“Oiy,” mumbled Raven, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. But the assurance didn’t dispel his troubled expression.
“Come, Weasels. Let’s be off.” McClellan shooed them toward the corridor.
A sigh slipped from Charlotte’s lips.
“Rest easy. Skinny is in good hands.” Wrexford took her arm. “As for our other friends . . .”
She allowed herself to be led to the parlor. He was right. They could solve only one conundrum at a time.
“Any luck with Annie Wright?” he asked once they were seated on the sofa.
“Annie was wary—understandably so.” She explained the details of the encounter. “She clamped up tighter than an oyster when I mentioned David Mather. But whether it has any significance for our friends is impossible to tell.” A sigh. “However, she promised to think about my request. I’ll return in a day or two to press her further.”
“Assuming she doesn’t simply melt away into another one of the countless rookeries in London,” mused the earl.
“Seeing as I’m morally opposed to using the stick, I chose to use the carrot instead,” replied Charlotte. “I promised to help her find a situation more befitting to her station in life—a lady’s maid or a seamstress—than that of a barmaid in a hellhole neighborhood.”
“Clever,” he conceded with a ghost of a smile.
“I can, on occasion, be as pragmatic as you are,” she answered. “Speaking of Mather . . .” She recounted the unpleasant scene with the murdered clerk’s cousin. “His reaction seemed odd.”
Wrexford frowned. “Perhaps. But there are any number of reasons he might not have wanted his association with the dark-haired gentleman known.”
Charlotte conceded the point. “What about you? Have you any news to report?”
“I do.” He leaned back against the pillows. “Though it only casts more shadows rather than light on the situation.”
She listened with a sinking heart as he described the banking list that Sheffield had found in Woodbridge’s study.
“I suppose the stars could mean something other than a secured loan,” she said, unable to muster any conviction for the assertion. “Perhaps they merely mean he had an acquaintance at the banks.”
“And perhaps pigs have learned how to fly.” A pause. “However, there’s a glimmer of good news. Tyler is fairly certain he’s uncovered Professor Sudler’s location. It’s an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge.” He shifted. “An excellent spot in which to take refuge if one doesn’t want to be found.”
“I see.” Charlotte bit her lip, taking a moment to think. “I think it’s imperative for me to be part of the coming confrontation. I may have better luck at having a candid conversation with Lady Cordelia than you.”
“Sheffield will insist on coming, too,” said Wrexford. “By the by, I’ve told him everything. It . . .” He gave a wry grimace. “It felt like the right thing to do.”
She couldn’t help it. A laugh welled up in her throat.
“Yes, yes, I don’t need your hilarity to grasp the irony of me acting on intuition.”
“If it’s any salve to your pride, I think you did the right thing,” responded Charlotte. “He deserves our trust.”
“The question of how to arrange the logistics of travel is an issue,” mused Wrexford. “As you know, my estate is quite close to Cambridge, and Sheffield can stay with me. But propriety forbids you—”
“As to that, I have an idea,” she interjected.
He raised a brow. “Dare I ask?”
“I’d rather not say just now.” Just in case, thought Charlotte, the idea blew up in her face. “When do you plan to leave?”
“The sooner the better,” he answered. “However, we can’t ignore the other dangling threads in this case, so I wish to make an inquiry this evening and see where it leads before we make our next move.”
* * *
It was still early in the evening, and White’s had not yet come alive with the daily rituals of masculine revelries. The club’s main reading room was empty, save for several elderly gentlemen asleep near the blazing fire, their snores punctuating the occasional rustle of the abandoned newspapers in their laps.
Wrexford moved into the main corridor and signaled to a passing porter. “Has Sir Charles arrived?”
“He’s in the Blue Parlor, milord. It’s Wednesday, so he’s awaiting his usual backgammon partner.”
The earl nodded his thanks. “Bring us a bottle of the club’s best Madeira,” he said and then headed for the stairs, grateful that the admiral—whose scientific papers on seashells had earned him a coveted membership in the Royal Society—was a creature of habit.
“Ah, Wrexford.” The admiral looked up from the red and black draughts arranged on the game board as the earl entered the room. “How go your experiments with acids and quartz?”
“I’ve had some very interesting chemical results,” answered the earl. “I’m working on a paper to submit to Philosophical Transactions.”
“I’m delighted to hear it! The Royal Society’s scientific journal needs modern thinking like yours to maintain its reputation for excellence in this new century.”
“It may ruffle some feathers,” murmured the earl.
Sir Charles let out a chortle. “Even better! Thinking outside the accepted boundaries is important. It’s how discoveries are made.”
Wrexford and the admiral attended many of the same scientific lectures and had developed a casual friendship. The British Navy was known as a bastion of traditional thinking, but despite his years of service and his crusty demeanor, Sir Charles had a very agile mind and held surprisingly progressive views on a variety of subjects.
“And how goes your book on conches of the West Indies?”
“Slowly.” Sir Charles made a wry face. “I suppose at my age, I should feel some sense of urgency.” He touched a finger to one of the painted points on the game board. “But after the years of discipline required by shipboard duties, I find myself enjoying the opportunity to explore a great many subjects and have allowed myself to be distracted from my writing.”
“The opportunities have been well earned,” murmured the earl. He turned as the porter arrived with the wine, and asked for it to be served.
“A very fine—and expensive—vintage.” The admiral raised his glass in salute. “As a retired officer on half pay, I can’t afford such luxuries.” A wry smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “To what do I owe such generosity?”
“Professional and personal admiration,” replied Wrexford with an answering smile as he took a seat next to his friend. Despite his silvery hair, Sir Charles still had the muscled physique of a much younger man. However, the Admiralty had been making room for younger officers to move up through the ranks. And so he had been removed from active duty after decades of military service around the globe . . . and naval pay was notoriously low. “I think it shameful that our government behaves so shabbily toward those who have devoted their lives to defending our country.”
“I appreciate your words,” said the admiral. “However, given your reputation, I doubt you’ve come here merely to spout heartfelt sentiments.”
“Actually, you’re correct,” he answered. Clearly, retirement hadn’t dulled the sharpness of his friend’s mind. “I have several questions I’m hoping you’ll be willing to answer.”
Sir Charles took an appreciative swallow of the Madeira. “Fire away, milord.”
“One of your cousins serves as a director of the East India Company, does he not?”
“Yes, yes, Copley. A fine fellow and a brilliant administrator. He was brought in several years ago to add, shall we say, a more progressive attitude to the Company’s traditional views.”
“And what is his opinion on the recent Charter Act passed by Parliament?” inquired the earl. “I’ve heard that the changes concerning the Company’s trade monopoly have caused some dissension among the board of directors.”
“As to that .
. .” Sir Charles savored another sip of the wine. “You may ask him for yourself. He should be arriving at any moment.”
Wrexford raised his brows in surprise. “But it’s Wednesday.”
A twinkle of amusement lit in the admiral’s eyes. “I can, on occasion, improvise. Lord Ainsley is suffering from an attack of gout, so my cousin agreed to serve as a substitute for tonight’s game.”
“Though a poor one I may be,” announced a voice from the corridor. “I prefer chess to backgammon.”
Sir Charles made a rude sound. “My cousin dislikes that the luck of the dice comes into play. He favors a game where a player is allowed to make his own decisions on strategy.”
“But chess still requires a player to react to his opponent’s moves,” said Wrexford.
“A very astute observation, sir,” responded the admiral. “My dear Elgin, allow me to introduce Lord Wrexford, a gentleman known for his incisive intellect.” He waggled a warning finger. “So if I were you, I’d have a care on crossing verbal swords with him.” To the earl, he added, “My cousin, Elgin, Baron Copley.”
Copley smiled and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Let us cry pax, Lord Wrexford. As I’m engaged in endeavors which require a pen, not a sword, I would never be so foolhardy as to challenge your steel.”
“These days I’m a man of science, not war,” replied the earl. “Though I do confess, I’ve been known to cut up something fierce with fellow members of the Royal Institution if I think their views on a subject are flawed.”
“Ideas can certainly spark a war of words,” said Copley.
“Speaking of which, Lord Wrexford was just asking how the board of directors has reacted to the Charter Act,” interjected Sir Charles.
“Thank you.” Copley accepted a glass of Madeira from the earl and took a sip. “That’s a very fine wine,” he murmured before addressing his cousin’s comment. “As to the directors, there is, of course, some disagreement among them as to how to proceed. Old ways die hard, especially when they have proved profitable in the past.”
“And you, Lord Copley?” asked Wrexford. “What is your opinion?”
“The world is changing. Our company must do so, too,” replied the baron. “Yes, we will relinquish some past benefits, but new trading opportunities are opening up. Rather than bemoan our losses, we ought to be focused on taking advantage of them.”
“A very practical and pragmatic viewpoint,” replied Wrexford.
“Elgin is the leader of the forward-thinking directors who favor change,” said Sir Charles.
“You exaggerate, Charles,” murmured Copley. He cleared his throat. “Might I ask why you’re so interested in the Charter Act, Lord Wrexford, and how it affects the East India Company?” A faint smile. “Are you perchance a stockholder?”
“No, my interest is purely personal.” The earl had anticipated the question. “My valet was a good friend of your company clerk who was recently murdered at Queen’s Landing,” he lied. “He seems to have gotten it in his head that the reason might have to do with some turmoil within the Company brought on by the Charter Act.”
Copley stared at him for a moment in mute disbelief before slowly shaking his head. “Merciful heavens, I can’t imagine how he came to have that idea! We are a very respected trading company run by gentlemen, not a gang of murderous cutthroats.”
That is just as much a lie as my own farididdle, thought the earl. The East India Company was the most powerful private enterprise in the world. A veritable empire unto itself, it had a monopoly on trade with the Indian subcontinent, along with its own private army of over 260,000 men to subjugate any local rulers who dared challenge its hegemony.
“That is yet another sad thing about murder,” continued the baron. “It seems to stir all sorts of scurrilous rumors. Henry Peabody deserves better than that. He was a very valued employee—highly competent and totally trustworthy—and will be much missed.”
“Did you know him personally?” asked Wrexford.
“I did,” replied Copley. “He was the head clerk in one of the sections under my authority. His work was beyond reproach.”
The baron set down his glass and drew a tight breath. “Bow Street is doing its best to keep the matter quiet and solve the murder without it coming into the public eye.” He exhaled. “God forbid that scribbler A. J. Quill starts stirring ghoulish speculation about the East India Company simply to earn a few shillings from the poor man’s death.”
“Ha! If you ask me, the government ought to track down the fellow and have him arrested for libel,” muttered Sir Charles. “Lord Almighty, you, of all people, Wrexford, ought to agree.”
The earl shrugged at the mention of Charlotte’s satirical drawings concerning his own public quarrel with the late Reverend Holworthy. It was, in fact, the cleric’s murder that had brought them together.
“On the contrary, I rather admire the scribbler,” replied Wrexford. “A. J. Quill plays a role in keeping the high and mighty from abusing their power and privileges.”
Copley plucked at his coat cuff. “I’m aware of your background in the military, and the fact that you’ve had some experience with Bow Street. Indeed, I’ve heard rumors that you helped them unravel some recent mysteries.” He lowered his voice. “Are you perchance actively involved in helping the Runners solve Henry Peabody’s murder?”
“As I said, my interest is purely personal,” said Wrexford, carefully choosing his words.
“As is mine. Though, of course, I also have a professional interest,” replied Copley with a heavy sigh. “So I pray that the crime is quickly solved. It’s a sordid business, but I’m quite certain, it can have nothing to do with the East India Company.” Looking uncomfortable, the baron shifted his stance. “Given your past association with Bow Street, I feel I can share some facts about Henry Peabody’s murder that will let you put your valet’s mind at ease—but I must ask that you keep what I tell you in strictest confidence.”
The earl gave a small nod, deliberately saying nothing.
“At first, Bow Street assumed it was a random robbery,” continued the baron. “But given the new developments, they are now of the opinion that it was likely a private quarrel over a woman that ended in blood being spilled.”
“Indeed?” The earl was taken aback at the unexpected twist. Had he and his friends taken the pieces of the puzzle and fitted them together all wrong? “What new developments?”
“They’ve found witnesses who say they overheard heated arguments between Peabody and some . . . highborn gentleman.”
“A highborn gentleman?” repeated Wrexford.
“Yes,” answered Copley with obvious reluctance. “So you can understand why the authorities are anxious to keep it out of the newspapers. If the public starts to believe that the pillars of English society can’t be trusted . . .” He let his words trail off.
The earl pondered over what he had just heard. In truth, the only real evidence in the case was the victim’s corpse. All the rest was just swirls of fog and conjecture. “What makes them believe this highborn gentleman is guilty of the murder?”
“Apparently, the fellow has gone missing.”
“I see,” said Wrexford, careful to mask his dismay. “But they didn’t mention his name?”
Copley shook his head. “No, not to me. But I suppose they wish to err on discretion until they make an arrest.”
“Hmmph. Perhaps you need to run a tighter ship, Elgin,” interjected the admiral. “No man under my command would dare do anything havey-cavey, knowing the punishment would be swift and severe.”
Copley’s face betrayed a momentary flicker of irritation before he forced a thin smile. “Alas, Charles, unlike the British Navy, the East India Company cannot exercise total control over the lives of our employees.”
“Havey-cavey,” repeated Sir Charles under his breath.
The baron ignored his cousin. “That is all I know, Wrexford,” he said. “Let us hope Bow Street can quickly make an arrest an
d put an end to the sordid affair.”
“Indeed.” The earl rose. “Thank you for your time.” He turned for the door and then paused. “Just one last question. Does the word argentum mean anything to you?”
“Other than as a painful reminder of how much I detested my Latin lessons at Eton?” quipped Copley. “I know it means ‘silver,’ but other than that . . .” Looking baffled, he shook his head. “Why do you ask? Is it important?”
“Quite likely not,” replied the earl.
“Havey-cavey,” repeated Sir Charles. “You may tell your valet that his friend ought to have been more careful as to the company he kept.”
“So it would seem,” replied Wrexford. But like quicksilver, the facts of the case seemed to be constantly shifting their shape. A glimmer . . . a wink . . . and then they were gone.
“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” he added. “I’ll not keep you any longer from your game.”
“Yes, yes, do sit down, Elgin, and let us begin.” After refilling his glass, the admiral winked at the earl. “Ha! There’s nothing like a battle—even if it’s just a battle of wits—to get the blood pulsing through my aged veins!”
CHAPTER 12
Forcing her eyes away from the clock, Charlotte turned her attention back to her drawing. Darkness had settled over the city. And yet there were any number of reasonable explanations as to why the boys hadn’t yet returned from the dowager’s townhouse with a reply to her request.
Granted, what she had done was a risk.
“Pericula ludus,” she whispered. Danger is my pleasure. Many of her past actions seemed to give truth to the ancient Latin adage. Breaking the bars of a gilded cage had meant flying into the unknown.
After dipping her pen in the inkwell, Charlotte began to add cross-hatching to the dark outline of—
The sudden clack of the brass knocker nearly caused the quill to slip from her fingers. Cocking an ear, she listened as McClellan hurried from the kitchen to see who was calling.
“Lady Peake!” The maid’s surprised voice floated up from below.
Her great-aunt had come to call at this hour? Charlotte felt a surge of panic. It was well after suppertime.
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