CHAPTER 1 #2
All those lovely gold guineas would allow Raven and Hawk, the two homeless urchins she’d taken under her wing, to have a chance at bettering themselves. Basic schooling, decent clothing, entrée to a world outside the sordid alleyways in which they had been abandoned.
Rising, she rolled up her finished drawing within a length of oilcloth and carefully tucked in the flaps, readying it for delivery to the engravers. A glance at the clock on the rough-planked table showed it was past midnight.
The boys had not yet returned from their nightly rambles and Charlotte tried not to worry about why.
From the first time she had found them sheltering in the outer entryway of her tiny house, there had been an unspoken understanding that they were free to come and go as they pleased.
She tried to make sure they had more than pilfered scraps of food to eat and better than tattered rags to wear.
They were very bright and clever, and under her guidance they had learned to read and write . . .
But there were moments when she thought she detected a half-wild gleam in the depths of their eyes. A fierce independence, an elemental wariness that refused to be tamed.
What if they hated the idea of a nicer house, and proper schooling?
What if . . .
Whatifwhatifwhatif—
Steeling her spine, Charlotte cut off such thoughts with a self-mocking huff. Hell’s bells, if she had a penny for all the times in the past she fretted over the consequences of a decision, she’d be rich as Croesus.
She had done her best to always be forthright with them and be deserving of their trust. Unlike John Dee, Queen Elizabeth’s legendary seer and spymaster, she didn’t possess a magical scrying glass in which to see the future. She could only try to deal with the present.
And at this moment, the present was grumbling for a cup of tea.
At least she could now afford the luxury of a spoonful of sugar to sweeten it.
* * *
A sharp hiss slipped through Sheffield’s clenched teeth as he leaned in over Wrexford’s shoulder.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.” Wrexford had felt for a pulse, though the three bloody stab wounds piercing the left ribs indicated the victim couldn’t have survived. Sitting back on his haunches, he surveyed the violence of the attack—the ripped clothing, the slashed boots, the mutilated flesh of the dead man’s belly.
“Holy hell,” muttered his friend, fumbling to light another match. The flare of light showed all the color had leached from his face.
“The Devil’s own work,” he agreed.
Sheffield swallowed hard. “It’s an awfully brutal attack, even for this part of Town.” The man’s neck had been broken and a knife slash had badly disfigured his face.
Lifting the dead man’s hands, the earl examined the broad knuckles, noting the bruising and scrapes. “Looks like he put up a fight.”
“That explains the victim’s wounds.” Sheffield averted his gaze. “The footpad must have panicked at the resistance.”
“Perhaps.” Wrexford frowned, sensing there was more to it than met the eye. “But that doesn’t explain the cut-up clothing or the slashes made to the body after death—”
“How the devil can you tell that?”
“There was little bleeding from the cuts on his belly. Which means his heart had stopped pumping.”
Sheffield was starting to look a little green around the gills.
“Footpads strike for pragmatic reasons,” mused the earl, as much to himself as to his friend.
“They want money and valuables—which they assume are in pockets or on fingers. They don’t waste time searching seams or mutilating their victims. Unless .
. .” He took a closer look at the ripped lining of the coat and ran a hand between the wool and satin.
“Unless the fellow’s attacker knew the fellow had something special hidden on his person,” suggested Sheffield.
“There’s that possibility,” conceded Wrexford. “But given the signs of blind rage, it’s more likely personal. Perhaps a betrayal or a business deal gone bad.”
His friend appeared unconvinced. “But by his clothing—or what’s left of it, the fellow appears to be a gentleman.”
Wrexford arched a brow as he continued to examine the coat. “Meaning a gentleman is never involved in anything sordid?”
A fresh match caught Sheffield’s answering grimace. “Point taken.”
He nodded absently, his attention caught by a small tailor’s mark sewn in discreetly at the back of the collar.
It appeared that the victim was from Leeds.
Which added yet another layer of mystery as to why he was lying murdered in one of London’s most dangerous stews.
A stranger to the city did not simply stumble by chance into these fetid alleyways . . .
As the stinking sludge began to seep through his own boots, Wrexford shrugged off the conundrum. Whatever reason had brought the fellow here was none of his concern. After draping the remains of the coat over the death-distorted face, he rose.
“There’s nothing more to do here. Let’s find a watchman in Red Lion Square and alert him of the crime.” A pause. “Assuming you know your way out of this cursed maze.”
“That way,” said his friend indicating the passageway to their left.
As they turned, the earl spotted two wraith-like shapes flitting, dark on dark, within the shadows.
“The Weasels,” he muttered.
“Where?” demanded Sheffield. “I see nothing.”
“You wouldn’t.” Already they had disappeared in the gloom. “They’re more slippery than quicksilver.”
An instant later, two boys darted out from a plume of mist on the other side of the alleyway.
“Oiy,” grunted the older of the two. “Another dead body, m’lord?”
“Don’t be insolent to your elders,” shot back Wrexford.
Sniggers greeted the rebuke. Unlike the beau monde, the Weasels weren’t intimidated by his lofty titles.
The younger boy grinned. “I gotta new toof coming in.” He raised a hand to his lower lip—or perhaps it was a paw. It was too filthy to be sure. “Here, would ye like te take a peep?”
“Good God—do not put that finger in your mouth,” he snapped. “You’ll likely get the plague.”
The older boy—whose name was Raven, though the earl pretended not to know it—made a rude sound. “Our tutor, Mr. Keating, says there ain’t been an attack of the plague in London since 1665.”
“Yes, well, ingesting a mouthful of that disgusting muck could very well change that.”
Hawk—like his brother, he, too, had an avian moniker—obediently dropped his hand.
Raven hesitated, then turned his attention back to the corpse. He crossed the footpath and leaned in for a closer look. “Cor, that’s a nasty bit of blade work.”
“It’s a nasty part of St. Giles,” replied Wrexford. There was no need to mince words. The brothers had grown up amid the brutish realities of life in the stews. Hoping to forestall further questions, he added, “Which begs the question as to what you Weasels are doing here at this time of night.”
Raven ignored the question. “It’s odd for a cove te have his togs shredded like that,” he mused.
Damnation—the boy was too sharp by half.
“Not if a thief thought he was being diddled by his partner,” said the earl. “My guess is it’s a quarrel over money that turned ugly.”
“I s’pose that makes sense,” allowed the boy.
“Are ye gonna find the murderer?” demanded Hawk.
“Absolutely not. I’ve resolved to leave solving crimes to the proper authorities,” replied Wrexford firmly.
The boys had played a role—far too great a one—in helping catch the Reverend Holworthy’s killer, and he didn’t wish to encourage the thought that it might happen again.
“As is the duty of any law-abiding citizen, I’m going to alert a night watchman.
And then I’m going to seek out my bed and sleep the sleep of the innocent. ”
Though he knew it was pointless, he moved slightly to block the younger boy’s view of the mutilated torso. “I suggest you two scamper home and do the same.”
The boys continued to stare at the body.
“It’s just a commonplace murder, one of many that likely occurred here in Town tonight,” he murmured. As if the taking of any life, however flawed, could ever be thought of as meaningless. “No need to study the gruesome details. There’s nothing about this crime that will interest Mrs. Sloane.”
Raven nodded and slowly turned away. “Aye. M’lady says her skills ain’t needed te tell the public about nasty truths of their everyday life. She thinks that her pen is more useful fer exposing the evils in society that can be changed.”
The pen is mightier than the sword. It was true that Charlotte’s drawings had a rapier-like sharpness. And the fact that she unerringly cut to the heart of the problems facing the country or the hypocrisy of the ruling class was elemental to their popular appeal.
Feisty courage and lofty principle—a dangerous combination if ever there was one.
Repressing a grim sigh, Wrexford watched the two boys disappear into the fog-swirled darkness. The pounding in his head now felt like a spike was cracking through his skull. “Come, Kit, let’s find—”
“Halloo!” A flash of lantern light and a sharp hail cut him off. “Who goes there?”
“Ah, excellent. Here comes a night watchman. We can hand things over to him and wash our hands of this damnable business.”