CHAPTER 16 #2
Wrexford rose and went to his desk. A spark of flint and steel lit a single candle, and after quickly penning a note, he sealed it with a circle of molten wax.
“Weasel,” he called, as he returned to his workroom.
Tyler held up a warning finger. “A moment, milord. Let us finish.”
“Finish what?” Curious, Wrexford approached the counter where Raven was sitting, shoulders hunched, head bent low. The sound of pencils scratching over paper rose above the faint hiss of the oil-fueled Argand lamp.
The valet gestured to an open ledger book sitting amidst a bunch of other books. “The bantling saw the open ledger when I was showing him our work. He thinks he’s spotted an error in my addition of the monthly expenditures. We are both in the process of rechecking the final tally.”
“By all means, carry on.” Another minute or two of delay would make no difference.
Scratch, scratch.
And then Tyler let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Bloody hell. My apologies, lad. You’re right.”
Raven made a last calculation before setting down his pencil with an owlish blink. “Yeah, looks that way.”
Wrexford moved closer and surveyed the page. “You first found the error by adding this all up in your head?”
The boy nodded. “Are ye angry at me fer pointing it out?”
“Not in the least,” replied the earl. “You appear to have a knack for numbers. It’s an excellent skill to have.”
“Ye think so?” Raven slowly met his gaze, a hint of a question lurking in his eyes. “Dunno what’s so special about it. But Mr. Linsley says a great many interesting things can be explained by numbers.”
“He’s quite right, it’s a fascinating subject, lad.” Yet another surprise in a day filled with surprises. “And I look forward to talking with you at greater length about the wonders of mathematics.” Wrexford held up the sealed note. “At the moment, however, m’lady is waiting for my reply.”
* * *
Punctuating the papery crackle with a low oath, Charlotte crumpled the earl’s missive and dropped it into her desk drawer.
“We have much to talk about,” she muttered, repeating the first of the two sentences he had deigned to write. The second one merely stated, ‘The carriage will call for you tomorrow at noon.’
His high-handedness caused a clench of resentment in her chest, even though she knew he was right to respect the strictures of society.
It was the brusqueness of his message that felt a little like a slap in the face.
Charlotte had thought their friendship, though fraught with complexities, was a bond that had grown into something deeper than mere pragmatism. Perhaps she was wrong.
Which brought into question her judgment on a great many things concerning the earl. Including her own feeling for him . . .
The clench suddenly tightened with a fierceness that forced the air from her lungs, and for an instant she feared her ribs might crack.
No, I am stronger than such weak-willed longings, she told herself, forcing away thoughts of the earl. Survival depends on being pragmatic.
Willing the iron-fisted grip to relax, Charlotte found she could breathe again.
Picking up her pen, she returned her gaze to the unfinished drawing on her desk.
There was nothing like the need to put bread on the table to focus a clear-minded clarity on the moment at hand.
She had promised it to Mr. Fores by tomorrow and had never failed to keep her word to him. With that in mind, she set to work.
It was close to midnight before Charlotte scraped back her chair and flexed the stiffness from her shoulders.
The composition had demanded a dramatic balance of black and white, one that required a laborious series of crosshatched shadings.
But as she cast a critical eye over the details, she decided she was satisfied with the result.
Painting in the colored highlights could wait until morning.
Fatigue was hazing her head and hanging heavy on her lashes.
Charlotte found she could barely keep her eyes open as she rose and made her way into the night-dark corridor leading to her bedchamber.
Still, she paused by the narrow set of stairs leading up to the attic aerie and cocked an ear to catch the soft stirrings of the boys asleep in their beds.
Rustling wool, a snuffled breath—the sounds were reassuring. Of late, their nocturnal ramblings had grown less frequent. A sign, she hoped, that they were adapting to a more settled life.
For the moment all was well, and yet Charlotte lingered, thinking about the hopes and fears that came with love.
Love.
The heart was safer in solitude. Was that what was keeping Raven at arm’s length? The boy had seen enough of life’s cruelties to sense the dangers of caring too much.
As for her own emotions . . .
Charlotte looked up, though the slumbering gloom revealed no answers.
She was curious as to what had happened at the earl’s townhouse.
Hawk had come home looking blissfully happy—the pungent smell of horse that clung to his clothing explained why.
Raven, too, had seemed pleased about something, though her gentle probing had failed to elicit more than a cryptic smile.
She wished . . .
“Ah, but if wishes were winged unicorns, I could fly a chariot to the moon and back by dawn.” A yawn punctuated her murmur. Time for sleep, before her thoughts spun any further quicksilver silliness.
* * *
A discreet knock on the workroom door roused Wrexford from his brooding.
“Milord, Mr. Henning wishes to speak with you. He says it’s rather urgent.”
Thank God for small favors, thought the earl. He hadn’t been in any mood to go out searching through the stews again. “Show him in, Riche.”
As the surgeon shuffled into the room, looking even more disheveled than usual, Wrexford added, “Where the devil have you been? Gabriel Hollis has been murdered.”
“An outbreak of influenza had hold of the rookies near the Foundling Hospital. I’ve been there for several days.
” Henning came closer, and as he ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, the lamplight caught the circles of fatigue bagged beneath his eyes.
“As for Hollis, I heard.” He withdrew a small packet from his pocket and dropped it on the desk.
“That’s why I thought you had better see this without delay. ”
As Wrexford snatched it up, Henning let out a sigh and looked around. “Might I pour myself a wee dram of that lovely malt?”
“You may have the whole damn bottle,” muttered the earl as he stared down at the words written on the outer wrapping.
From Gabriel Hollis. To be given to William Nevins in the event of my death.
“I found it shoved under my door when I returned home this evening,” said Henning as he shuffled to the sideboard. “Hollis was a prescient fellow, it seems.”
“Yes,” muttered Wrexford. “Sheffield and I found him wheezing his final breath night before last. Like Ashton, his throat was sliced open.” Taking up his letter opener, he cut a slit in the wrapper. “Any idea who Nevins is?”
“I’ve just learned he’s one of the leaders of the Workers of Zion.”
Inside was a duplicate of the sheet of numbers he had found in Hollis’s rooms. That answered one conundrum—it was indeed written by the radical leader. And it seemed Nevins was the key to deciphering it. “I need to speak with him right away.”
Henning’s expression, never terribly encouraging to begin with, turned even grimmer. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, laddie. One of my patients told me his body was discovered in one of the side alleys near Seven Dials this morning. With his throat cut.”
The bloody villain, fumed Wrexford, was staying one teasing, taunting step ahead of him.
After taking a loud slurp of the whisky, Henning leaned in for a closer look at the paper. “Any idea what that means?”
“No. And now, without Nevins, our chances of guessing which sort of code he’s using is virtually nil.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve been listening to talk in the stews, and word is Hollis and Nevins were shocked at Ashton’s murder and claimed they had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m inclined to believe them,” replied Wrexford. “But proving it has just become a great deal more difficult.”
“Aye. But then again, you seem to like dancing along a razor’s edge.” Henning drained his drink. “Just take care not to lose your balance.”
* * *
A breeze ruffled through the night mist, stirring a sudden swirl of ghostly tendrils that kissed up against the windowglass.
The thick twines of ivy growing up the stucco and timber wall sighed, the breathy whisper just loud enough to cover the quick-footed steps moving over the damp grass.
Clouds drifted over the moon, cloaking the garden in darkness.
Crouched low, the black-clad figure melded into the leafy shadows of the shrubbery as it moved slowly, stealthily to the back of the house. Darkness hid the flick of a knife blade sliding between the window frames, seeking the latch.
* * *
Charlotte came awake, unsure what had dragged her from the depths of slumber. Her heart was jumpy, her muscles tensed.
“A bad dream,” she whispered, trying to chase away the sharp sense of unease.
She slowly sat up and looked around. The armoire . . . the dressing table . . . the washstand with its cream-colored pitcher glowing softly in the dappling of moonlight. Nothing was amiss.
Exhaling a self-mocking sigh, Charlotte made herself relax. All the little flitterings and creaks of her new residence were still unfamiliar. Like the tit-tit of the yew bushes against the back of the house as the breeze set them to swaying.
The sounds ceased, making her feel even more the fool. At least she was not yet imagining the clank of chains or the moan of a spectral ghost.
And then the scrape came again, this time louder and sounding more metallic.