CHAPTER 2
Wrexford gingerly took a seat at the breakfast table and darted a pained squint at the mullioned windows overlooking the back gardens.
Sleep had done little to temper the ill effects of the previous evening.
During the night, the throbbing in his skull had turned into a dull ache, whose bilious tentacles now reached down into the pit of his stomach.
The footman standing by the sideboard tiptoed across the carpet and quietly adjusted the draperies to block the blade of sunlight. Like all of the well-trained townhouse staff, the fellow was very good at reading his employer’s mercurial moods.
“Tea and toast, milord?” he asked in a low, soothing voice.
The earl gave a tiny nod, though the movement made him wince. “And ask Tyler to prepare—”
“To prepare his special Hair of the Dog concoction,” finished his valet, who at that very moment appeared in the doorway bearing a tall crystal glass filled with a ghoulishly green liquid.
He circled around to the head of the table, and let out a reproving tsk-tsk.
“It’s an elemental axiom that combining brandy, champagne and Scottish malt is the devil’s own recipe for a hellish morning after. ”
“Thank you for the basic chemistry lecture,” said Wrexford sourly.
“You, of all people, ought to know what comes from mixing together volatile substances without careful measurement and timing.”
Within London’s scientific circles, the earl was acknowledged as one of the leading experts in chemistry.
A fact that was often overshadowed by his erratic personal behavior.
His scathing sarcasm and blatant disregard for the rules of Society—coupled with his notorious hair-trigger temper—frequently landed him in the headlines of the city’s scandal sheets.
“Give me the damnable glass,” growled Wrexford. He took a small sip and grimaced. “Did you add an extra measure of horse piss?”
“And two pinches of sheep dung,” replied Tyler, who was well used to the earl’s irascible comments. He arched a brow in bemusement. “You’re out of practice, milord. Which doesn’t bode well for the coming weeks if you’re going to start carousing with Mr. Sheffield.”
“Remind me again why I shouldn’t give you the sack and hire a more obsequious servant?”
“Because no one else knows the secret for removing chemical stains from your expensive evening coats.”
Wrexford chuffed a laugh, and then drained the drink. “Consider yourself fortunate that I’m a vain popinjay about my appearance.”
His valet gave a long look at the earl’s uncombed hair and carelessly tied cravat. “Quite fortunate, milord.” He picked up the now-empty glass. “Is there anything else you require?”
“Other than a pistol to put me out of my misery?” Wrexford sighed. “Has Avogadro’s book on gases arrived yet?”
“The package came in from Hatchards this morning. It’s on your desk in the workroom.”
“Put out the books by Lavoisier and Priestley as well,” said the earl. If anything could chase the devils from his skull it was scientific inquiry. “I wish to review some of their early experiments with oxygen.”
“Very good, sir,” answered Tyler. Seeing the footman approach with the breakfast tray, he turned and left the room without further comment, knowing the earl’s mood was always less testy when his breadbox was full.
A plume of steam rose from the silver pot’s swan-like spout.
Inhaling the pungent scent of smoky spice, Wrexford let out an appreciative sigh as he poured a cup of the sin-dark brew.
He took a long, scalding swallow, feeling the tea begin to burn away some of his malaise.
His toast, cut thick and buttered exactly as he liked it, was—
A sudden knock on the door ruined the moment.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
His butler eased the portal open. “Your pardon, milord, but there is someone asking to see you on a matter of grave importance.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Grim Reaper, tell him I never receive visitors before noon,” he snapped.
“It’s well past one, milord.” A pause. “And it’s not a he, but a she.”
Even worse.
“The lady’s name is Mrs. Isobel Ashton.”
Wrexford frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “And pray tell, what matter of grave importance does Mrs. Ashton wish to discuss with me?”
“The death of her husband, sir.” The butler cleared his throat. “Apparently it was you who discovered his body last night.”
* * *
“Eggs and gammon?” Hawk inhaled deeply and then let out a gusty sigh. “Are we celebrating something?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte, turning away from the bubbling frying pan to cut off several thick slices of soft white bread. “The last of legalities have been signed. The lease for the new house is now official.”
Hawk gave an uncertain smile, but looked to his older brother for a reaction.
“When do you move?” asked Raven.
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest but pretended not to notice his use of the word you.
“Next week,” she replied. “The carter comes today to count the boxes.” A glance around showed that the fellow wouldn’t need more than the fingers on his two hands. “There is a great deal more space in the new house . . .”
Would that sound appealing?
“We shall have to acquire more furniture,” she went on. “Like proper beds for the two of you and an armoire for your clothing.”
Raven’s face betrayed no emotion. Neither did his wordless grunt.
“Beds,” breathed Hawk. At the moment, both boys slept on the rag rug in front of the stove. “Just like a grand lord?”
“Indeed,” she replied lightly. “You shall be Duke of the Downy Pillows.”
He giggled, but his brother’s expression remained guarded.
“Speaking of lords,” said Raven, breaking the sliver of silence, “we met His Lordship last night in St. Giles.”
“Oh?” Charlotte busied herself with turning the browning meat. There were only two reasons aristocrats ventured into that section of Town—the gaming hells and bordellos offered the sort of dangerous pleasures that couldn’t be found in the staid streets of Mayfair.
Not that the Earl of Wrexford’s exploits were any of her concern . . .
“I trust he was looking well,” she said.
“Actually he wuz a little green around the gills,” piped up Hawk. “It might have been the drink—he smelled like the inside of a brandy barrel. But more likely it was the dead body he’d just found.”
Charlotte jerked her head up, and then swore as hot grease spattered her fingers.
“Language, m’lady,” said Raven primly, which drew another chortle from his brother.
“A dead body.” She carefully wiped her hands on a rag. “As in someone expiring from natural causes?”
“Being butchered ain’t natural,” he replied.
“Don’t say ain’t,” whispered Hawk.
“You mean it was a murder?” asked Charlotte, though the answer seemed clear enough.
“Aye, and a grisly one at that. The man’s clothing was slashed into ribbons and his belly was cut up something awful,” answered Raven.
She felt herself stiffen.
“Lord Wrexford said it were likely a falling out among thieves,” added Hawk.
Ah, thank God—an ordinary murder. One that had no deeper significance than greed and desperation. The footpads who prowled through St. Giles were known as some of the most violent criminals in all of London.
“I daresay he’s right,” said Charlotte, feeling an odd rush of relief. For any number of reasons, she was glad that the circumstances would not draw the earl into being a subject for her pen.
Again.
No doubt he was even more pleased than she was.
Thrusting aside thoughts of Wrexford, she focused on a more pressing concern.
“And it is a grim reminder that St. Giles is a dangerous neighborhood, especially late at night.” She dared not voice more than an oblique warning.
Raven was fiercely independent and the ties that bound them were those of trust, not blood.
He shrugged. “Death is everywhere, m’lady.”
“That doesn’t mean you should cock a snoot at the Reaper.”
Her words elicited a grudging smile. “We’re careful.”
Not nearly careful enough, thought Charlotte with an inward sigh. But she let the subject drop.
“Come help me carry the plates to the table. As an extra treat, I also purchased some strawberry jam.”
* * *
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Lord Wrexford.” Smoothing her skirts, Mrs. Isobel Ashton settled herself on the drawing room sofa. “I know I have no right to ask for your help. But . . .”
She drew a measured breath. “But my husband was a great admirer of your intellect and incisive logic, so I thought perhaps. . .”
Her words trailed off, leaving Wrexford still wracking his brain to recall his connection to the murdered man.
“My condolences for your loss,” he murmured, falling back on the sort of platitudes he hated for lack of anything else to say.
“Elihu was particularly grateful for your advice on the chemical composition of iron,” went on the widow. “And how to achieve a metal that withstands heat and pressure.
Ah—the inventor! Wrexford now recalled their correspondence from the previous year. A fellow member of the Royal Institution had suggested that Ashton contact the earl about a problem he was having with the boilers of a new steam engine design.
What a damnable loss for the world of science that the victim was Ashton.
“Your husband possessed a remarkable talent—he had both the imagination and the technical genius to implement his ideas.” Wrexford rarely felt compelled to utter compliments, especially about another man of science.
“It’s a terrible twist of fate that he was the unfortunate victim of a random robbery. ”
He paused, wanting to choose his next words with care. There was no reason to upset a bereaved woman with any hint that the circumstances of her husband’s death had raised some unsettling questions—
“But that’s just it, Lord Wrexford,” said Isobel before he could speak. “I don’t believe for an instant that my husband’s murder was a random robbery.”
The earl sat back in surprise.