Chapter 11
“A new drawing master,” mused Charlotte as she shimmied into a ragged pair of muck-stained pants. “The cosmos certainly spins in unfathomable ways. One would almost think that it has a conscience, giving us an unexpected spark of light to soften the darkness of Campbell’s murder.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” replied Wrexford, who was dressing at the far end of the bedchamber to avoid the foul smell of her urchin garments. “Luck and chance are notoriously fickle. They don’t play favorites.”
“You like the young man?”
“He strikes me as a very talented artist. Other than that, I have no basis on which to either like or dislike the fellow.” The earl thought for a moment. “He seems a bit guarded, but I suppose that’s natural given that he finds himself in an unfamiliar world surrounded by strangers.”
“Indeed,” she said in a nasal voice, holding her breath as she donned a jacket that reeked of rotten onions.
He edged back another step. “How do you stand that stench?”
“I’ll get used to it in a few moments.” Her expression went through a series of odd little contortions. “When I lived in Rome, I experienced far worse smells than this.”
Wrexford refrained from comment. Impelled by youthful dreams of fame and glory, Charlotte and her late husband, a penniless artist, had eloped to the Continent, only to find that the reality of dancing along the razor’s edge of poverty quickly cut away at one’s illusions.
Anthony Sloane had not possessed the grit and determination to survive disappointment. While Charlotte …
He drew in a breath, despite the tainted air. While Charlotte is the strongest person I’ve ever met.
Moving to the dressing table, Wrexford picked up the freshly starched cravat draped over the back of the chair and looped it around his neck. “To elaborate on my answer to your question, Eddy seems enchanted by Mr. MacArthur’s art.” A pause. “Raven appeared less taken with the fellow.”
“Why would that be?” she mused. “He appreciates Hawk’s talent, so I would have thought he’d be delighted at finding a new tutor for him.”
“I think it likely had something to do with the look on Eddy’s face as she expressed her enthusiasm for my suggestion of hiring MacArthur,” drawled the earl.
Charlotte shot him a perplexed look as she tucked her hair under her floppy urchin’s cap.
“MacArthur is quite handsome—and quite young. My guess is he’s in his early twenties.”
“Ye gods, she’s barely …” Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. “Alas, thirteen is just about the age at which girlish romantic notions start swirling in a young lady’s head.” Repressing a grimace, she added, “Heaven help us.”
“I’m so sorry that our family life has become so compli—”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Wrex!” She chuffed a rueful laugh. “Challenges are what keeps life interesting.”
“But we might, on occasion, appreciate an occasional boring interlude,” he murmured.
Charlotte merely smiled, reminding him of how much he cherished her steady courage and pluck, no matter the situation.
After rubbing a bit more greasy muck on her face and checking her reflection in the cheval glass, she turned for the door. “Speaking of challenges, we had better be off.”
Lord Langdon’s residence was only a short distance from Berkeley Square. Charlotte recalled having heard that on the death of his wife, Langdon had turned over the main family townhouse to his eldest son and moved to smaller quarters on Upper Brook Street, near Grosvenor Square.
As Wrexford slipped out the back gate of their garden into the narrow alleyway that allowed access to the carts of various tradesmen who serviced the mansions fronting Berkeley Square, Charlotte followed, hugging close to the night-dark walls.
Both of them knew the twisting byways—all but invisible to most of the wealthy residents of Mayfair—by heart, and they walked in easy silence as the route snaked its way west …
“Is it selfish of me to enjoy slipping into Magpie’s persona?” The thought had suddenly popped into her head and she couldn’t help voicing it aloud. “I confess, there is a certain sense of freedom …”
Does that sound as if I regret the changes that have swept over us in the last few years?
“What I mean is …” she hastily added, only to find herself groping for the right words.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Wrexford, slowing to walk abreast with her.
“Being unafraid to take risks is an elemental part of who you are. As is having the courage to challenge convention. I imagine that shedding your corset and layers of fancy silks and satins is a metaphor for reminding yourself that all the trappings of wealth and privilege will never change that.”
Charlotte reached out to catch his hand in a heartfelt squeeze. “Thank you.” A sigh. “Perhaps you understand me better than I understand myself.”
“You know exactly who you are. It is one of the many things I love and respect about you.” Wrexford paused to look around. “We’re almost there,” he said softly. “Let us turn our attention to the matter at hand.”
A narrow cart path cut between the back gardens of the houses and the King’s Mews. After turning up the collar of his overcoat, Wrexford darted through the opening, with Charlotte following several paces behind him.
Slowing his steps, he counted the garden gates set into the high brick wall and stopped at the fourth one.
The latch clicked open with barely a whisper, allowing them entrance to a well-tended garden of ornamental specimen trees, perennial plantings, and evergreen hedges.
A faint glow of lamplight slipped through the half-closed draperies of the mullioned windows overlooking the back terrace, gilding the stone railing with flickers of pale honey-gold.
As they approached the terrace stairs, Charlotte indicated that she would position herself by the windows so as to observe the meeting, With luck, she thought, the casement would be open a crack so that she could hear what was being said.
Wrexford acknowledged her gesture with a nod before crossing to the French doors and giving a soft knock.
No answer came from within.
Craning her neck, Charlotte angled a peek into the room. Langdon was slumped in his chair behind an ornate oak desk, fast asleep …
Or perhaps sunk in a stupor, judging by the empty bottle and glass on the leather blotter.
Wrexford knocked again and, after waiting another moment, let himself in.
The sound of his footsteps on the parquet floor still didn’t rouse Langdon. Whatever urgent issue the committee chairman wished to discuss with the earl, it appeared to have drowned in a sea of spirits.
“Langdon?” An edge of irritation sharpened Wrexford’s voice.
On instinct, Charlotte moved for the door.
Several brusque steps brought the earl within an arm’s length of the desk Reaching out, he thumped a fist on the dark-grained oak.
Langdon stirred ever so slightly … and slumped forward, his lifeless head hitting the blotter with a dull thunk.
Skidding to halt behind the earl, Charlotte drew in a measured breath. “Is he …”
Wrexford moved around the desk and checked for a pulse at the base of Langdon’s jaw before responding.
“Dead,” he confirmed. After taking a quick look for any outward sign of injury, he wiped his fingers on the sleeve of his coat, then examined the empty glass and sniffed at what little spirits remained in the bottle.
“Brandy,” he announced. “A very expensive one, judging by its nuanced aroma.”
“No hint of any scent that shouldn’t be there?” asked Charlotte.
Wrexford shook his head. “In most cases, the Grim Reaper needs no help from us mortals to swing his scythe and send someone to their Maker.”
“In most cases, I would agree,” answered Charlotte. She slowly circled the desk, examining the items arranged on its top and peering into the footwell. “But given recent events, I’m finding it hard to accept this death as a mere coincidence.”
“I will, of course, take a sample of the brandy back to my laboratory so Tyler can run some tests.” The earl opened the top drawer and began looking at the papers.
“And I suggest you return home and send Josiah to fetch Henning while I keep watch here to make sure the scene isn’t disturbed.
” A pause. “And also send word to Griffin at his Bow Street office.”
“In a moment.” She had already moved to an ornate cabinet of curiosities carved out of teakwood and was studying its content through the panes of handblown glass.
Wrexford joined her, wishing that he could, in good conscience, argue with her suspicion of foul play.
Like many wealthy members of the Royal Society, Langdon apparently had a passion for collecting unusual objects from around the world. The crowded shelves displayed an eclectic array of ancient artifacts, colorful minerals, foreign handicrafts, and various other items of scientific interest.
“Looking for a blood-stained needle-thin stiletto from Persia?” he quipped, though he couldn’t quite muster an edge of humor.
“We both ought to have no preconceptions but keep our eyes wide open so that we don’t overlook any clues—”
“Assuming there are any,” interjected Wrexford.
“I’d be delighted if our only discovery is the fact that Langdon had a weak heart.” Charlotte turned. “However, you’re right—the first thing we need to do is summon Baz and get his expert opinion. I’ll return as soon as that’s arranged and have a look around the rest of the room.”
He wasn’t sure what she expected to find.
He had seen no sign of visible injury—no blood or bruising, no tiny tear in Langdon’s clothing that might indicate foul play.
Nor was there any sign of an altercation or struggle to indicate that he hadn’t been alone after returning home from his earlier meetings.
Still, Charlotte was right that they needed to keep an open mind.
“I’ll continue searching his desk and see if I uncover any evidence that he might be in financial trouble or under a threat of blackmail,” replied the earl.