CHAPTER 10
Setting aside the morning newspaper, Wrexford took a quick gulp of his still-steaming coffee and let the brew burn a trail of fire down his throat.
Would that it could scald away the coppery taste lingering in his throat.
Death had a sweet-sour stickiness that clung to live flesh like a limpet.
Something about blood spilled in violence refused to be washed away.
War ought to have inured him to it. But the Ashton affair had stirred feelings he thought had been long ago buried in the past.
Or were they vulnerabilities?
Swallowing the unsettling thought along with another mouthful of coffee, Wrexford turned his attention to last night’s murder.
There was, of course, no account of it in the newsprint.
Death was an all too common occurrence in the teeming stews of the city.
Only the well-born or well-heeled merited a mention.
However, he had sent word to Griffin about Hollis’s demise, along with a warning about the presence of a radical group in London. Given how fearful the government was about worker unrest, surely Bow Street would have to devote more scrutiny to the puzzle of Ashton’s grisly death.
As for Charlotte, he owed her a report on what had happened. Quid pro quo. He couldn’t very well expect her to be forthcoming with information if he didn’t reciprocate.
“Nothing,” announced Tyler loudly as he entered the breakfast room. “You may rest easy on that account, milord. Fores’s printshop has nothing new from A. J. Quill.”
The news wasn’t surprising. Charlotte had strict scruples about keeping her word. However, it did no harm to check, in case she had learned of Hollis’s demise from her own sources. At times, her awareness of every shadowy secret in London seemed to surpass that of Lucifer.
“Mrs. Sloane has been preoccupied,” answered Wrexford. “She’s moving to her new residence today.”
“Ah.” His valet, who was aware of Charlotte’s secret identity, gave a knowing nod. “It’s not easy to uproot from one place to another, even when one has decided the auld sod has become barren ground.”
The earl regarded him with a quizzical stare. Tyler was a sarcastic Scot, who rarely gave a hint of having any personal feelings beneath his flinty skin.
His valet returned the look, his expression giving nothing away.
In no mood for verbal sparring, he let the matter drop.
“I had better pay her a visit and inform her of what happened last night.” He’d made a copy of the hidden paper found in Hollis’s room, though he didn’t have high hopes for her deciphering its meaning. Art was her bailiwick. Numbers were numbers. Their message required a different perspective.
The thought sparked a sudden idea. “By the by, perhaps we should send a copy of the list of numbers found in Hollis’s room to Isaac Milner.”
“The fellow who teaches at Trinity College?” Tyler raised his brows. “Are you conceding that Cambridge has greater expertise than Oxford in the subject?”
“In this particular case, yes,” answered the earl.
“Milner is the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics. It’s a very prestigious appointment—Sir Isaac Newton is a past holder of the chair—and it’s well-known that he’s a genius with numbers.
If anyone can see a hidden message in the dratted paper, it’s him. ”
“I’ll make another copy,” said Tyler.
“I’ll pen a letter to him when I return. We know each other from the Royal Institution. He can be counted on to be discreet.”
“I’m no expert with numbers but I’ll take a closer look at them, too,” added the valet. “I did a little study on the subject of cryptography, and we’ve some books in the library on the subject. Perhaps some idea will come to mind.”
Wrexford nodded absently, then returned his attention to Charlotte. “Have you got the package for Mrs. Sloane ready?”
“Yes, milord. Though it was not easy to get it wrapped.” A hint of amusement shaded Tyler’s voice.
The earl ignored it. He had no idea what her reaction would be to the items he was bringing. They were, admittedly, a rather bizarre gift to celebrate the move to her new residence. But then, Charlotte was a very unconventional woman. He imagined that she might be amused.
Or perhaps she would be tempted to murder him on the spot.
His mouth twitched. That would certainly sell a lot of prints. The public, bloodthirsty as they were, would take great glee in seeing the dark-as-the-Devil Earl of Wrexford hoisted on his own petard.
He rose and consulted his pocketwatch. There was no time to waste if he was to pay her a visit and then make it to his appointment with Benedict Hillhouse at the appointed hour. “Have the coachman bring the carriage around.”
* * *
“Friends,” repeated Charlotte. Given the difference in their ages and interests, the connection between Elihu Ashton and Jeremy took her by surprise. “How did that come about?”
“During the last two years, I’ve had to spend a great deal of my time at the Sterling ancestral estate.” Her friend made a wry face. “I still have trouble calling it my home.”
Charlotte realized she had never given any thought to his life outside of London. But of course he would have responsibilities to learn, lands to oversee.
“It’s located in Hunslet,” he explained. “And it was only natural that I became acquainted with Ashton through the soirees and dinners given by local society. I liked him very much. He was a man of great intellectual curiosity and we enjoyed talking about philosophy, as well as art and literature.”
“I see,” she murmured.
“Indeed, I was so impressed with his knowledge and his progressive ideas on social reform that I decided to join the group of investors who were funding his new venture.”
Good God.
“Not only that,” went on Jeremy. “His laboratory assistant, Benedict Hillhouse, was a very good friend of mine at Cambridge. And so that was yet another reason for me to think well of him.”
Though her mind was whirring over the unexpected revelations, Charlotte forced herself to slow down and think logically. Gather all the pieces to the puzzle—they could be put together later.
“Old friendships are important,” she murmured.
“Benedict and I had lost touch over the years,” mused Jeremy. “I was very happy to rekindle the acquaintance.”
“Understandably so.” She knew little of Jeremy’s life during his university years. She and her late husband had been in Italy . . .
“He works closely with Ashton’s personal secretary,” continued her friend, “and Miss Merton’s company has proved very pleasant as well.” His expression turned troubled. “They will both be devastated by his death.”
Merton. Hillhouse. The two names at the very top of Wrexford’s list of possible suspects.
“I’m so sorry,” said Charlotte. Murder was like a stone thrown into a calm lake—the impact sent waves rippling out far from the point of impact.
“As am I.” A flicker of unreadable emotion tightened Jeremy’s features, but it was gone in an instant. “I hope to provide some comfort while they are here in London. The atmosphere inside a house of mourning can be oppressive.”
Especially as, according to Wrexford, there was no love lost between Ashton’s widow and her late husband’s assistants.
“A walk in the park may be a balm for the spirits,” he finished.
“Perhaps Miss Merton would welcome the company of another woman,” said Charlotte slowly.
His face wreathed in a smile. “That’s exceedingly kind—”
Honesty compelled her to interrupt him. “I’m not merely being altruistic, Jem. You know I’ve been working on a series of prints entitled Man versus Machine. So for professional reasons, I should very much like to hear her viewpoint on the subject—and that of Mr. Hillhouse.”
It wasn’t a lie, simply a partial truth, in which she left her part in the murder investigation unsaid.
“If they are friends of yours,” she went on, “I’m sure they will be both thoughtful and articulate.”
Jeremy hesitated. “They are. And I think you would all like each other very much. However . . .”
“However scandal is my bread and butter,” said Charlotte softly.
“And you fear I may make a meal of them.” She watched a dappling of the north light skate across her desk top.
How ironic that it was known for its piercing clarity.
With each passing moment she felt herself being drawn deeper and deeper into the tangled murk of secrets within secrets.
“I understand the demands of what you do,” replied Jeremy. “And ought not make you decide between friendship and earning a living.”
“I would have thought you know me well enough to know which will always come first,” she said slowly.
He reached out and slowly uncurled her fisted fingers. “I’d trust you with my life, Charley.” His faced paled. “In fact, I have. We both know that.”
“Just as I’ve entrusted you with my deepest secrets.” Charlotte hardly dared ask the next question. “I’ve never regretted it for an instant. Have you?”
A ripple of emotion darkened his eyes. “No. Never.”
Her insides unclenched. “I may use my pen as a barb to puncture the pompousness of those who think themselves above the rules. But in cases such as Ashton’s death, I hope I am always a voice for truth and justice.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Jeremy pressed his palms to his temples. “But the truth can be twisted by others.”
What is he so afraid of? Charlotte thought it a strangely pessimistic comment for someone who had mastered the art of graceful good cheer. But for the moment she forced the question from her mind.
“All the more reason to introduce me,” she pressed. “I can, you know, be a powerful force in shaping public opinion—for good as well as for bad.”
An involuntary laugh slipped from his lips. “I daresay the Prince Regent himself quakes in his boots at the thought of becoming a subject of your drawings.”
“Prinny quakes—and quivers—because he consumes far too many rich pastries and bottles of claret,” she responded, hoping to ease the tension in the air.
Jeremy laughed again. He rarely stayed blue-deviled for any length of time, though he had, she well knew, his own personal demons to wrestle with.
Don’t we all?
“True,” he said in answer to her quip. “But I happen to know that he took to his bed for several days after seeing your parody of his shopping for corsets.”
Charlotte carefully shifted the boxes of her pigments. “I have never turned my pen on innocent people. Your friends have nothing to fear from me.”
Unless, of course, they were guilty of murdering the inventor. In that case, she believed that Jeremy would also agree that truth must triumph, no matter the personal cost.
And yet....
Their gazes met and held for a long moment. It was he who looked away first, and while it might have only been a quirk of light, a flicker of shadow seemed to cloud his eyes.
“I know that.” After perching a hip on the desk, Jeremy smoothed a wrinkle from his trousers. “Forgive my hesitation. I’m happy to arrange for you to meet them. Though I assume it will not be as A. J. Quill.”
“No,” she agreed. “Just as a longtime friend of yours. Given the connection all three of you have with Mr. Ashton, and the public reaction to the series of prints on Man versus Machine, I don’t think it will strike an odd note if I’m curious about their views on the subject.”
He nodded. “As it happens we’ve made a plan to meet for a walk in Green Park tomorrow afternoon. Would you care to join us?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte quickly, even as a chorus of voices inside her head began to chant a warning.
Beware of the dangers that lie along that path.
She’d been very careful to stay outside the circle of Polite Society. The Greek myth of Persephone showed the perils of moving back and forth between the land of the living and the land of the dead.
“Then it’s settled.” Jeremy brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his breeches and then quickly rose again, though without any of his usual grace. “And now, I’d best toddle off and allow you to settle in to your new abode.”
“Thank you again for everything, Jem,” murmured Charlotte. “I’m . . . I’m truly grateful.”
Her friend snapped a jaunty salute and turned with a whisper of well-tailored wool.
As Charlotte watched him walk away, a frown slowly furrowed her brow. They had been kindred spirits since childhood and with her artist’s eye for faces, she had always been good at reading the subtle nuances of his expression.
It wasn’t that Jeremy had been lying . . .
But for all his show of sunny candor, she was sure he was hiding something from her.