Jeremy took a long moment to ponder her answer. She could see he was both intrigued and uneasy by its ramifications.
“That would,” he said carefully, “rule out the well-established banks, like Coutts, Hoare’s, Barclays, and Gurney’s.” It was half statement, half question.
“Yes. We’re looking for smaller establishments that cater to facilitating more shadowy dealings. I’ve been given a list by our friend Henning. I’m hoping you might help us narrow the choices.”
“Ah.” Jeremy appeared relieved. For all his radical views on certain things, he was a traditionalist when it came to respect for the pillars of Society. “I’m aware of several banks around the Exchange that are rumored to bend the rules if their palms are greased.”
“Have you any names?” asked Charlotte, taking up a small notebook and pencil from the side table.
He gave her three.
She wrote them down. “Thank you.” One was a match with Henning’s names.
“Do be careful, Charley.” Jeremy pinched at the pleat of his finely tailored trousers. “Much as I admire your passion for justice, it sometimes frightens me half to death.”
“Actually, I’m far more cautious than I used to be.” She thought of the Weasels and Wrexford and her ever-widening circle of friends. Perhaps that’s because I have far more to lose than I did in the past.
He let out a skeptical snort, but then softened it with a smile. “Since we’ve brought up the subject of change, I have something on a personal note to tell you, now that we have finished with business.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Jeremy hesitated. “Isobel—that is, Mrs. Ashton—and I are to be married.”
For a moment, Charlotte could do no more than stare in mute shock. But she quickly gathered her wits. “Why, that’s wonderful news. I’m . . .”
“Astonished?” he suggested.
“Very happy for you,” she finished in a rush.
Amusement pooled in his azure eyes. “It’s not like you to fiddle-faddle around a subject.”
She blew out her breath and then couldn’t help but laugh. “Very well, I confess you caught me by surprise, and my first reaction was, indeed, astonishment.” The two of them had forged a close-knit friendship during childhood—a closeness akin to that of brother and sister—and had shared their most intimate secrets and longings with each other. “But now that I think on it, the match is perfect.”
The widow had, for a time, been a suspect in one of their previous murder investigations because of her intelligence and business acumen—and because of a sordid secret in her past.
“Mrs. Ashton is not only smart and steady, but she possesses just the right sort of dry humor to rub along well with yours,” she added.
“Working together on her late husband’s weaving mills has given us a common purpose,” said Jeremy. “And we have come to like each other very much.” His voice didn’t alter, but Charlotte sensed the depth of feeling that those simple words held. “Our partnership may not blaze with passion, but we have a very special friendship.”
“Friendship,” said Charlotte, “is perhaps the very best foundation on which to build a marriage.”
“I knew you would understand.” Jeremy brushed a light caress to her cheek. “What about you? Have you any friendships that may result in matrimony?”
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Unless the beau monde’s rules have turned upside down while I haven’t been looking, it’s not up to me to make a proposal.”
He held her gaze with a searching stare, making her flush turn prickly. Flustered, she looked away.
“Again, I wish you happy.”
Flashing another smile, Jeremy rose. “Alas, I must be off to a business engagement. But I shall stop by again before I return to the North next week. In the meantime, please promise me to be careful.”
* * *
As the first part of their plan couldn’t begin until later in the afternoon, Wrexford decided he had time to keep his appointment with Sir Darius Roy. He found the explorer perusing the Royal Society’s latest scientific journal in the reading room of his club.
The firelight caught the gleam in Sir Darius’s eye as he looked up at the sound of the earl’s approach. “It’s quite fascinating the advances we’re making in botany and geology. Perhaps one day we’ll understand all the working of the world around us.”
“Not in our lifetime,” said Wrexford. “Nor in a hundred lifetimes.”
“Quite right,” agreed Sir Darius. “Like the star-dotted heavens, the breadth and depth of Knowledge seem unfathomable. And I suppose that’s a good thing. It keeps us inquisitive.”
“Indeed.”
“Questions, questions.” The explorer flashed a wry smile. “Kit says you have a few pressing questions that I may be able to answer.”
“I do.” Wrexford glanced around. “Might we go somewhere more private?”
“I’ve reserved one of the private parlors.” Sir Darius tucked the journal under his arm and rose. “I’ve asked several friends to join us, as they may also have information you’ll find helpful.” He led the way to the central stairs and started up them two at a time. “I don’t suppose you speak Mandarin?”
“Not a word.”
“No matter. Their English is excellent.”
On reaching the top landing, they turned down one of the narrow corridors and passed the club’s library, which was crammed with large curiosity cabinets as well as floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
“In here,” said Sir Darius, clicking open a door and standing aside to allow the earl to enter.
Two men were seated at a rectangular table by the window, drinking tea and playing some sort of game involving ivory tiles covered with a variety of Chinese symbols. They stood as Wrexford crossed onto the carpet, both of them looking every inch the proper English gentleman with their faultless tailored coats and impeccably tied cravats. It was only the shape and taper of their dark, watchful eyes that gave them an exotic aura.
“Wrexford, allow me to introduce Mr. Jiang and Mr. Gu.” To his friends, Sir Darius said, “This is Lord Wrexford.”
“The chemist,” said Gu, the shorter of the two. “Your paper challenging the results of Benjamin Silliman’s experiment in fusing chalcedony was quite convincing.”
“Are you a man of science, Mr. Gu?” asked the earl.
“The subject interests me. As do a great many others.” A shrug. “However, I’ve not devoted enough time to any of them to claim any mastery.”
“Alas, we are what you Westerners call dilettantes,” said Jiang.
“Rather, you are well-traveled men of the world,” corrected Sir Darius. “The three of us met a number of years ago in the Forbidden City, while I was on a diplomatic mission for the Foreign Office. We have since journeyed together through parts of the ancient Silk Road trade routes, exploring India and the Levant.”
“One learns much by experiencing other cultures,” observed Jiang. “And gains new perspectives, which our emperor finds useful in dealing with the world beyond our realm.”
“You have a very enlightened outlook, Mr. Jiang,” replied Wrexford. “Would that more of mankind would possess such an open mind.”
“True. And yet it seems human nature is ruled by self-interest, regardless of where one travels,” said Gu.
Kindred spirits? The earl didn’t often meet men whose curiosity and slightly sardonic view of the world’s foibles matched his own. He found himself wishing he had the luxury of engaging in lengthy conversation with Sir Darius and his friends. However . . .
“Our thoughts align, Mr. Gu. And it so happens that a matter of self-interest is what brings me here.” Wrexford looked to Sir Darius. “And much as I’d prefer to speak of other things, it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Yes, yes.” Sir Darius gestured for them all to be seated. “It is for us, as well. It so happens that Mr. Jiang and Mr. Gu are here in London for private talks with the Foreign Office over a grave concer
n to their country—and to ours. It concerns opium.”
“Opium is a scourge. The emperor has forbidden its import into our country,” said Jiang. “And yet it’s being smuggled into our country from India.”
“Which greatly concerns our king, as our country wishes to maintain cordial relations with the Dragon Throne,” added Sir Darius.
“Cordial relations,” murmured Gu, “are in the self-interest of both rulers, as our empires look to expand trading opportunities.”
“My concern is opium, too,” said Wrexford.
“So Kit told me,” replied Sir Darius. “A fortuitous conversation, as our government would be happy to see the problem solved discreetly.” He picked up a portfolio of papers from beside the box of ivory tiles. “Are you familiar with mah-jongg, Wrexford? It’s a game of skill and strategy developed in China during the Qing dynasty.”
“I’ve heard of it but have never seen the tiles. It sounds similar to backgammon,” observed the earl.
“And chess, all of which were created in the East,” said Jiang. A mere ghost of a smile seemed to flit across his lips. “But then, here in the West, we Orientals are said to have sly and devious minds.”
“Those traits, I fear, are evenly spread throughout mankind.” Sir Darius opened the portfolio and passed a sheaf of documents to Wrexford. “Mr. Jiang and Mr. Gu have a network of contacts both in India and here in the dockyards of London. They’ve compiled a report that indicates the opium problem lies somewhere with the East India Company.”
“My inquiries have suggested the same thing.” Wrexford began skimming the pages. “Though I’ve still not confirmed to my satisfaction that I’ve identified the leaders of the illicit consortium.”
“We can be of some help there,” said Gu. “A man named Fenwick Alston created the smuggling enterprise some years ago. And though he’s no longer in Calcutta, we suspect that he still has a hand in running the trade.”
“According to his older brother, Fenwick Alston was killed in the West Indies,” replied Wrexford.
“How convenient, seeing as he was about to be apprehended for trading with Britain’s enemy,” cut in Jiang before the earl could continue. “But it seems the gentleman possesses not only the slipperiness of an eel but also the supernatural powers of returning from the dead. For he’s here in London. We’ve confirmed that for ourselves.”
Gu nodded. “Nobody notices two humble Chinese laborers working around the East India docks, as many of the stevedores are foreigners. We met the fellow in Calcutta during our visit with Sir Darius, so we’re familiar with his face. He was overseeing the loading of cargo into one of the storage warehouses just several days ago.”
“You’re sure of this?” asked Wrexford.
“Positive,” replied Jiang and then tapped a finger to the outer ridge of his left cheekbone. “He has a crescent-shaped knife scar here.”
The earl thought about Cordelia’s description of the Cobra. “Would he perchance have cold, snakelike eyes?”
“A perfect description,” answered Gu. “You’ve seen him, too?”
“No, but a friend has.” Wrexford looked up from the papers. “What about Lord Elgin Copley? Have you any proof of his involvement?”
“Ah, Copley.” Sir Darius pursed his lips. “A very careful fellow. Try as we might, we’ve found no proof to connect him to any wrongdoing. Though it’s hard to believe he’s not aware of what’s going on.”
“As to that, I have an idea as to why . . .” Wrexford quickly summarized his conversation with the baron.
“Blackmail, eh?” Sir Darius let out an unhappy sigh. “The road to perdition starts with such small steps, and one thinks one can halt at any time. But suddenly the slope turns steep and slippery. I confess, Copley has done much good over the years, but the scales of justice aren’t about simply balancing good and evil.”
“The question is, who’s blackmailing him?” mused Wrexford.
“My guess is that it’s Alston,” replied Jiang. “This is a complex operation, involving complicated logistics and a network of corrupt operatives. Copley is an able administrator, but his expertise isn’t in moving goods or paying bribes.”
The statement drew a confirming nod from Gu. “Alston has run two successful smuggling operations. One can’t help but believe he’s doing the same thing here in London.”
“His methods are becoming even more sophisticated,” continued Jiang. “He’s involved a very reputable private bank in helping to obscure the movement of the consortium’s illegal money. One of the staff is apparently no stranger to smuggling.”
Wrexford felt his innards turn to ice. “Hoare’s?”
“How did you know?” asked Sir Darius.
“I became aware of this whole scheme because an acquaintance was humbugged into putting money into the consortium by David Mather.”
Sir Darius made a moue of distaste. “He’s one of those fellows who yearns for more than he has. He’s apparently very clever with finances, and while at Oxford, he became involved with some childhood friends in a smuggling operation involving French brandy. Because of his age and the intercession of his mother’s uncle, a prominent member of the House of Lords, it was all hushed up.”
“Surely he’s not one of the leaders,” said Wrexford.
Sir Darius pursed his lips. “He has charm and guile.”
Wrexford took a moment to absorb what he had just heard. “I still say he’s not one of the leaders. I have witnesses who say Copley put him on an East India merchant ship, and I would guess it was to keep his mouth shut.”
Sir Darius raised a questioning brow. “Are you sure Mather actually departed?”
A grim silence was his only answer.
“Whoever is heading it, this illicit consortium needs to be stopped,” pressed Jiang. “Else it threatens the relations between our two empires, and at a very delicate time, considering Parliament’s recent Charter Act.”
“I think I have a way of accomplishing that,” replied the earl. He shuffled the documents back in order and slid them across to Sir Darius. “However, I may have to bend a few legalities to do so.”
“There are times when it’s necessary for legalities to be flexible,” came Sir Darius’s measured answer. “The Foreign Office is aware of your previous help in eliminating a betrayal that would have greatly embarrassed the government, and would welcome your assistance once again.” A cough. “But this time, do try to avoid burning down half of London.”
* * *
Raven squirmed as Charlotte tucked an unruly tangle of hair behind his ear. “I’m not going to take tea with His Majesty, m’lady. I’m simply acting as the errand boy.”
“Nonetheless, you must look like a proper servant of an earl,” she retorted. “Show me your hands—and they had better be well scrubbed.”
He mumbled a word that earned him a sharp rebuke from McClellan. “Say that again in m’lady’s presence and you’ll be eating soap for supper for the next month.”
Their nerves were all on edge, thought Charlotte, forcing herself to draw a steadying breath. It was Raven who was tasked with putting their plan in motion. And while she conceded that the idea was clever and posed little risk for the boy, she couldn’t entirely put aside the knowledge that a man lay dead for daring to oppose their enemy.
“Sorry,” said Raven, holding out his hands for inspection. His fingernails were shockingly clean, considering what unmentionable substances were usually embedded beneath them.
Charlotte smiled. “Excellent. Do try to arrive at the earl’s townhouse without them coming to grief.”
He rolled his eyes, impatient to be off.
Death had been a frequent visitor to the slums in which the boys had spent their early childhood, and they possessed an unruffled acceptance that his shadow was part of everyday life. To Raven, this was an exciting adventure, but she felt as if she was sending him into the maw of a monster.
She pulled him into a fierce hug. “Be careful.”
&n
bsp; McClellan flashed her a sympathetic look. “Aye, Weasel. You are not to stray a step from His Lordship’s orders. Let us hear them once again before you go.”
The boy made a pained face. “Be assured, every word is chiseled into my skull.”
The maid crossed her arms. “Then it will only take you a moment to recite them.”
A sigh. “When I arrive at Lord Wrexford’s townhouse, I will dress in the bootboy’s fancy livery—no matter that I’ll look like a street fiddler’s monkey—and then His Lordship’s carriage will take me to East India House . . .”
Charlotte repressed a shudder.
“Where I’ll wave a note festooned with the earl’s impressive wax seals under the nose of the head porter and demand to be taken to Lord Copley’s office, as His Lordship has given me strict orders that it must be handed to the director’s private secretary.”
That would get the boy into the bowels of the building. And then...
“And then?” prompted McClellan.
“And then, as the minion starts to escort me back to the entrance hall,” recited Raven, “I’ll begin to squirm and whine that I desperately need a pisspot, else I might have to relieve myself on one of the precious marble statues lining the corridors.”
Wrexford had come up with a clever ruse, admitted Charlotte. She doubted any of the attendants would dare risk the wrath of a superior by allowing the boy to befoul the Company’s decorative art.
“Once I’m directed down to the basement . . .” Tyler’s inquiries among his various friends had provided them with an accurate layout of East India House. “I’ll find the first storage room that faces out on Lime Street, unlock the window, and put a wooden wedge under the frame, so that the earl can get inside the building later tonight.”
“What if the attendant insists on escorting you to the basement?” asked Charlotte.
“Pffft. Mr. Tyler says they’ll all think it beneath their dignity to serve as a guide for a boy.”
“And what if you’re spotted wandering around where you shouldn’t be?” demanded McClellan.
Murder at Queen's Landing Page 27
