Tyler wordlessly handed Wrexford a small towel from one of the overturned drawers.
His temper flared, but the earl quickly tamped down the spark. A shouting match would serve no good purpose save to spew more smoke and vitriol into the room.
“A closer look at the empirical evidence will show that I can’t be guilty of the crime. The watchman will testify that no more than eight or nine minutes passed between our entering the building and my valet’s rushing to raise the alarm.” Wrexford gestured at the ransacked room. “Look at the mayhem and the advanced state of the fires—not to speak of the dead man. I may be the Devil Incarnate, but even Lucifer himself could not have created all this in such a short space of time.”
“As for the murder weapon, I did not exit the building, so it’s either in here or somewhere in the corridor,” pointed out Tyler.
“Hmmph.” Griffin entered the laboratory and made a slow circle through the work space, stopping every few steps to examine the damage.
“As you see,” murmured Wrexford once the Runner had returned to the doorway, “there is no weapon. Which proves I didn’t kill him.”
“What’s to say you—or your lackey—don’t have it on your person?” countered the Runner.
The earl stripped off his coat and tossed it on the counter. Tyler quickly followed suit. “You are welcome to search us.”
Griffin cracked his meaty knuckles. “Which I shall do, milord.”
And the fellow made quite a thorough—and rough-handed—job of it, thought the earl, though he managed to remain impassive throughout the process. In the cat-and-mouse game of nerves, he was not going to be the one to flinch.
“Now that you are done,” he said with deliberate politeness after the Runner had finished pawing over Tyler, “I assume we are free to have a closer look around.” He made a show of dusting his coat before putting it back on. “Just in case we see something you miss.”
“Nay,” replied the Runner. “I’ll not have the two of you mucking things up before I have a chance to study the scene.”
“But—”
“Lord Wrexford, the only reason I’m not arresting you is because there’s no weapon. But you can be sure I’ll be looking very closely at the rest of the evidence.”
“Do,” said Wrexford calmly, though he couldn’t help adding, “However, what you’ve seen so far does not inspire me to have much confidence in your ability to find the real culprit.”
“Get out,” snarled Griffin. “Milord.”
A tactical mistake, conceded the earl. He had wanted to make a more thorough examination of the half-burned papers. A clatter in the corridor announced that the watchman and his bucket brigade were about to arrive, and once they set to work, the details were likely to be destroyed.
“Just one last thing,” murmured Wrexford. “Might I inquire how you happened to arrive here so quickly?”
“As it happens, I was coming to speak with Drummond about your argument with Lord Canaday.”
Wrexford must have betrayed a spasm of surprise for the Runner curled a slow smirk. “Have you not seen A. J. Quill’s latest print?”
* * *
Tugging her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, Charlotte edged forward on the bench and darted a nervous glance up and down the graveled walkway. The modest park in Red Lion Square was far enough away from the opulent environs of Mayfair to pose no threat of discovery. Still, a meeting with Jeremy always made her insides twist in knots.
It was why she avoided arranging them unless absolutely necessary.
And much as she had tried to convince herself she was overreacting, she couldn’t deny the moral obligation.
A conscience was a cursedly inconvenient encumbrance.
Charlotte shifted again, feeling chilled despite the sunlight and the cheerful chatter of the rustling leaves.
“Good morning, Charley.”
She jumped, so lost in brooding that she had missed her friend’s approach.
Jeremy sat down beside her, a pinch of concern shadowing his smile. “It’s a lovely morning for a picnic. I brought some pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop.”
Her stomach lurched. “How thoughtful.”
“But you are in no mood for spun-sugar treats.”
A reluctant laugh slipped from her lips. “Alas, you know me too well.”
“Well enough to know you wouldn’t ask for a meeting unless it was important,” he replied softly.
“It is important,” she confessed. Jeremy was one of the very few people who knew about her secret identity. Their bond of friendship, and their sharing of secrets, went back a long way—to childhood, before a twist of fate had made him heir to a barony. The change in his life hadn’t altered their closeness. And though she knew he questioned her choices at times, he had always been willing to answer her questions about the beau monde, no matter how odd.
She hoped this time would be no exception.
“How can I help?” he whispered.
Charlotte checked that no one was nearby before asking, “I believe you are acquainted with Lord Robert Canaday?”
He nodded.
“Is he a religious man?”
Jeremy made a wry face. “No more than most gentlemen of the ton.”
Which was to say, he worshipped his own pleasures more than the Word of God. A sardonic thought, admitted Charlotte, but no less true for being so.
“Then he had not struck up a friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy in the last few years?”
Her friend frowned in thought. In profile, his fine-boned features and tousled honey-gold hair made him look like a brooding Renaissance prince in a Botticelli painting. “It’s possible,” he conceded. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it, I believe I had heard mention that they belonged to the same club.”
“What sort of club?” pressed Charlotte.
“A small and rather exclusive one, so I don’t know much about it, save for the fact that its members have an interest in literature and the arts.”
“Given the late reverend’s sermons castigating worldly indulgences, that seems strange.” She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “D-do you perchance know the name of this club?”
“I believe it’s called The Ancients,” answered Jeremy.
All at once Charlotte felt the acid burn of bile rise up in her throat. She swallowed hard, willing her voice to remain normal. “Which I suppose means their focus centers on classical Greece and Rome?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about them,” he apologized. “They tend to be rather secretive.”
She wished that she were blessed with the same ignorance. But now, there was no more pretending that she could remain silent about certain things.
“Thank you. This has been a great help.” The trill of children’s laughter floated up from the far end of the little park. Closer by, hidden in leaves of a linden tree, a lark was twittering, each note like the chime of a tiny golden bell.
Birdsong? How could this moment be filled with sweetness and light? The sound ought to be the snarly rasp of a black-as-Hades bat. . . . Did bats rasp? Or was that simply a figment of her own febrile imagination?
“Just one more question,” said Charlotte. “Is Lord Canaday prone to violence?”
Jeremy fixed her with a searching stare. “Ye god, Charley, why on earth would you ask that?”
She drew in a breath, and then simply let it leak out of her lungs.
“Surely you don’t think . . .”
“Please don’t ask me to explain,” she said quickly. “I’m simply trying to get a sense of the man. You know that in my line of work it’s important to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the people I draw.”
“What’s Canaday done to draw your attention?”
“Apparently he had quite a quarrel with Lord Wrexford at White’s last night.”
Jeremy let out a low whistle. “How do you—” A rueful grimace. “Right, right, how silly
of me to ask.”
“It is better that you don’t,” she agreed.
He looked upset—Lord, she hated doing this to him.
“Come, let me help you leave the past behind and start afresh,” he urged. “A new life, an easier life. Enough time has passed. Mistakes can be forgiven.”
She shook her head. “Most people aren’t nearly as generous spirited as you are, Jem. We both know it’s best that some secrets remain hidden.”
“True.” He blinked, the tiny muscles of his jaw tightening. “But darkness begets darkness. You deal in misery and scandal, and I worry that it’s slowly eating away at your soul.”
Charlotte looked away.
“You don’t need to do this anymore, Charley.”
Oh, but I do.
Jeremy waited. The lark fell silent. “But I see that I’m not going to get you to change your mind.”
“I’m sorry.” How to explain when she couldn’t make any sense of it herself.
“So am I.”
Hoping to dispel the tension, Charlotte quickly switched to a less provocative topic. “I do have one more question, if you’re willing. It’s not one that asks you to betray any private peccadilloes.”
He nodded, though a flicker of unhappiness lingered in his eyes.
She hated to disappoint him. But that did not stop her from asking, “Might you tell me a little about Mr. Christopher Sheffield? I understand from my sources that he and Lord Wrexford are close friends, but I don’t recall having heard his name before.”
“That surprises me.” Jeremy made a rueful face. “For Kit always seems to be treading on the razor’s edge of scandal.”
“A dissolute rake?” she asked. Gifted at birth with a pedigree of privilege, and no sense of morality to go with it. Like so many of the young blades who called themselves gentlemen.
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied after a moment of thought. “There’s little debauchery in Sheffield, merely an aimlessness. He’s considered charming, but his caustic wit and meager allowance—he’s a younger son of the Earl of Marquand, who’s known to be a nipcheese—frighten the matchmaking mamas of the ton. It’s clear he’ll need to marry a girl with a very plump dowry to ensure a comfortable life. However, without the title and influence that his eldest brother carries, he’s not considered a very good catch.”
Jeremy quirked a humorless smile. “A wealthy father expects more from his investment.”
Partnering money and power. A dance that had involved a dizzying array of steps and spins.
“In every strata of Society, there is a price to pay for admission to its highest circle.” Charlotte shrugged. “So, how is it that Sheffield and Wrexford are friends? Sheffield seems a fribble, and my sense is, the earl is not.”
“I believe they formed a bond during their years at Oxford.” Jeremy paused again to give her question careful thought. “My impression of Sheffield is that he has a sharp mind, but he has no way to put his intellect to practical use. And boredom often begets cynicism.”
God forbid that a gentleman sully his lily-white hands in business or a profession other than the military, the government, or the church. Charlotte didn’t envy the aristocracy. The cage might be gilded, and filled with sumptuous pleasures and glittering amusements.
But it was still a cage.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. I . . .” She couldn’t think of any words that might lessen the hurt of their earlier exchange. Choices, choices. Hers had been made a long time ago.
“I ought to be going,” finished Charlotte softly. “I’ve a drawing to finish by this evening.”
Jeremy rose, and knowing better than to offer her an escort home, he held out the unopened box of pastries. “Please take this. The lads are fond of apple tarts.”
She accepted it with a nod of thanks.
“I may not like your decision, Charley.” The knuckles of his gloved hand brushed against her cheek. “But that doesn’t change our friendship, or our current arrangement. I am here for you whenever you need my help.”
“I’m grateful—truly grateful, Jem.” Charlotte wished she could banish the demons lurking deep within the recesses of her being. But they had always been there. In that the two of them were kindred spirits. But Jeremy had always been by far the wiser in how to deal with his inner devils.
“If it makes you uncomfortable,” she went on, “I will not ask again for information about the foibles of your peers.”
He forced a smile. “And miss the point of your quill puncturing the pompous, puffed-up arrogance of Polite Society?” His expression turned serious. “You keep them honest, Charley. I applaud your courage, even though it terrifies me.”
It terrifies me as well.
Touching the brim of his hat in salute, Jeremy turned without further words and crossed to the open iron gate.
Charlotte stared down at the tips of her half boots, unwilling to watch him disappear into the shadows of the side street. She sat for several more minutes, curling the fringe of her shawl around her fingers so tightly that the pain brought tears to her eyes.
Pain is good. It reminds us that we are alive.
She opened the box and took a small bite of a tart, savoring the thick grains of crystallized sugar flecked with spicy cinnamon. So, too, did the small moments of sweetness.
She was strong. She would not let the darkness consume her.
* * *
Wrexford paused in the corridor to consider his options.
Which were virtually nil. Although he was a member of the Royal Institution, he had no official authority to ignore the Runner’s orders, and given the circumstances, it would not be wise to test just how far he could push the man.
“Bloody bad timing,” he muttered.
“I take it you saw something you wished to examine more closely,” murmured Tyler.
“Yes. But Griffin’s ham-fisted handling of things will likely destroy it.”
“Perhaps I can help.” His valet darted a look at the group of porters emerging from the stairwell with their buckets and brooms. “I can switch coats and hats with one of these fellows, and Griffin may not notice me in the commotion.”
“It may work,” said the earl. “There are several half-burned papers atop the charred books. Try to find a way to smuggle them out. It won’t be easy—they are damnably fragile and it’s key not to have them—”
“Lord Wrexford!” A slender man of medium height shouldered his way past the porters. “I didn’t realize you were here in the building.” He heaved an out-of-breath sigh as he hurried to join them. “Good Lord, what a hideous business.”
“Indeed it is, Lowell,” agreed the earl. Lord Declan Lowell, younger son of the Marquess of Carnsworth, served as superintendent of the building. A skilled administrator, as well as a man interested in science—Wrexford couldn’t recall his specific field of focus—he had been asked by the Royal Institution’s head to handle the logistics of the public lectures and research laboratories.
At the present moment he didn’t envy him the job.
“As it happens, I came to have a word with Mr. Drummond. But it seems someone else arrived here first.”
Lowell blanched, his well-shaped features pinching to a mask of harried concern. “I came in quite early, in order to sort through the paperwork for the upcoming chemistry lectures. In a sense, it’s a blessing in disguise, as I’m able to deal with the terrible news and have some control as to how it becomes public knowledge.”
He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed auburn hair. “I hope you don’t think me callous. Of course I am devastated about Drummond—a terrible loss of a respected member. But, to be honest, I am concerned about the Institution as well.”
His lips thinned in a momentary grimace. “There are many people who don’t like what we do here—the forward thinking, the modern ideas, the willingness to change the way things are traditionally done frightens them. I fear they will use this as some sort of sign from heaven that our experiments
are against the natural order of the world.”
Wrexford gave a curt nod of sympathy. “I don’t doubt that you are right.” Lowell had always struck him as a smart, shrewd, and pragmatic fellow. He moved in a circle of up-and-coming young and influential intellectuals—Babbage, Herschel, Peacock—and like them was a voice for reforming old rules. Perhaps he could use those qualities to his own advantage. “We men of learning understand each other—you may count on me to do all I can to keep the details from leaking out.”
Lowell chuffed a sigh of relief.
Lowering his voice, he went on, “Like you, I have an interest in seeing this solved quickly and quietly.” He shot a meaningful look at the porters, who were huddled a respectful distance away, waiting for a signal from the superintendent on how to proceed. “I’d like a look at the laboratory before your men fling around their sand and cart away the debris.”
Lowell instantly came alert. “Anything in particular?” he asked softly.
“I simply want to get a better impression of the scene,” lied Wrexford. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the man, but there were too many strange pieces to the puzzle scattered around. Until he could begin to make sense of them he was wary about revealing anything.
“However, the Runner has taken an unreasonable dislike to me.” A sardonic smile. “And so has tossed me out on my ear.”
Lowell nodded in understanding. Drawing a large ring of keys from his coat pocket, he moved quickly to the other side of the corridor and unlocked a storage room. “Wait in here. I will handle the matter.”
Wrexford and Tyler slipped into the cramped space. The door closed quietly, leaving them in darkness.
A few minutes later, the agitated clop-clop of boots beat a hobnailed tattoo on the corridor floor. The sound receded fast.
Silence. Wrexford smiled to himself.
Lowell returned and eased the door open. “I told him I needed to clear the dangerous chemicals from the room and couldn’t permit him to stay. However, he’ll be returning in a half hour. That was all the time I dared demand.”
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 10
