Murder at Queen's Landing

by Andrea Penrose

  “A-Alexander,” she murmured.

  Silent laughter lit his eyes. “Are you sure that’s my given name? I think it may be Agamemnon.”

  Charlotte smiled. “We’ve been over this before. I’m fairly certain it’s Alexander.”

  “Hmmm.” His mouth feathered against her cheek. “Well, perhaps it’s time we settled the matter once and for all—”

  A sudden wood-against-wood thud jarred them apart.

  “Ah, I was hoping you would all still be awake!” Henning kicked the door shut behind him. “Thank God there’s still a bit of whisky left.”

  Wrexford’s sigh—along with a wry oath—tickled against her flesh as he released his hold. “Is there a reason you’re here at this hour?” he called to the surgeon. “Other than to drain my wine cellar?”

  “Yes.” A noisy slurp. “Kindly tell Griffin to stop sending your dead bodies to my mortuary.” Another splash, another slurp. “By the by, who killed Lord Copley?”

  “It’s a lengthy story,” replied the earl, moving out from behind the Engine. “Suffice it to say, the culprits have been caught, and the murders involving us are over.”

  Henning chuffed a skeptical sound. “For now.”

  Bereft of Wrexford’s touch, Charlotte hugged her arms to her chest, feeling the shadows darken and turn cold as ice as they swirled around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She took a moment to shake off the sensation, then followed him out into the light.

  Only to find the intensity of her emotions had left her utterly spent.

  “I-it’s late . . . and there’s much to be done in the coming hours, so I had better take my leave,” she announced. “Mr. Fores needs a drawing from me, and first thing in the morning, Alison must be informed of all that has happened.”

  The note in her voice roused the others. The boys came instantly awake and scrambled to their feet. Sheffield edged back from his tête-à-tête with Cordelia and cleared his throat.

  “Indeed, I ought to be going, as well,” he said, retrieving his hat from the side table.

  “So should I,” added Cordelia hastily. “I’ll find Jamie and we’ll make our way home.”

  Wrexford said nothing, and his face was impossible to read.

  “Hmmph, I seem to have blown in like a storm cloud and cast a shadow over the celebration,” observed Henning. “But before you all go, allow me to offer a toast.”

  He picked up the near-empty bottle and splashed the rest of its contents into his glass. “To peace and quiet . . .” A whisper of amber-gold liquid swirled in a slow spinning vortex. “Though with this group, that’s likely wishful thinking. But you never know. Miracles do happen.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “Peace and quiet . . .

  “Ha!” muttered Wrexford, wincing at the clatter of traveling trunks being maneuvered down the curved staircase and carried out to the waiting carriage.

  The previous day had passed in a whirlwind of activity—breakfast with Griffin . . . a meeting with Sir Darius to put together a story for the public that would minimize embarrassment for the good of the country . . . logistics arranged to transport the professor and his precious Engine back to the cottage in Cambridge. . . .

  And now dawn had barely tinged the horizon with its rosy glow and already the morning was alive with the well-oiled bustle of his staff preparing for a journey.

  Sheffield came out of the breakfast room, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, a roll of thick paper in the other. “Why did Tyler just leave the mews with your unmarked carriage? I thought Lady Charlotte, along with the Weasels and McClellan, are going to travel with Lady Peake.”

  Mention of Charlotte stirred a silent oath of frustration. What with all the humble-jumble, Wrexford hadn’t had a moment alone with her since the night of nearly losing his head to the admiral’s naval cutlass. Granted, the dowager had deserved a detailed account of how good had triumphed over evil.

  But much as he cared for all his friends, at the moment, he wished them all to the devil.

  “They are,” he answered through gritted teeth. “As for Tyler, he is handling a few errands for me before heading north.”

  “Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia are accompanying the professor,” mused Sheffield through a sip of coffee. “So, it seems we shall have a jolly little gathering at your estate come evening.”

  The thought didn’t improve Wrexford’s mood.

  “By the by, I stopped by Fores’s printshop on the way here. Charlotte’s latest drawing was published this morning.” Sheffield set aside his empty cup and unrolled the paper.

  Despite his foul temper, Wrexford couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter.

  The drawing depicted Sir Charles, dressed in full naval regalia, down on all fours, sinking in an ugly ooze of muck, with a demonic black hellhound biting his arse. The bold headline read—DOGGED BY FORCES OF JUSTICE, A TRAITOROUS ADMIRAL IS BROUGHT TO HIS KNEES!

  “The Home Office should be pleased,” said Sheffield with a grin. “For once, A. J. Quill is making the government look halfway clever.”

  “Lady Charlotte felt she owed it to Griffin for trusting us about Woodbridge,” Wrexford answered.

  “A fair resolution for all involved,” responded his friend, and the earl didn’t disagree.

  Harper ambled by, a meaty bone protruding from his jaws.

  “That,” said Wrexford, “had better be finished before you try to take a spot in the baggage coach.”

  The hound didn’t dignify the remark with a reaction.

  “Your pardon, milord.” Riche had been trailing the hound at a discreet distance. “The last of the trunks have been loaded, and the carriages are ready to depart.”

  * * *

  Charlotte stopped on the garden path and drew in a lungful of the country air. An early morning sweetness filled her nostrils, a delicate perfume of dew-damp flowers unfolding to the warming rays of sunlight.

  The quiet—just a soft rustling of leaves serenaded by the faint twitter of birdsong and the gentle hum of honeybees—was very welcome after the raucous revelry of the previous evening, as the earl’s manor house had filled with the invited guests.

  As well as a few unexpected surprises.

  A lump slowly formed in her throat as she recalled the sight of Raven and Hawk pelting into the formal drawing room—followed by Skinny, Alice the Eel Girl, Pudge, and One-Eye Harry. Wrexford had revealed yet another facet of his complexities and conundrums. Polite Society would be agog to learn the sardonic, sharp-tongued earl—a man known for his hair-trigger temper and lack of patience—had sent his private carriage to collect a raggle-taggle band of street urchins for a stay at his country estate.

  The children had gorged themselves on sweets and fruit punch, while the adults had enjoyed an excess of effervescent champagne, along with a sumptuous feast of delicacies. Charlotte doubted that Alison would wake before teatime.

  Her own head was still a little worse for the wine, but the prospect of a solitary walk as the simple beauties of a new day came to life had drawn her from a fitful slumber. Lifting her cheeks to the breeze, she was glad of it. The demands of the past few days had allowed her to avoid contemplating the tangled state of her emotions.

  But cowardice offered only a fool’s gold glitter of comfort. It quickly lost its shine.

  “What am I afraid of?” she wondered aloud.

  The warble of a dove hidden in the long grasses offered no easy answer. Yes, in the past, Love had cut her to the quick, and the folly of youthful illusions was slow to heal. But that old life had given up the ghost, and a new one had taken root . . . slowly at first, sending up tentative shoots from deep within.

  Only to have them unfurl into breathtakingly beautiful blossoms, all the more exquisite for the unexpected ranges of hues and textures. Family, friends . . .

  And Wrexford.

  Shading her eyes from the sunlight, Charlotte stopped to stare out at the sloping fields leading down to the lake and, behind it, the leafy stand of trees,
the breeze-rippled colors ranging from soft shades of newborn green to flutters of dark sage and smoky emerald.

  The earl was colored in the same complexities. Some shades were easy to discern, while others dipped and darted, defying the eye. There were moments when she thought she could clearly see the hues of his heart. And there were moments when dark-on-dark shadows seemed to swirl up and block the view.

  “Then again, I’m sure that I, too, appear to be a maddening collage of conflicting shades.”

  Charlotte felt a wry grimace pull at her lips. Ye gods. For two people who claimed to have a modicum of intelligence, they seemed to be making a hash of things....

  Feeling a little lost, she wandered out of the gardens and turned down the footpath leading to the stables. Hoots of laughter floated over the high boxwood hedge. The children were already up—the earl had given them permission to play with a litter of puppies—and as she slipped through the opening in the greenery, she saw they had all been let loose to play in one of the empty paddocks. Amid all the hilarity and the squish of mud, her approach went unnoticed.

  After moving quietly to a spot half-hidden by a stack of newly cut hay, Charlotte leaned up against the fence to watch. She found herself smiling....

  And then, to her utter surprise, she felt the salty prickle of tears.

  She forced herself to breathe in and out. Her emotions were clearly in a humble-jumble tangle—

  “You’re up early.”

  The soft earth had muffled Wrexford’s steps. He looked like he had just come from riding. The wind had snarled his hair and whipped a flush of red across his cheekbones. Mud spattered his doeskin breeches and well-worn boots, giving him a slightly raffish air....

  Charlotte quickly looked away, hoping to hide the confusion tugging at her thoughts. “As are you.”

  He settled himself next to her, shoulder brushing shoulder, and peeled off his gloves.

  They watched in silence for several long moments before he shifted slightly. “By the by, you’re crying.”

  “A-am I?” She looked down at the ground, not wishing to dampen the mood of exuberant good cheer. “A bit of straw must have blown into my eye.”

  Wrexford reached out and took hold of her chin. “Here, let me help,” he murmured, tilting her head up to face him. “Blink a few times and then look up.”

  His finger brushed lightly at the corner of each eye. “Better?”

  “Much,” answered Charlotte, quickly turning back to the children cavorting with the puppies.

  She felt his gaze remain on her face.

  Shouts. Barks. Laughter. Pure and joyous as the dancing sunlight.

  “I’m sorry.” She hitched in a breath, and suddenly emotions refused to stay pent up any longer. “It’s just that I’m thinking of . . . of a great many things.”

  “Such as?”

  How like Wrexford to cut to the heart of a problem. Somehow, the simple question gave her the courage to confess her fears.

  “Such as . . . how carefree our urchins look, and . . . and how in a few days they will go back to stews, where . . .”

  To her consternation, her voice broke.

  The wind ruffled through Wrexford’s hair. “Good Lord, you don’t think I intend to send them back, do you?” He allowed a small smile. “Cook is in need of a kitchen helper, and Alice would be a good match. Skinny likes horses and will fit in with the stable boys, while Pudge and One-Eye Harry can learn gardening. They will all, of course, attend school and have a choice about their future . . .”

  He stopped abruptly. “You’re still crying.”

  “I . . .” How to explain?

  “The future,” Charlotte stammered. “The other night, I watched for the second time as you came within a hairsbreadth of death. Once again, we were extraordinarily lucky. But Luck is fickle!” She blinked, feeling pearls of salt fall from her lashes. “What about the next time?”

  “The future holds infinite uncertainties.” His mouth curled up at the corners. “That is why one of the best-known Latin aphorisms is Carpe diem.”

  Seize the day.

  “Do you think I’m not terrified for you, and how often your courage and compassion lead you into awful dangers?” continued Wrexford. “You’re a beacon—that bright glimmer in the night which helps me find my way when I’m feeling lost.” He drew in a measured breath. “I’m not sure how I would bear the darkness without your light.”

  Their eyes met.

  “A weakness, no doubt. However, as you well know, my weaknesses far outweigh my strengths,” he added.

  “As do mine,” she said softly. “But perhaps we’ve come to know each other well enough not to be fearful of showing our vulnerabilities to each other. Flaws are what makes us human.”

  Charlotte hesitated, trying to find just the right words to express the feeling bubbling up inside her.

  Oh, be damned with finding just the right words.

  Carpe diem.

  Seize the day.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she flung her arms around him and pulled him close. “You are . . . you are . . . impossibly perfect just the way you are. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  “You can’t?” Wrexford shifted, his boots kicking up a tiny clot of mud. “Then perhaps . . .” He hesitated, his green eyes rippling for just a moment with a look of naked vulnerability, which made her heart give a fluttery lurch.

  “Then perhaps you’ll consider marrying me.”

  Was the breeze playing tricks with his words?

  “Y-you are p-proposing to me in the middle of a dung-filled barnyard, with a bunch of little savages running amok all around us?” stammered Charlotte.

  “It appears I am.” Wrexford gave a crooked smile. “Are you offended?”

  “On the contrary . . .” Charlotte touched her fingertips to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his sun-bronzed skin pulse through her skin. “It’s so outrageously wonderful that I might consider saying yes.”

  “You might?”

  The enormity of what he had just suggested hit her like a stallion’s kick. She felt a little light headed. “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what?” Wrexford pulled her closer. “You have to admit, we fit together,” he whispered. “In every way that matters.”

  She held him close, savoring the steady beat of his heart, echoing in harmony with hers.

  “I do apologize for the barnyard proposal,” he said after several moments. “I imagine it’s not nearly as romantic as your first one.”

  “Oh, fie, Wrexford.” Charlotte made a wry face. “Anthony didn’t propose. It was I who suggested we elope.” A sigh. “He would never have dreamed of being so . . . devil-be-damned bold.”

  “You deserve to be swept off your feet.” And with that, he suddenly seized her in his arms and threw her over his shoulders, much to the glee of the children.

  “Wrexford! Put me down!” Her cry was muffled by a mouthful of wool and the exciting barking of a half-dozen hairy little hounds.

  “Come, we’ve dithered long enough over this.” He set her on her feet, but his nonchalant laugh held a note of uncertainty—and perhaps a note of longing. “It’s a simple answer—yes or no.”

  And yet saying a single syllable would change everything. “Is it really that simple?”

  Charlotte watched Wrexford’s face pinch in thought. She loved the look of fierce concentration that took hold of him when he pondered an intellectual challenge.

  Sunlight flickered through a scudding cloud. A barn swallow swooped low, chasing the fat black flies buzzing around the paddock. And then a smile slowly softened the chiseled angles of his features.

  “Perhaps that’s the crux of the whole conundrum. The most profoundly complicated questions in Life can have the simplest of answers,” said Wrexford. “Love is one of the inexplicable little beauties of the universe. A fundamental truth that makes absolutely no sense.”

  He looked at her through the fringe of his dark lashes. “Unless you liste
n to it with both your heart and your head, and make those two opposing organs sing in harmony.”

  “Yes,” mused Charlotte.

  “Yes?” A tiny tic pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

  And in that instant, all her doubts flitted away.

  “Yes.”

  He drew her close. “Go away, Weasels,” he called to the pile of hay. “I wish to celebrate our betrothal by kissing Lady Charlotte without two chortling little beasts making a mockery of it.”

  Doubled over in laughter, Raven and Hawk dug themselves out of their hiding place and scampered back to their friends.

  And then his lips touched hers.

  A kiss. Or perhaps it was a revelation, reflected Charlotte, once her thoughts fluttered back to coherence. She hadn’t imagined one could feel such a profound connection of body and spirit.

  Wrexford’s breath feathered against her cheek. “Shall we go back to the house and tell our friends the news?”

  “Yes,” answered Charlotte. “I think that a splendid idea.” She watched a leaf swirl up in a gust of air and slowly float back to earth. “And then I suppose we shall have to start thinking about . . . about what comes next.” Her gaze lingered for an instant on the faraway flickers of sunlight dancing on the horizon. “A great many things will change.”

  “They will,” agreed Wrexford, twining his hand with hers. “But why don’t we just take the future one step at a time.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Those of you familiar with my Wrexford & Sloane series know that I like to weave in an important development in Regency science/ technology as a main element in the mystery. And for me, one of the most fascinating concepts of the era was that of the “Computing Engine.” For this story, I’ve used the real-life Charles Babbage and his Analytical Engine as inspiration.

  The new ideas and new technology of the Industrial Revolution were turning the early nineteenth century world upside down. It was an exciting time for someone with imagination, and Babbage—a brilliant mathematician and engineering genius, was one of the new breed of scientific thinkers leading the charge. His mind was constantly spinning with ideas on how to improve the ways things were done, and he used his practical skills to achieve many great accomplishments, from pioneering technical advances for lighthouse signaling to fine-tuning track designs for the first railroads. But it was while working on a way to create accurate mathematical tables that his genius really kicked into high gear.