CHAPTER 13
Charlotte awoke the next day feeling tired and out of sorts. She had slept fitfully, her peace plagued by dreams of unseen threats, pressing closer and closer, choking off all air and light.
The morning had passed in a blur—a simple breakfast and the boys made presentable for their first lessons with the new tutor.
True to his word, the earl had sent the young man around for an interview the previous evening, and she had found him to be a solid, sensible choice.
More than that, he had a sense of humor, which she hoped boded well for his taming the Weasels.
As he lived nearby, it had been agreed that Raven and Hawk would go to his rooms this morning to begin the experiment.
She prayed that it would work out. The boys were bright and the chance to expand their horizons would open up new worlds to them. But for the moment it was out of her hands.
A good thing, as she had been unaccountably clumsy in preparing the meal, scorching her fingers on the kettle and dropping a plate of fresh-sliced bread.
After making a few desultory sketches at her desk, all of which were consigned to the wastebin, it was time to dress for her rendezvous with Jeremy and his friends.
Staring into the looking glass, Charlotte sighed on seeing the dark shadows under her eyes. Hardly an auspicious sign for her first official foray into Polite Society.
Imposter. Perhaps she should simply letter a sign to pin on her bodice announcing the fact.
“I don’t have to do this,” she muttered. And yet, even as she said it, she knew she did.
The why of it seemed to elude words. When she had first assumed her late husband’s persona of A.
J. Quill, it had simply been a matter of survival.
But penning the barbs and satire on frivolous scandals had sharpened her awareness of deeper injustices, and Charlotte had found that truth and fairness mattered far more to her than merely a means for putting bread on the table.
That she could help puncture lies and expose evil with her art had somehow taken hold in her heart.
Semper anticus. Always forward. There was no going back.
Charlotte rose and opened the doors of her armoire.
At least she had decent armor in which to march into the fray, she thought wryly.
The necessity of having to accompany Jeremy to review the final choices for her new residence had required a respectable gown that wasn’t hopelessly outdated.
Luckily her network of informants included an Italian modiste who catered to the beau monde.
The woman—who was savvy enough about business to pretend she was French—had readily agreed to create a suitable design.
She fingered the whisper-soft merino wool, feeling a little guilty at the pleasure she took in such fripperies.
The subtle grey-blue color—the exact shade of twilight in September—was dark enough to convey somber sensibility.
And yet there was a hint of mystery. Of elemental feminine allure.
As for the cut, by some sort of needle-and-thread magic it seemed to transform her tall and slender shape into something . . . less ordinary.
Her bare bones life had so few enchantments. Perhaps it wasn’t wrong to secretly—secretly!—savor the thought of drawing a man’s eye. Jeremy had naturally offered flowery compliments. But she had also caught the admiring glances from other men.
Repressing a shiver—and the sudden, unbidden thought of how Wrexford would react to seeing her dressed as a real lady—Charlotte smoothed a finger over the delicate tucking around the bodice and then shucked off her wrapper.
Contrary to folk wisdom, it was possible to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, she thought wryly as she slipped the gown over her head and did up the fastenings.
A twirl in front of the full-length cheval glass confirmed that Madame Franchot—nee Franzenelli—truly possessed bewitching powers.
Trying not to feel like a charlatan, she took a seat at her dressing table, and reached for her brush and pins.
“Let us hope the spell works on Wrexford’s servant,” she whispered, once she had finished arranging her hair. Taking up the pert little chip-straw bonnet that the modiste had made to accompany the dress, Charlotte carefully looped the ribbons into a neat bow.
The silk suddenly felt a little clammy, as if the breath from a ghost had sent a sigh tickling over her fingers. Charlotte steeled her spine.
No, the past was the past. It would not come back to haunt her.
Grabbing up her gloves and shawl, she hurried downstairs to wait for Wrexford’s carriage. Despite her resolve to remain calm, the quickening thump of her heart echoed each passing minute.
Finally, the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones roused her from brooding.
She rose, a spurt of panic shooting through her veins as the horses halted.
Steady, steady.
As Wrexford had promised, it was a nondescript vehicle, with no fancy footman or tiger clinging to the outside perch.
Nihil sibi metuunt. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte took hold of the door latch and stepped outside.
* * *
“You’re a hard man to find, Griffin.” Having had no luck in tracking down the Runner the previous evening, Wrexford finally caught up with him at an out-of-the-way tavern in St. Giles. “It wasn’t so long ago when I couldn’t take a step without tripping over your boots.”
“That was when I wanted your head on a platter. Now, thanks to you and your penchant for finding dead bodies, I have another murder to solve.” Griffin polished off the last morsel of his cheese and pickle, then pushed away the empty plate.
“Have you got something for me—other than a wedge of apple pie and another tankard of ale?”
“One would think you’d starve if you didn’t know me.” After calling the order to a barmaid, the earl took a seat at the small table. ‘The answer is yes—I have something meaty for you.”
Griffin waited until his pie and ale arrived before murmuring, “I’m listening.”
“I think Hollis and the radicals may not be solely responsible for Ashton’s murder,” began Wrexford.
The Runner was not yet aware of Hollis’s dying words or jumbled numbers found in the desk, a fact he quickly rectified.
He did, however, hold back the mention of Nevins.
He had not yet managed to track down Henning, and until he spoke with the surgeon, he wasn’t going to send the authorities sniffing around his clinic.
Griffin fixed him with a baleful look. “You didn’t think I should have known that right away?”
Wrexford shrugged. While he and the Runner had an unspoken truce, it was a wary one. “As I said, you’re a hard man to find.”
“Hmmph.”
“There are too many possible—and powerful—motives that haven’t been fully explored,” pressed the earl.
“Think about it, Griffin. Why would the radicals leave their symbol on the body? Given the government’s fears of labor unrest, they would know it would be inviting the military to hunt them down like vermin. ”
“You’re assuming they think rationally,” pointed out the Runner.
“It feels too simple,” insisted Wrexford. “I think we need to keep looking at whether one of Ashton’s investors was involved in the murder. Or perhaps a member of his household.” A pause. “Ashton’s assistant continues to avoid meeting with me to discuss the case.”
Forking up a bite of pie, Griffin chewed thoughtfully before replying.
Ignoring the earl’s suggestion, he focused on the facts.
“Any luck in deciphering the numbers? That’s assuming the paper isn’t a child’s mindless scribbles from years ago.
As you pointed out, there’s no proof it was left by Hollis. ”
“No, I’ve not yet made any sense of it. But as I said, intuition tells me that along with tracking down radicals you should look more closely at the people around Ashton. The motive of the patent is too powerful to ignore. After all, money is usually at the root of all evil.”
“Have you any—any—proof of that?”
Damnation. The fellow was like a bulldog, who needed a bone between his teeth before he could chew. “For God’s sake, use your imagination.”
“My superiors don’t pay me to commune with the realm of fantasy, milord.
” Griffin set his fork down. “The government is extremely concerned about the prospect of workers rioting and mayhem breaking out across the country. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell they will allow me to break off my hunt for the radical leaders on a mere hunch. Even from you.”
Wrexford swore under his breath.
“Find me some actual evidence of your theory,” went on the Runner. “Otherwise you’re on your own.” He took a long draught of ale. “But do have a care. I should miss the pleasure of your company, milord.”
Wrexford rose with a grunt. “And that of my purse.”
* * *
“Good day, madam.” The coachman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door.
Charlotte climbed inside, thankful that the small glass-paned windows let in little light. Shadows would help hide her masquerade.
After settling herself in a swoosh of skirts, she dared to look up at the facing seat.
“His Lordship sends his regards, Mrs. Sloane, and trusts that my company will prove satisfactory.”
The throaty voice, edged with a sharp Scottish burr, took her by surprise. She had expected a young tweenie and kitchen maid, not . . .
“I’ve been told you prefer plain speaking,” said the woman who sat facing her. “So allow me to assure you that I’m not easily rattled, nor do I have a tongue that’s prone to wagging.” A pause. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“Plain speaking, indeed,” murmured Charlotte. She took a moment to assess her companion. A thin, angular face, beaky nose, and bony body—the woman, well past the first bloom of youth, would never be called a beauty, but the glint of lively intelligence in her eyes cut through the gloom.
The tightness in Charlotte’s chest slowly released in a silent exhale.