CHAPTER 7 #2
Wrexford noted the shadows flickering beneath her lashes. “But what?”
She let the tea steep for another few moments before pouring. “But I worry about them fitting into a classroom.” A sigh slipped from her lips. “It is a more prosperous neighborhood, and I fear their background may make it hard for them to feel at home.”
He didn’t intrude on her hesitation.
“Raven doesn’t trust others easily. And Hawk will copy his brother,” she added. “It is . . . daunting, milord.” Charlotte sat heavily. “I’m not sure I possess the proper experience to play the mother hen for two wild fledglings.”
“Your instincts seem quite exemplary in all else,” pointed out Wrexford. “I can’t think of any reason why they wouldn’t be so in this.”
“That’s kind of you, sir.”
“Actually, it has nothing to do with kindness. I’m basing it on empirical observation, rather than emotion.” He took several sips of the steaming brew, then set down his cup. “You know, I may have a solution to your dilemma.”
“Yet another one?” she quipped. “If you solve this particular conundrum as well as you did the one concerning names, I may have to start paying you for your unique expertise, rather than the other way around.”
It was said lightly, but he knew her voice well enough to detect the slight edge.
Ah, so she was still touchy about having accepted his payments for providing information from her sources during the Holworthy murder investigation. He suspected as much, knowing her fierce sense of independence. And it was going to make his suggestion an exceedingly difficult one to present.
“I’m not sure it’s worth its weight in gold—or copper, for that matter.
But it so happens I know a young man, the son of a tenant farmer on one of my estates, who’s recently finished his studies as a scholarship student at Oxford and is looking for work in London.
He’s a fine fellow, and being from a humble background, he will have a good understanding of the lads, and be able to cater to their needs in learning. ”
He paused. “It seems to me that a tutor may be a better choice than a formal school.”
“The young man sounds exemplary,” replied Charlotte. “But at present, I can’t afford a tutor.”
“You haven’t heard his terms,” murmured Wrexford.
“As a man of modest means, I doubt he is offering to work for free.”
“No . . .” Wrexford wrestled for a moment with how to tactfully phrase his next words. Then with an inward grimace, he abandoned the effort. Be damned with tact—subtlety was not his forte.
“So let us discuss exactly what the cost to you would be.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know what the young man intends to charge?”
“I don’t.” Enough shilly-shallying. “However, it doesn’t matter, as I intend to pay his fee.”
“The devil you will!” exclaimed Charlotte hotly. “I won’t—”
He raised a hand. “Do me the courtesy of hearing me out.”
She lapsed into a simmering silence. He could almost see the steam swirling up from her flushed skin.
“Both of the lads showed great courage during the Holworthy investigation, and risked their lives to keep my neck out of the noose. That I wish to express my gratitude in a meaningful way is only natural. Surely you must know that the Weasels . . .”
He paused for a fraction. “But in truth, it’s not my motives that we ought to be looking at, Mrs. Sloane, it’s yours. They’re damnably selfish.”
A ripple of shock stirred in her eyes.
Before she could respond, he continued, “Pride is all very well on a certain level, but when taken to extremes, it’s a sin.”
“I don’t believe my ears,” said Charlotte softly. “Are you, of all people, really quoting the Scriptures at me?”
“Perhaps not a sin in your case,” he conceded. “But a stubbornly misguided sentiment. Friendship isn’t something that ought to be measured in pounds and pence.”
She blinked.
“But never mind the fact that it’s an insult to my intentions. Refusing my offer is unfair to the lads and robs them of a chance to better their lot in life.”
Her flush had now faded to an unnatural white.
“Don’t be an arse,” he pressed. “Why are you so bloody afraid of letting your friends help you?”
“I . . . I . . .” Charlotte wrapped her hands around her teacup, as if its warmth might bring back some color to her face. “I’m not quite so high in the instep as you think, sir. I do accept help.”
She gave a brusque wave at the stacked boxes of her possessions. “I could never have managed the ordeal of finding a new residence in a strange neighborhood without the aid of a friend. It was he and his man of affairs who located the house and negotiated the terms of the lease for me.”
The announcement took Wrexford completely by surprise. Without thinking, he demanded, “Who?”
“Someone I’ve known since my childhood.” Charlotte turned to stare into the shadows. In the flickering lamplight her profile looked as if it had been sculpted out of alabaster, the hard-edged planes standing out in stark relief against the ink-dark murk.
“His circumstances have changed,” she continued. “Back then, he was merely the son of an impoverished gentry family. But by a quirk of fate—and fortune—he inherited a barony from a second cousin.”
A friend—a gentleman friend. Wrexford knew he had no reason to feel piqued by the unexpected revelation. And yet, he did.
Very much so, in fact.
“You didn’t see fit to ever mention this to me?” he said slowly.
Charlotte brushed an errant lock of hair from her cheek, the movement obscuring her expression. “For what reason would I have done so?”
For what reason, indeed?
His innards gave a sudden clench. He realized he didn’t wish to give the why of it a name.
“You’re quite right. Of course it’s no concern of mine.” Even to his own ears, his reply sounded pompous. Wrexford forced a smile that was likely equally stilted. “My apologies. It is I, not you, who am an arse.”
“No, you were right to rail at me about pride,” she responded.
Darkness seemed to spread over her face, deepening the hollows beneath her cheekbones.
“There were times in the past when it felt like it was the only weapon I had against life’s vicissitudes.
I suppose it’s become a habit to keep up my guard. ”
Wrexford suddenly felt like a toad, not an arse.
An uncharacteristic awkwardness seemed to have come over him of late.
He had stumbled through the day, making a hash of the interview with Miss Merton, and now was upsetting and embarrassing a woman who had time and again proved her grit and courage in the face of adversity.
“Mrs. Sloane, it was wrong of me—”
“You made a very generous offer, sir,” interrupted Charlotte. “It was churlish of me to refuse. If it still stands . . .”
“Of course it does,” he muttered.
“Thank you.” A conciliatory smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “Once I’ve settled in the new house, perhaps I might arrange with you to meet the young man.”
“I’ll see to it.” Wrexford rose abruptly, slopping a bit of the tepid tea on the table. He knew it was wrong to leave on such an unsettled note. But she was all too aware of his mercurial moods, his bloody awful temper. “I had best return home in order to be ready for my rendezvous with Sheffield.”
Charlotte slanted a glance at the clock and raised a brow. “The midnight hour won’t be chiming anytime soon.”
“Yes, but I wish to make sure I have ample time in which to clean and prime my pistols,” he replied. “With any luck, I’ll get a chance to shoot the miscreant.”
“You’re in a prickly mood,” she said slowly. “Is there a reason why?”
“Am I?” In the solitude of his laboratory, his handling of inanimate chemicals was unerringly precise. He understood their qualities and the consequences of combining X with Y. With people, the mixtures all too often blew up in his face.
She didn’t reply, but simply fixed him with a searching stare.
“Good day,” he murmured.
“Good hunting,” she shot back.
Unable to think of a suitable retort, Wrexford picked up his hat and took his leave.
On returning to his townhouse, he quickly sought sanctuary in his workroom. Lighting a spirit lamp, he made himself begin replicating one of Priestley’s experiments on the chemical composition of air.
The whisper of the flame, the ritual of precise measurement, the focus demanded for careful observation—Wrexford felt his personal devils give way to curiosity. The mysteries of science were far more interesting than the mysteries of mankind.
Minutes ticked by, their rhythmic cadence slowly drawing him out of his brooding . . .
Then all at once the calm was shattered by a thumping on the door.
“Grab up your coat, Wrex—there’s not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Sheffield as he burst into the room. “I’ve just come from White’s where I overheard Davies mention that Gannett is planning to play vingt et un at the Demon’s Den tonight.”
His friend gave an impatient wave at the worktable. “Bloody hell—blow out that lamp and fetch your pistols. If we hurry, we can catch him.”