Chapter 12
“Do you see the difference?” queried Hawk’s new drawing teacher. “By shifting your grip on the pencil, the nuances in the shading of your shadows are creating more subtle and interesting textures.”
“Oiy,” answered Hawk as he sat back and smiled in surprise at Jack MacArthur. “I wouldn’t have imagined that such a tiny change could matter so much.”
“Art is all about the tiny details.” He reached out and made another small adjustment to his pupil’s grip. “Try putting a touch more pressure on the pencil with your middle finger. Now try it again …”
Charlotte pressed a little closer to the door molding, careful to stay hidden in the corridor.
This was Jack’s second visit to Berkeley Square, and she was quite pleased with how things were going.
Despite the young man’s assertion that he had no formal training in art, nor any experience in teaching, he seemed to have a natural aptitude for pedagogy.
His manner was easy and encouraging …
“Am I making any progress, Mr. MacArthur?” Eddy made a face as she looked up from her paper. “I feel like I’m all thumbs when it comes to drawing.”
Eddy had shyly mentioned that she had taken up sketching while traveling with her late mother through France and asked if she might have art lessons with MacArthur, too.
Charlotte had not wished to discourage her sister-in-law’s interest—Eddy had a wonderfully creative imagination—and MacArthur had readily agreed that she could join Hawk.
However, Charlotte was not so far removed from adolescence and realized that she and Alison would have to contrive to have some carefully constructed conversations with Eddy on allure and the opposite sex.
Not that MacArthur was doing anything to provoke an infatuation. He was perfectly relaxed and friendly with Hawk and Eddy but maintained a slight air of reserve that kept a certain formality between teacher and pupil.
She imagined that Egg had lectured the young man on the proprieties demanded by the beau monde.
As MacArthur had been raised in the rural wilds of Yorkshire, he was likely used to less formal social etiquette than the complex rules that governed London’s Polite Society.
And while Charlotte heartily agreed with the principle that an individual ought to be able to advance in life by virtue of merit rather than merely by a lucky accident of birth, Eddy’s current situation in Society was a trifle delicate.
The drawing rooms of the beau monde were rife with whispered rumors and provocative innuendos.
Whether out of boredom or sheer spite, gossips enjoyed stirring scandal.
And Charlotte knew all too well that any ladies who were grooming their daughters for the Marriage Mart would welcome the chance to spread nasty whispers about a competitor for the most eligible gentlemen.
Wrexford’s wealth and position—and his notoriety for not suffering fools gladly—would likely quash most of them.
But one couldn’t be too careful …
Suddenly aware that she was no longer alone, Charlotte slanted a sidelong glance at Raven, who had come to stand by her shoulder. His hair, always an unruly tangle, was even more disheveled than usual, the dark strands tumbling over his brow to hide his expression.
But the stiff set of his shoulders radiated disapproval.
She decided not to press him on why. “If you are interested in taking art lessons,” she said softly, “I am sure it can be arranged. Mr. MacArthur seems a very amiable fellow, for he made no bones about adding Eddy.”
“Perhaps too amiable,” muttered Raven under his breath, before quickly adding. “No question that he’s very talented, but I’ve more interesting things to do with my time.”
Charlotte repressed a smile. “Are you headed for a work session with Mrs. Sheffield?”
“There are a few books I need to consult in Wrex’s scientific library before I do so,” he answered. “There is one mathematical problem in particular that is puzzling me.”
“Well, then, we both had better return to our appointed tasks,” she said, hoping the comment would send him off to Wrexford’s workroom before Eddy noticed him—and his scowl. “Mr. Fores expects a finished drawing from me this evening, and it’s not yet ready for the final application of watercolors.”
Wrexford gave a pained grimace as Griffin placed a prodigiously large order of food.
“I was overseeing arrangements to raid a suspected stash house used by a gang of thieves plaguing the Knightsbridge area, and so I missed my regular breakfast,” explained the Runner as the serving maid moved away.
A wistful sigh followed. “It’s a pity that the class of taverns I frequent don’t have foie gras on the menu, milord. ”
“I wasn’t aware that you could pronounce foie gras, much less know it was something edible,” groused the earl. “Since when have you developed such champagne tastes?”
“Mac shared a bit of leftover paté last time I visited,” replied the Runner. “It was sublime.”
“I may have to put a lock on my larders. And keep the key out of Mac’s hands.”
“Good luck with that! Mac runs your household, and you bloody well know it.” Griffin chuckled, but then all signs of mirth disappeared from his face as he paused to toy with his soup spoon.
“All jesting aside, sir, I’m just as anxious as you are to learn whether Fletcher Campbell’s murder and the sudden death of Lord Langdon could be connected.” The spoon tap-tapped against the scarred tabletop. “And if they somehow relate to the Lisbon Conspiracy of ten years ago.”
He frowned in thought before continuing. “As I’ve mentioned before, that case has nagged at my conscience these last ten years. I feel that I missed something important … and allowed the real guilty parties to evade Justice.” A sigh. “And that sticks in my craw.”
“Evil should never be allowed to go unpunished.”
“So, how do you suggest we proceed, milord?”
Wrexford took his time in responding. Over a week had passed, and he was still brooding over Henning’s reluctance to concede that Langdon’s death was the result of foul play, despite the unexplained presence of the poisonous berries in his study and the possible pinprick on his shoulder.
However, even though he and Charlotte were sure their friend’s intransigence was masking some dark secret he refused to share, they had, after some soul-searching, decided not to force a confrontation and risk causing an irreparable rift with the surgeon.
And so it had been agreed that Henning could tell the government that the death appeared to be from natural causes.
Still, they were determined to keep investigating on their own, no matter where it might lead. Personal loyalties meant the world to him, but so did the concepts of Truth and Justice.
Wrexford hoped that he would not soon be forced to make an impossibly hard moral choice.
A cough from Griffin drew him back to the present conundrum. The question was how much to reveal to the Runner without provoking any questions about Henning’s behavior.
Drawing on his military experience, which had taught him the importance of turning a weakness into a strength, Wrexford quickly cobbled together an answer.
“As you know, while Henning and I suspect Langdon may have been murdered, the evidence was inconclusive, so we agreed that the death should officially be deemed a natural one,” he said.
“In many ways, that works in our favor. We can quietly investigate who might have had reason to want Langdon dead without drawing undue attention.”
Griffin grunted in agreement. “Oiy, lurid headlines in the newspapers always make my job more difficult.”
“There is one possible lead,” continued Wrexford. “I witnessed a rather nasty exchange between Langdon and a fellow by the name of John Ibbetson …” He quickly explained about the Inimitable Banknote Competition and the amount of money at stake.
“Ye gods—￡20,000!” The Runner let out a low whistle. “A fellow could buy a fancy country estate and live like a king for the rest of his life on that sum—and still have money left over.”
He pulled out his notebook and wrote the name on a fresh page.
“You definitely need to look into Ibbetson and his whereabouts on the night of the murder,” said the earl. “However, I think that we also need to keep looking for how Fletcher Campbell and Lord Langdon might be connected.”
Wrexford hesitated, wishing he didn’t have to open the proverbial Pandora’s box. But he couldn’t in good conscience avoid it.
“We’ve discussed Campbell’s involvement, however unwillingly, in the Lisbon Conspiracy,” he continued. “And in that conversation, you mentioned in passing that Langdon’s name had come up in the course of your investigations, but that you couldn’t recall why.”
A pause. “But given the current circumstances, you need to think harder about whether or not Langdon had any connection at all to the investigation of the counterfeiting scheme or the theft of the genuine banknotes.”
His eyes narrowing in thought, the Runner stared out at the swirls of tobacco smoke flitting through the shadows of the taproom.
The earl didn’t rush him.
Griffin finally gave a small tug to his earlobe and expelled a sigh.
“I am quite sure Lord Langdon had no direct tie to my criminal investigation. However, I seem to recall that he was involved in some other pressing government concern around the same time as the Lisbon Conspiracy …” A muttered oath.
“But for the life of me, I can’t recollect what it was. ”
“Then we need to find out,” replied the earl. “I think it best that I handle all inquiries concerning Langdon’s government activities, while you look into Ibbetson. I have several friends in the Home Office whose discretion I trust. I’ll see what I can learn from them.”