipping out.”
* * *
Secrets. Wrexford watched as Charlotte deftly tucked the ends of the protective oilskin around the roll, masking what lay beneath the cloth.
She was, he mused, a master of the shadowy world of secrets. For years her survival had depended on her skills at hide-and-seek. No one was better at ferreting out the truth behind rumors and whispers. Just as no one was better at keeping others from knowing her own dark vulnerabilities.
Until lately.
And though the revelations had been voluntary, Wrexford sensed that she wasn’t entirely at peace with herself over the momentous decision of stepping back into the beau monde. He worried that she might become reckless during the coming investigation to prove to herself that her passion for justice hadn’t been smothered in the costly silks and satins of her new life.
It was absurd, of course. Charlotte was Charlotte. Steel would snap if it sought to bend her convictions.
But we all have our inner demons, he thought as he, too, got to his feet. And they are what we see when we stare into the looking glass.
“Is something wrong, Wrexford?” asked Charlotte as she offered him the wrapped drawings. “You have a very peculiar look on your face.”
“Perhaps that’s because you scare me to death.”
Surprise spasmed across her features, followed by a flicker of emotion to which he couldn’t give a name. “Oh, come, nothing scares you, least of all me.” She said it lightly, though her gaze held a shadow of uncertainty. “I’m the one plagued by fears and self-doubts. It’s your unshakable steadiness in the face of life’s slings and arrows that gives me the courage to face the challenges.”
“Steady?” Wrexford couldn’t hold back a mocking laugh. “I’m the mercurial Moon—the cover of darkness hides a multitude of sins. While you’re the Sun, who’s not afraid to shine your light on every shadow, no matter how terrifying.”
He heard her hitch in a breath. Was he making an utter fool of himself? Somehow he didn’t care.
He put down the roll of papers. “Promise me you will be careful.” Drawing her into his arms, he held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe as he brought her close and felt the beat of her heart thump against his chest. I’m not sure how I would bear the darkness without your light, he added to himself.
“Wrexford.” Charlotte’s voice was muffled as she pressed her cheek to his shoulder and slid her hands around his waist.
Thump-thump.
“So you see, my weaknesses far outweigh my strengths.”
“As do mine,” she said.
Thump-thump.
Charlotte shifted, just enough to angle her eyes up to meet his. Their smoke-blue hue shimmered like quicksilver in the deepening shadows. “Do you think I don’t worry about you?” she asked. “You have come to be a rather . . . a rather large presence in my life.”
“The past has proven that you manage extraordinarily well on your own,” he said softly.
“That,” said Charlotte, “doesn’t mean that it would make me happy to do so in the future.” She stepped back abruptly, her fingers twining with his for a fleeting moment before releasing them.
The future. He hesitated, but then, uncertain of how to reply, he simply said, “Now isn’t the time to talk about the future. For the present, we need to concentrate on protecting our friends. So let us both promise to be careful. I fear this cursed web of intrigue will only turn more tangled, and God only knows what malicious spiders are lurking in its strands.”
CHAPTER 10
Wrexford was still sorting through his feelings as he entered his townhouse. It felt as if something had changed between him and Charlotte....
“Though I’m damned if I can say exactly how,” he mused. Words didn’t come easily when it came to articulating emotions.
They had both spoken—however obliquely—of the future. What that signified—
“Where the devil have you been?” demanded Sheffield, looking up from the sheaf of notes in his lap as the earl pushed through the door of the workroom. “And why is Tyler not here?”
“Because . . .”
Because, thought the earl, he and I are running ourselves ragged trying to pull your cods out of the fire.
Reminding himself that he wasn’t the only one who was struggling with fear and worry, Wrexford drew a breath to quell his momentary ire. “Because he is pursuing a lead as to the location of Professor Sudler’s private lair. As for my whereabouts, I was meeting with Lady Charlotte, who also undertook some sleuthing last night—in a very dangerous area, I might add.”
“Forgive me.” Sheffield pressed his palms to his brow. His face was pale and drawn, with ink-dark lines of anxiety etched at the corners of his eyes. “I feel so bloody useless.” He grimaced. “Hell, mere children are more skilled than I am at breaking into a house and knowing how to conduct a clandestine search on their own.”
“The Weasels aren’t mere children,” said the earl dryly. “They’re afreets—demon spirits who possess unnatural powers for navigating the dark world of mischief and mayhem.”
“Ha-ha.” A weak laugh, but it seemed to break the tension in the air.
“When was the last time you slept?” asked Wrexford, feeling a bone-deep weariness as he slumped into his desk chair.
“Dunno.” Sheffield blinked, looking like a startled owl as he turned away from the lamplight. “I can’t remember.”
“Exhaustion does no one any good.” With his own nerves tied in knots, the earl was in no frame of mind to deal with his friend’s emotions. “Go home and get some rest.”
“But . . .” Sheffield held up the papers in his lap. “I’ve found something in Woodbridge’s correspondence that may be another clue.”
“The devil be damned, it can wait until morning, Kit.”
Sheffield looked as if he had been punched in the gut. He sat for a moment in stunned silence, then rose and inclined a stiff nod. “Again, my apologies. I had no right to draw you and Lady Charlotte into this mess.”
Wrexford expelled a harried sigh. “Sit.”
His friend hesitated.
“Lady Charlotte is making another foray into the stews around the docklands tonight, after attending Lady Havemeyer’s musical soiree.” The earl’s hands fisted. “Alone.”
Sheffield pivoted and retreated into the shadows. A muted clink, a whispery splash. He returned and handed Wrexford a glass.
“It seems we both could use some liquid courage.”
The candlelight caught in a swirl of amber as he raised his own whisky to his lips. “Slàinte.”
The earl drew in a mouthful of the fiery malt. Would that it could melt the ice in his belly.
Sheffield returned to his chair. “Is there nothing we can do to . . . help?”
Wrexford shook his head. “She’s meeting with another woman who she thinks may have some information that will help us.” Reminding himself that Sheffield didn’t yet know of the possible connection between the murder at Queen’s Landing and Lady Cordelia’s disappearance, he didn’t elaborate. “And she told me in no uncertain terms that my presence might be noticed and might put her in danger.”
“But why—”
Wrexford silenced him with grunt. “She said she’ll explain it to me later.”
Sheffield stared down into his glass and gave it a swirl. They both took another sip, savoring the comradely silence of longtime friends. “It seems we’re both cursed with caring for ladies too smart and too fearless for their own good.”
A mirthless laugh. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Slàinte.” Sheffield repeated the Gaelic toast and downed the rest of his whisky before rising and fetching the bottle to refill their glasses.
At this rate they would soon be four sheets to the wind, thought the earl. And perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing, given where the conversation was headed.
“For now, let’s focus our attention on finding our elusive Cambridge professor,” he muttered after another swallow of spirits. “Though it may only be a wild goose chase.”
“No, I think we’re on the right trail.” Sheffield’s voice held a note of veiled excitement as he suddenly sat up straighter. “I’ve just recalled that Woodbridge attended Cambridge!”
“So did a great many other gentlemen,” said Wrexford. “Granted, it’s a connection, but a very tenuous one.” He spun the glass between his palms. “We must also address Lady Cordelia’s financial activities.”
* * *
The sonorous notes of a string quartet swirled through the softly flickering candlelight, the graceful melody echoing the elegant furnishings and muted hues of the grand music room. Quelling her impatience, Charlotte sat amid the appreciative audience, hands folded primly in her silk-swathed lap, and made herself concentrate on the music. Mozart, not murder, ought to be the only thing on her mind....
As if sensing her thoughts, Alison shifted slightly in the chair next to hers, the brush of skirts a subtle reminder that the guests would be watching Charlotte’s performance, as well. The beau monde’s polished manners and gilded smiles masked a darker side to its glitter. Those who didn’t fit the pattern card of privilege and power would find themselves savaged by gossip and innuendo.
Idleness and boredom beget bad behavior, Charlotte reflected, noting the bejeweled ladies and faultlessly tailored gentlemen seated in the front row of chairs. She thought of Sheffield and Cordelia, and how they had to hide their involvement in business from Polite Society. Heaven forfend that aristocrats, no matter how smart or how hard pressed financially, sully their hands in trade. It was a bloody foolish stricture, like so many of the old rules. Perhaps the future would bring . . .
Another discreet nudge from Alison brought her back to the present moment. The music had ended, and the guests were beginning to rise and move into the main drawing room, where the clink of crystal goblets and the lilt of laughter and conversation would serve as the soiree’s serenade.
And gossip is the real reason I’m here.
The dowager gathered her cane, and the two of them joined the festivities. Candlelight cast a mellow glow over the opulent furnishings, the myriad tiny flames catching the sparkle of the wine as liveried footmen moved through the crowd, ensuring that no one’s glass was empty.
“Ah, there are Miss Greenfield and Miss Greeley, standing by that hideous painting of Lady Havemeyer’s great-grandfather.” Alison was aware of what sleuthing Charlotte wished to accomplish. “Come, let us go join them.”
The two ladies welcomed them with friendly greetings, and Charlotte found it easy to respond with a genuine smile. When the dowager had first assured her that she would find kindred spirits within intellectually minded Bluestockings of the beau monde, she had been skeptical. But she had, in fact, made friends among the members of Lady Thirkell’s weekly salon.
The talk quickly turned from the evening’s musical performance to a recent essay on politics, and then, as several other ladies drifted over to join them, to a complex mathematical problem recently posed in the Ladies’ Diary.
“I daresay Lady Cordelia will figure out the answer,” mused Charlotte.
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Miss Greeley. “She finds such computations simple.”
“Her mind,” said Charlotte, “seems to run like a . . . a steam-powered engine. After allowing a tiny pause, she added, “Did I hear mention of her being interested in mechanical devices that can perform mathematical calculations?”
“Not that I know of.” Miss Greeley raised her brows at the other members of the salon.
“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Greenfield. “She can solve even the most complicated problems in her head.”
The others in their group all nodded in agreement.
“Indeed, Lady Cordelia has often mentioned that she’s all thumbs when it comes to tasks requiring manual dexterity,” continued Miss Greeley, “like embroidery or watercolors.” A tiny furrow creased her brow. “Speaking of Lady Cordelia, she hasn’t attended her usual meetings lately. Does anyone know why?”
The only reply was a puzzled silence.
“Ah, look. There is Miss Mather, and she’s with her younger brother, Mister David Mather.” After a moment, Lady Arabella Marquand, one of the younger and more outspoken members of the salon, gave a quick wave to a nearby couple. “They may know something.”
Charlotte watched the young lady—a petite blonde whose pale features and cream-colored gown appeared to be made out of spun sugar—take hold of her brother’s sleeve and hurry to join them. He, too, was fair haired, his golden curls artfully arranged in the latest à la Brutus style. An intricately tied cravat, an evening coat tailored to an impeccable fit, snug pantaloons festooned with an ornate watch fob . . . David Mather struck her as a fop who was trying a little too hard to appear a Tulip of the ton, an impression confirmed by the petulant curl of his well-shaped mouth.
“Mr. Mather,” said Lady Arabella as soon as his sister had finished introducing him to the group, “you’re a very good friend of Lord Woodbridge, so we were wondering if you happen to know if anything is amiss with Lady Cordelia.”
Charlotte might have missed the subtle changes in his face if she hadn’t been surreptitiously studying his features. His skin turned a bloodless color and tightened over his cheekbones, making them look sharp as knife blades.
“I’ve no idea why you think that,” he replied curtly. “We are merely acquaintances. As for Lady Cordelia, I barely know her.”
“Your sister . . . I-I must have misunderstood.” Lady Arabella frowned but quickly recovered and attempted to smooth over the awkward moment. “I do hope you’ll be accompanying your sister to more of these soirees, so we may all get to know each other better.” She fluttered her lashes—David Mather was a very handsome man. “And do bring your raffish friend—the tall, dark-haired gentleman with the interesting scar on his cheek.” A soft laugh. “Mama and I were in our carriage, returning home from a supper party the other evening, and I couldn’t help but notice the two of you conversing near the corner of Hyde Park.”
“You’re mistaken.” Mather’s voice was as sharp as his cheekbones. “You’ve confused me with someone else.”
Lady Arabella colored, but this time, she didn’t back down. “I study botany, sir, and I have a very good eye for detail. The moonlight was quite bright—”
“Perhaps you also have a very vivid imagination,” he suggested. “You ladies seem enamored of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.”
“Then perhaps you had imbibed too much champagne.” On that nasty note, Mather turned to his sister. “I really must be going, Susanna. As I told you, I have an engagement for later, and it wouldn’t do to be late.”
Miss Mather appeared mortified as he muttered a barely civil good-bye to the group and stalked off. “Please forgive David’s rudeness,” she apologized. “He’s been quite overset by the recent death of our cousin.”
“My condolences,” said Miss Greeley. “I wasn’t aware of your loss.”
“O-our families aren’t close,” stammered Miss Mather. “But David had formed a friendship with our cousin, and he’s taken it hard.”
Charlotte understood her reluctance to elaborate. Murder was something that touched the lower classes. It wasn’t a subject to sully the sensibilities of the beau monde.
“I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?” inquired Miss Greenfield politely.
“Quite,” answered Miss Mather, averting her gaze.
Silk rustled, the group’s comfortable camaraderie broken by the ugly incident. Someone coughed.
Darting a look at the far end of the room, Miss Mather gathered her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go pay my respects to the dowager Duchess of Wooster.”
Her departure couldn’t quite dispel the lingering pall of embarrassment, and after a few stilted pleasantries, the group drifted apart.
“One can’t help but wonder what provoked such an ungentlemanly outburst,” murmured Alison once they were alone. “Aside from grief.”
Charlotte merely nodded. Fear. She hadn’t missed the flash of fear in David Mather’s eyes at the mention of the dark-haired gentleman.
The question was why.
“Now that I’ve played my part as a polished and proper lady of the ton, might we take our leave?” she asked.
There was yet another role to play before the night was over.
* * *
“I fear that I possess precious little patience.” Sheffield paused as a guilty grimace tugged at his mouth. “And even less common sense.”
Murder at Queen's Landing Page 11
