CHAPTER 6 #2
“Don’t be impertinent,” she said tartly.
“Wot’s billy-doos?” demanded Hawk.
“A silly jest that doesn’t merit a reply.” Charlotte finished knotting twine around the package for Wrexford. “Both of you are letting your speech—and your manners—slide into the muck. I know you can do better.”
Hawk hung his head in contrition. “I’m sorry, m’lady.”
Raven’s reaction was harder to gauge. He had always been far better at hiding his feelings than his younger brother. Turning into the shadows, he took a moment to pluck at a loose thread on his sleeve before meeting her gaze.
“Just let us know when your missive is ready, milady,” he said in perfect imitation of a proper little Etonian. “It would give us great pleasure to deliver it forthwith to the Earl of Wrexford’s townhouse.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a burble of laughter. “Be off with you, Weasels,” she said, using the earl’s sardonic name for the pair. “And do not pester His Lordship’s cook for sweets.”
A guilty flush colored Hawk’s face. “Yes, m’lady.”
As they hurried away, she turned and found herself confronted by the still-jumbled assortment of half-packed boxes stacked around the room. Yet another reminder that her whole life was turning topsy-turvy.
Change.
Taking a seat at her desk, Charlotte felt a sudden clench in the pit of her stomach.
Through Wrexford, she had learned the scientific laws of the universe seemed to indicate that everything was in constant flux. Time. Motion. Nothing was impervious to change—even a solid slab of granite eroded over the years, worn away by wind and rain.
But somehow such abstract concepts were of cold comfort. She picked up her pen, hoping its familiar feel would help calm her nebulous fears.
Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis—The times are changing, and we change with them. “I, of all people, ought not be intimidated by change,” she whispered.
The gravitas of Latin usually served to steady her emotions. And yet, despite the exhortation, a trickle of cold sweat started to slide down her spine.
Closing her eyes, she sought to banish the strange moment of weakness.
After all, her life had been shaped by tumultuous change—and not always for the better. But somehow she had always managed to draw strength from adversity. It was puzzling that a seemingly simple move from one physical space to another was setting off such a sense of trepidation.
Dipping her pen into the inkwell, Charlotte began sketching a series of random swirls on a blank piece of paper. Drawing always helped focus her thoughts, sharpen her insights.
It was, however, a good deal easier to see the faults in others. Still, she made an effort to look at her own situation with the same detached scrutiny she brought to the subjects of her social commentary.
For the past year, since secretly taking up A.
J. Quill’s pen upon the death of her husband, she had worked in quiet solitude, earning accolades as London’s sharpest satirical artist. The peccadilloes of the rich and royal—their scandals over sex and money and politics—provided endless fodder for her drawings.
Her popularity with the public had brought a modicum of financial stability . . .
But then had come the murder of the Right Reverend Josiah Holworthy, a rising religious fanatic, whose gruesome killing had captivated all of London. Lord Wrexford had been the prime suspect, and circumstances had brought them together as reluctant allies to uncover the truth about the crime.
Charlotte’s pen momentarily stilled as she recalled the dark secrets that had come to light—both about the reverend and her husband’s death.
Secrets which had forced her to face her own hidden past.
Wrexford was right. The truth was, there was no staying still. One made choices every day, both big and small.
Both right and wrong.
It did no good to fret. Whatever the consequences, she would find a way to deal with them.
“I am strong,” she reminded herself. As A. J. Quill, she had learned to be tough. Sardonic. Dispassionate.
It was, Charlotte supposed, one of the things that drew her and the earl together.
Wrexford shared the same view of the world, though his sarcasm was far sharper than hers.
He had no illusions that life was ruled by reason or fairness.
And so he could laugh at the fickleness of Fate—even when it came perilously close to putting his own neck in a noose.
She would do well to copy his lead.
Looking down, Charlotte was surprised to see the paper bore a rough sketch of Wrexford’s face.
Wrexford. For an instant, an odd little flutter stirred inside her. Just as quickly it was gone. Expelling a sigh, she crumpled the sheet and set it aside.
Enough of maudlin whingings. Nihil boni sine labore—nothing is achieved without hard work. Taking a fresh sheet from the stack of watercolor paper, she set to roughing out a sketch for her next satirical print.
* * *
“Thank you for coming, Octavia,” said Isobel as the door clicked open and a young woman took a tentative step into the drawing room. “This is Lord Wrexford, a friend and colleague of Elihu. He wishes to ask you a few questions pertaining to my husband’s work.”
Wrexford wondered whether he was just imagining Miss Merton’s slight flinch at the word husband.
“I hope you will consent to speak with him,” went on Isobel. “It may help unravel the mystery of Elihu’s murder.”
Octavia’s eyes widened for an instant, then she quickly dropped her gaze to the carpet. “Y-Yes. Of course.”
Isobel rose and inclined a small nod his way. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Wrexford, there are some matters I must discuss with the housekeeper.”
It was a tactful way of giving them privacy, but the young woman looked wary as she took a seat on the sofa.
In contrast to the widow’s delicate form and dark coloring, Olivia Merton was tall and slender as a stalk of wheat.
In the slanting sunlight, her hair reflected tones of honey and russet mixed in the strands of dull gold.
She had none of Isobel’s fluid grace. Her movements were stiff and ungainly, as if some unseen force was holding her in thrall.
But then, he reminded himself, she had just lost a surrogate father to a vicious crime. The shock and grief of it must be profound.
Unless, of course, it was some other emotion.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” murmured Wrexford. A banal platitude, but nothing else came to mind.
“Thank you,” she answered in a toneless whisper.
“I understand you and Mr. Ashton were close,” he began, only to see the color drain from her face.
“Who told you that?” asked Octavia quickly.
It seemed an odd response. “Does it matter?” he countered. “That you held each other in high regard is nothing of which to be ashamed.”
“No—of course not. It’s just that . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “Forgive me, sir. I-I’m finding it hard to absorb the fact that he is gone.”
“That’s quite understandable, Miss Merton.
I shall try to keep my questions short.” Wrexford gave her a moment to compose herself, but then pressed on.
Perhaps it was cruel, assuming her grief was real.
However, if fear and guilt were leaving her vulnerable to making a verbal mistake, he couldn’t afford to let the opportunity slip away.
“I’ve been told that Ashton was on the verge of completing work on an important invention—one that would change the way many things are manufactured in this country,” he said. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” said Octavia. “Eli was a genius, and his latest idea promised to be revolutionary.” She looked up from her lap and for the first time allowed her eyes to meet his. “You worked with him on a formula for iron, Lord Wrexford. So you know that his intellect was unique. But . . .”
A tiny furrow formed between her brows. “ But I don’t see what all this has to do with his death.”
It appeared that Mrs. Ashton hadn’t told Miss Merton about the note that had lured her husband to the stews of St. Giles. Was it because she suspected that her husband’s secretary already knew of its existence?
Shaking off such thoughts for the moment, Wrexford replied, “I have reason to believe that someone was hell-bent on snuffing out Ashton’s brilliance.”
Octavia blinked, the only sign of emotion. “I don’t understand. I thought it was a random robbery by footpads.”
“On the contrary, all signs point to it having been a premeditated attack. Judging by the state of his clothing, the killer was searching for something. I think it might have been papers.” He let the words sink in. “Can you think of anyone who might have committed such a terrible crime?”
Her knuckles whitened as she fisted her hands together. Silence stretched long enough that he thought she might not answer. But when she finally spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “No.”
“If his invention was as revolutionary as you say, the patent on it would be worth a fortune,” pointed out Wrexford.
“Eli wasn’t interested in becoming rich,” said Octavia in the same measured tone.
The earl couldn’t help chuffing a skeptical grunt.
“He wasn’t,” she insisted. “Any money made on a patent was going to be used—” Her words cut off abruptly.
“For what?” he prompted.
Octavia stiffened her spine against the pillows, her expression remaining stony. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”
Wrexford thought it mattered a great deal, and made a note to learn more about Ashton’s business. Looking at her rigid features, he decided there was little chance in prying more information out of her concerning the inventor’s intentions. So he returned to his original line of questioning.
“Ashton may not have been interested in acquiring a personal fortune, but most people are. Greed is a powerful motive. I have a list here of people who knew about Ashton’s research.” Paper crackled as he raised the list from his lap. “Do you think any of them capable of violence?”
One by one, he slowly read off six names, each time getting a brusque shake of her head in response.
He looked up from the page. “And lastly, Benedict Hillhouse.”
“Benedict!” The shrillness of her voice seemed to amplify as it echoed off the ornate furnishings of the room. She looked torn between fear and fury. “No—never!”
Interesting. The sudden burst of emotion hinted at hidden fire. Miss Octavia Merton was taking great pains to keep a tight control over herself, and yet clearly there were passions bubbling just beneath the surface.
“You seem very sure of that.”
“I am.”
The answer made him curious to meet Ashton’s laboratory assistant. “I should like to speak with Mr. Hillhouse myself. Might you ask him if he will grant me a few minutes of his time?”
“He’s out,” replied Octavia softly.
“When will he return?” countered the earl.
“I couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?
“Then I shall call tomorrow afternoon. Please ask him to be here at half past three.”
She stared at him, unblinking.
Wrexford decided there was no point in continuing the interview. “Thank you for your time, Miss Merton. For the moment I have no further questions.”
Tucking the list into his pocket, he rose and took several steps toward the door, then paused. “If I asked you to describe Mrs. Ashton in one word, what would it be?”
Octavia stared down at the carpet. “I’m not very good with words.”
An evasive answer. Which perhaps told him more than she intended.
Lost in thought, Wrexford left the townhouse and began walking the short distance back to Berkeley Square. Amid the many questions swirling inside his head, one in particular was echoing loudly against his skull.
Why the devil had he allowed himself to be drawn into investigating the murder of a man he barely knew?
He wasn’t normally plagued by self-doubts over decisions, but this one was bothering him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
Had he been a fool to succumb to Isobel’s plea?
The case offered naught but devilishly difficult conundrums to unravel.
Even Griffin, a man who made his living apprehending criminals, was doubtful about the chances of apprehending the killer.
Was it hubris that had him believe he alone could succeed?
Or some more incomprehensible force?
By the time he reached his townhouse, Wrexford was in a foul mood from spinning in mental circles.
“Milord,” murmured his butler as he stormed through the front entrance and tossed his hat and gloves on the sidetable.
“Not now, Riche,” he snapped. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
Undeterred, Riche followed. “Actually, sir, perhaps you had better have a look at the package. The messenger insisted it was of utmost importance.”
Something in his tone brought Wrexford to an abrupt halt. “Did it come from Mrs. Ashton’s residence?”
“No, milord, it was delivered by a . . . Young Person.”
“Describe him.”
Riche’s face went through a series of odd little contortions.
“Actually, considering how he was dressed, I would rather not.” He cleared his throat with a cough and held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
“He did say his name was Master Thomas Ravenwood Sloane and that on no account was I to hand over these”—another cough—“billy-doos to anyone but His Nibs.”
Wrexford felt his mouth twitch. “Thank you, Riche.” He undid the twine and took a long moment to read over Charlotte’s note and the accompanying pamphlet.
Bloody hell. He now felt even more foolish. While he was floundering around, grasping for clues, it appeared that Charlotte had, with her usual incisive intuition, cut to the heart of the mystery.
With a motive, most crimes became far easier to unravel.
There were still hours to go before Sheffield returned. Looking up, he quickly retrieved his hat and gloves.
“Have Bailin bring round my carriage.”