She shrugged.
“And it’s not just you who will pay the price. You’ve two young boys who depend on you.”
Her mouth quivered for an instant. “That’s a low blow, sir.”
“Yes, it is. But no less true.”
Their gazes locked and Wrexford could almost hear the steely clang of rapier against rapier.
Charlotte held his eyes a moment longer, then looked away. “The stakes are higher,” she conceded. “But before you continue ringing a peal over my head, please hear me out.”
He, too, backed off. “I’m willing to listen.”
Charlotte was about to begin when a knock on the door sounded. She looked to the window, but Wrexford stopped her with an exasperated chuff.
“Never mind. My butler is growing used to the eccentricities of my acquaintances.”
“Thank God,” quipped Sheffield. “Supper is about to be served.”
“Excellent. I’m famished.” She smiled on seeing the earl’s scowl. “Come now, sir, you’re always more cheerful when your stomach is full.”
“It’s a moot point, seeing as what you’re about to say will likely rob me of any appetite.”
“Stop brangling,” commanded Sheffield as he stepped aside to allow the earl’s butler to place a large tray on the tea table and then quietly withdraw. “It’s bad luck to break bread in anger.”
Wrexford drew in a sharp breath, but held back a retort.
“Do go on, Mrs. Sloane,” said the earl’s friend after helping himself to several slices of beefsteak and a wedge of buttery cheddar.
She took a seat on one of the work chairs, suddenly looking smaller and more vulnerable than she had a moment before. He looked away quickly, uncomfortably aware that the thought triggered feelings that he wished to keep at bay.
Damn her for somehow prying open a chink in his defenses. It was far simpler to snap and snarl at the world from within a suit of armor. Caring about another person . . . was dangerous.
“You may think my actions rash, milord, but in truth I thought very carefully about my drawing and its timing,” began Charlotte after removing her heavy moleskin jacket. “We have our main suspects under surveillance, and touching a raw nerve, so to speak, may cause them to react without thinking and make a mistake.”
Shaking off his musings, Wrexford made himself focus on the problem at hand. “The trouble is, after paying a visit to a fellow man of science at the Royal Institution and a skilled toolmaker this afternoon, I have reason to believe we may be looking at the wrong people,” he replied. “There’s a good chance the real culprit is a chemist.”
Her reply was quick and decisive. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Why?” he challenged.
She took a piece of paper out of a hidden pocket in her shirt. “Because of this.”
* * *
Her thoughts, Charlotte knew, ought to be strictly focused on the evidence and convincing the earl that she was right in her reasoning. Still, as she watched him unfold the note, she couldn’t help thinking what graceful hands he had. Strong. Sure. And yet capable of great gentleness, as she’d witnessed when the boys were in trouble. One wouldn’t have guessed it from his outward show of snappish sarcasm.
A man of contradictions and complexities.
Which, she supposed, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“What am I looking at?” he demanded.
“I found it hidden in a locked case in Mrs. Ashton’s dressing room. As you see, it’s written to her and signed with a D. As Kirkland’s Christian name is Dermott, I presume it was written by him.” She looked at the earl’s friend. “I’m hoping Mr. Sheffield can confirm that.”
Wrexford passed it over without comment.
“Yes, I’m quite certain this is Kirkland’s handwriting,” said Sheffield after subjecting it to a careful scrutiny. “Mind you, gambling vowels tend to have mostly numbers but while I don’t remember cards overly well, I’ve a good eye for letters.”
The earl took it back. “Might I be so bold as to inquire how, precisely, you came to be in Mrs. Ashton’s dressing room?”
She expelled a resigned sigh. “I see we are about to have another round of pyrotechnics. But after the sparks die down, might we call a short truce in which to enjoy refreshments?”
He didn’t smile, but she thought she detected a tiny flicker of grudging humor in his eyes. To his credit, the earl was one of those rare men who was able to laugh at himself.
“It wasn’t nearly as risky as you might think.” An overstatement, perhaps, however Charlotte sensed his temper was on edge and a further clash would do neither of them any good. “Miss Merton was instrumental . . .” She gave a quick explanation of the ruse, and how it had gone exactly as planned.
“That was devilishly dangerous, Mrs. Sloane,” said Wrexford after a long moment of silence. “If the widow is involved in her husband’s murder, she wouldn’t have had any qualms about sticking a knife between your ribs.”
“It was no more dangerous than chasing into the stews after the man you thought responsible for the hideous slashing of Ashton’s throat.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s different.”
“Because I am a woman?”
Sensing that he was being maneuvered into a verbal corner, Wrexford quickly sidestepped the question by countering with one of his own.
“If Mrs. Ashton and the viscount are alerted to our suspicions, it may give them time to cover their tracks. How can you be sure she won’t notice that her rooms have been searched?”
Charlotte fixed him with a level gaze. “Because I’m very good at what I do, Wrexford. I wouldn’t stay in business if I wasn’t.”
“The beef is excellent,” murmured Sheffield. “As is the cheddar. May I fix you a plate, Mrs. Sloane?”
“Thank you. That would be most welcome.”
“Wrex?” asked his friend.
The earl’s answer was to pour himself a glass of claret.
“Come, let us set aside our differences and have a constructive conversation on what to do next,” said Charlotte after savoring a few bites of the food. “By the by, Mr. Sheffield is correct—the beef is delicious.”
The earl finally surrendered his scowl. “It had better be,” he replied, fixing himself a generous helping from the platter. “I pay my chef an obscene amount of money.”
“I imagine he earns it,” she said.
Wrexford surrendered a low laugh. “You know, most people show a modicum of respect for my exalted position.”
“I am not like most people,” pointed out Charlotte. “And besides, an occasional pinprick keeps your vanity from ballooning to exalted heights.”
“No chance of that with you two around,” said Wrexford, once he had swallowed a mouthful of beef and bread.
Sheffield smiled. “You loathe toadeaters.”
The banter—and the refreshments—appeared to have improved the earl’s mood. Setting aside her empty plate, Charlotte decided it was time to get down to business.
“So, assuming you agree with the assessment that Kirkland and Mrs. Ashton are the most likely suspects, we must decide what to do next.”
Wrexford took a long sip of his wine. “Given your discovery, I agree that it makes the most sense to pursue the pair. So the question is, do we wait for them to rendezvous and then confront them together? Or do we choose one of them and see if we can force a confession?”
“Both have merits,” mused Charlotte. “For the moment we hold a certain advantage in knowing of their illicit past. However, it seems to me Benedict Hillhouse is the unknown factor in all this. We don’t know how close he is to completing a working model of the engine, or how that might factor into the timing of applying for a patent. We may not have much time.”
“I take it you are suggesting bold action.” At her confirming nod, Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “So, who do we confront—the viscount or the widow?”
“The widow,” responded She
ffield without hesitation.
Charlotte expected no less. Men liked to delude themselves with the notion that women were, by their nature, prone to betrayal. But in her experience, the opposite was true.
“Mrs. Sloane?” murmured Wrexford. “You are unnaturally silent on the subject.”
Sheffield, she noted, put down his plate and went very still. Perhaps he was expecting further fireworks.
“I disagree,” she answered. “Especially as, for pragmatic reasons, I wouldn’t be permitted to take part in the interrogation.”
The earl’s gaze turned hooded. “Would you care to elaborate on your objection?”
“Women are not always the weak vessel you men assume them to be. A strong and clever female knows how to turn such prejudices to her advantage,” replied Charlotte. “In short, I think gentlemanly scruples will prevent you from being too rough on her. While I, on the other hand, would keep my hands around her throat and squeeze harder if I sensed it would draw out a confession.”
Sheffield’s expression altered slightly—whether in admiration or revulsion she couldn’t quite discern.
Wrexford’s face remained a cipher.
She waited, trusting his innate good judgment to conquer any lingering vestiges of ill humor.
“An interesting conjecture,” he finally commented. A hint of a smile touched his lips. “The idea of being at your mercy in any interrogation is terrifying.”
“Nonsense, milord. Nothing terrifies you, least of all me.”
The dark fringe of his lashes stirred ever so slightly. But whatever he was going to reply was cut short by a sudden loud rustling in the ivy vines outside the window, followed by the hurried scrabbling of leather on stone.
Quick as a cat, Wrexford shot up and moved to the rosewood case containing his pistols. Steel flashed in the wildly flickering candlelight as the hammer cocked with a sharp snick.
Charlotte came to her feet as well, just as a hand grasped the fluted granite ledge.
“Oiy!” Raven hauled himself up to the sill, red-faced and struggling to catch his breath.
In two quick strides, the earl was at the window. Grabbing hold of the boy’s collar, he pulled him into the room.
“Ye got te come fast! Kirkland—” exclaimed Raven, his words tangling in a gusty wheeze.
Wrexford thumped him several times between the shoulder-blades to jar the air back into his lungs. “Steady, lad.”
“Kirkland—” gasped Raven.
“What about him?” urged Charlotte.
“He’s been murdered!”
CHAPTER 23
“At least, it looks that way,” amended Raven quickly. “I can’t be sure, seeing as ye ordered us not te follow him into any building, and we kept our word.”
“Thank God,” rasped Charlotte, falling to her knees and enfolding him in a hard hug.
Much to the boy’s chagrin, noted Wrexford, as he uncocked the pistol’s hammer.
“Good God, this is blood!” she suddenly exclaimed, fingering a dark patch on the front of his coat.
“Don’t get all argy-bargy. It ain’t—it isn’t—mine,” protested Raven. “I’m trying te explain—”
“If the lad isn’t hurt, let him tell us what’s happened,” ordered Wrexford. To Raven he added, “As quickly as you can, but try not to leave out any important details.”
The boy squirmed free of Charlotte’s hold. “Me ’n Pudge were the ones keeping watch on White’s. Lord Kirkland left right after eight.”
Sheffield nodded in confirmation
“He didn’t hail a hackney but headed north on foot, by way of Dover Street. At the corner of Hay Hill, another man came around the corner from Berkeley Street and hailed him. They spoke fer a few moments—friendly-like as far as we could tell. We didn’t want te get too close and give ourselves away.”
“Wise thinking,” said Wrexford. “Go on.”
“They fell in step together and walked fer a bit before cutting through the passageway on the east side of Bruton Lane, which brought them to a cul de sac running along the back of two buildings on Hay’s Mews.”
The earl knew the place. Even Mayfair, with its elegant streets and thoroughfares, had a maze of twisting passageways threading through the neighborhood, which allowed for the coal mongers and nightsoil men to do their business without offending highborn sensibilities.
“Lord Kirkland and the other man entered the one on the right,” continued Raven. “I found a place te hide behind some broken crates, while Pudge scarpered around te the front of the place te make sure they didn’t leave that way. We weren’t there more than five minutes when the other man came out the back entrance, moving quick-like, but taking care te keep te the shadows. He passed close te where I was crouched and tossed something into the jumble of crates, then disappeared around the corner.”
“Did you see what he threw away?” asked Sheffield.
“O’course I did,” answered Raven as he drew a knife from inside his coat, dried blood still clinging to the blade.
Charlotte paled.
Thinking, no doubt, of how the boy had been within a hairsbreadth of the man who had wielded it, gauged Wrexford. But there wasn’t a moment to spare for sympathy. Time was of the essence.
“Where’s Pudge?” he demanded.
“I set him te watching the rear of the building while I came te fetch ye.”
Grabbing up the other pistol from its case, the earl looked to Sheffield. “Stay here. When Tyler returns tell—”
“Be damned with that!” cut in his friend, holding out his hand for one of the weapons. “I’m coming with you.”
“As am I,” said Charlotte.
A deciding argument would only waste precious seconds; Wrexford passed over a pistol. “I’ll allow you to lead us to the spot, Weasel, but after that you’re to come back here and wait for Tyler.”
“I ain’t!” responded the boy.
The earl caught him by the scruff of his coat. “Yes, you are. I’ll have your word on it, or in you go to the storage closet.” He swung Raven around. “As you see, it has a bloody big lock.”
Raven’s next words weren’t a promise.
“Very well, lad.” He took a step toward the heavy oak portal.
“Oiy, oiy! I swear to it.”
“Then let us fly.”
Following Raven’s lead, they scrambled out through the window and trooped swiftly and silently through the winding byways. On approaching the entrance to the cul de sac, the boy slowed and gave a low whistle.
An answering one cut through the gloom.
“That’s Pudge,” confirmed the boy. “This way.”
The urchin popped up from within the spiky silhouettes of broken slats. “Nuffink—nobuddy’s come or gone,” he reported.
Wrexford fished out a guinea from his pocket. “My thanks, lad.”
Pudge gave an awestruck grin. “Anytime, Yer Nibs.” The coin disappeared into his pocket, and in the next instant the wraith-like urchin was gone, too.
“There’s the entrance.” Raven pointed to a shadowed doorway.
“Wait here, lad.” The earl didn’t bother giving orders to Charlotte and Sheffield. He knew they would do whatever they damn well pleased.
He hurried across the uneven ground, unsurprised to hear the light-footed tread of steps behind him. On reaching the portal, he found it slightly ajar.
Drawing his pistol, he waited for the others to join him. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “Mrs. Sloane, stay right behind me. Kit, cock your weapon and bring up the rear.”
The hinges creaked as the door swung open. The dank scent of decay immediately assaulted his nostrils. Wrexford stepped inside, crumbled mortar from the bricks crunching under his boots. An air of abandonment pervaded the place. The windows were tightly shuttered, allowing no light to dribble in, and the utter silence as he halted amplified the impression of emptiness.
Empty, save for a lingering aura of evil. The sensation was palpable, sharp as a knifepoint
prickling against the back of his neck. He felt the tension in Charlotte as her shoulder brushed up against his.
Whatever reason had brought Kirkland to this spot, its malevolence still swirled, blacker than the shroud of shadows. Shifting his stance, Wrexford hit up against a hard object on the planked floor. A lantern, by the feel of glass and metal.
“Have you a match?” he whispered to Sheffield. Stealth seemed pointless.
A flare of phosphorous pierced the darkness. His friend quickly lit the wick, and with an oily sputter, a flame came to life, casting a weak aureole of light.
Nothing.
Wrexford ventured another step deeper into the murk and lifted the lantern higher.
Charlotte let out a shivering gasp.
Kirkland lay face up, his sightless eyes gleaming with a pale pearlescence in the fluttery light. His once-white cravat was now stained a rusty red, and dark-fingered rivulets were snaking out from the pool of viscous liquid forming beneath his ravaged neck.
“Ye god,” uttered Sheffield. “Another slashed throat.”
“Yes,” said the earl, “Our villain, whoever it may be, appears to have an unholy skill with a blade.”
Charlotte crouched down for a closer look. “Given his height and bulk, I don’t think it could have been Mrs. Ashton. She couldn’t have managed the reach and angle—not to speak of the fact that this sort of damage would require a goodly amount of strength.”
“You’re likely right. But perhaps it’s time we take the offensive and find out for sure.” Wrexford felt a sudden surge of fear as he glanced at the pooling blood. Charlotte was in mortal danger until the murderer was apprehended.
She looked up and met his gaze through the hazy light. “You’re suggesting we pay a call to her townhouse now?”
“Surprise is a weapon unto itself,” he replied. “If we can knock Mrs. Ashton off balance, she may make a fatal slip.”
Her expression turned troubled.
“It doesn’t matter who wielded the knife,” he explained. “If the widow is conspiring with the murderer, then her own neck is in danger from the hangman’s noose. By striking hard and fast, we may be able to frighten her into betraying her cohort by offering her a choice between life and a very unpleasant death.”
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 25
