CHAPTER 17
Her mind flooded with a myriad of questions—but Charlotte forced them aside. First things first.
“Hawk, find some rope,” she ordered, keeping a firm grip on her captive. “Raven, have you got your pocket knife?”
“Aye, m’lady.” The blade opened with an ominous snap.
“I’m no threat to you,” said Octavia softly.
“Two people have been murdered, their throats sliced open with gruesome precision, so I prefer to err on the side of caution.” Charlotte darted a look at Raven. “Hand it over.”
To her relief, he did so without arguing. Unlike her, he wasn’t tall enough to keep the point pressed against Octavia’s neck. “Now search her for any weapons. And if you so much as twitch, Miss Merton, I won’t hesitate to add a third corpse to the count.”
“There’s a knife in the right pocket of my cloak—only because I needed something to pry open the window latch,” said Octavia calmly. “Other than that I’m unarmed.”
Raven fished it out. “She’s telling the truth,” he muttered a few moments later. “Now what?”
Charlotte saw Hawk emerge from the pantry, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. “Take your brother and fetch a chair from the kitchen,” she answered.
The two of them were back in a trice.
“Place it there,” said Charlotte, indicating a spot by the sofa.
“Your sons?” asked Octavia, watching them jump to the task.
“My wards,” answered Charlotte, giving her captive a small shove forward. “But no less dear to my heart. You made a grave mistake in threatening those I love.”
“They were never in any danger.”
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You’ve been lying through your teeth about a great many things.”
“I have,” conceded Octavia, allowing herself to be seated on the hard slats of the straight-back chair. “But not about what you think.”
Charlotte gave a noncommittal grunt. “Raven, tie her to the chair—snugly enough that she can’t wriggle free.”
“Let yer arms hang down by yer side, miss,” he ordered before looping the rope around her middle. Moving swiftly and methodically, he had the job done within moments.
The knots, observed Charlotte as she lit a single candle, would have done a naval midshipman proud.
“Excellent. Now go fetch your coats and boots. I need for you to deliver two messages.” Wrexford must know about this. And so, she decided, must Jeremy. The earl wouldn’t like it, but her friend deserved her trust . . . until he proved unworthy of it.
“They seem very brave and resourceful lads,” murmured Octavia as they raced off. “Most children would have been paralyzed by fright.”
“They are,” replied Charlotte curtly, “unlike most children.”
Octavia nodded thoughtfully, then turned her head to stare out the window facing the street. Charlotte wasn’t sure why. The mist had thickened to an impenetrable veil of ghostly greys and the opaque glass showed naught but the blurred reflection of their silhouettes limned in the weak candlelight.
What thoughts were swirling in Octavia’s head? wondered Charlotte as silence settled over them. The young woman’s face was expressionless.
She felt a chill tickle at the nape of her neck. A ruthless killer would need just such a cold-blooded detachment. And unlike most people, Charlotte had no illusions about whether a woman was capable of murder.
The boys soon reappeared, dressed and ready to brave the night.
“Raven, you go rouse Wrexford.”
Octavia started at the earl’s name, her first real sign of emotion.
“Tell him to come immediately,” went on Charlotte. “Hawk, you must head to Lord Sterling’s residence and give him the same message.”
Raven gave a solemn nod. “We’ll fly like the wind, m’lady.” A low whistle to his brother, and they were gone.
“Wrexford,” repeated Octavia. “So, you were spying for him.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She was slowly unrolling the sheaf of papers that had been hidden inside the rooster.
“Who are you—his mistress?”
Ignoring the insult, Charlotte took a seat on the sofa and smoothed open the top sheet. And then another and another.
Dear God. Curled in the roll were page after page of technical drawings, rendered in meticulous detail. Ashton’s missing sketches?
“It is I who should be hurling nasty accusations, Miss Merton.”
The low light caught the flush of color rising to the other woman’s cheeks. “I-I can explain . . . But you won’t believe me.” Her mouth twisted. “Isobel Ashton seduces most every man who crosses her path. Clearly the earl is under her spell. And you . . .”
“And I had never met the widow before this afternoon,” pointed out Charlotte.
“She has, I agree, a certain magnetism. Whether that makes her guilty of any crime is not something I feel ready to judge. Your behavior, however, has been highly suspicious.” She paused.
“There is an old adage—if it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it likely is a duck.”
“You’re hunting the wrong bird,” replied Octavia bitterly. “Look to the swan. A beauty now, but since you wish to throw out adages, keep in mind that a swan is notoriously ugly in her youth. And does one ever really change one’s feathers?”
The young woman’s passion was palpable. Octavia was either a consummate actress. Or she believed what she was saying.
Charlotte looked down at the papers, feeling a twinge of doubt.
She was beginning to question her judgment of people.
And the realization left her a little shaken.
“An elemental question, I agree. But let us wait for the gentlemen to arrive before we pursue it. They’ll have questions, and I doubt you wish to go through an interrogation twice. ”
Octavia shifted slightly, setting off a harsh whispering of tightly wound hemp.
“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable. But I imagine you understand why, Miss Merton.”
“Of course I do.” Octavia drew in a ragged breath.
“I’m a woman who’s dared to defy the conventional path for those of our sex.
In my experience, prim and proper ladies of the ton are appalled by that—and their reaction is even more vitriolic than that of gentlemen.
I threaten all you hold dear, so of course you’re willing to think me guilty of any horrid crime—even murder. ”
“I am,” murmured Charlotte, “more open-minded than you might think. If you are innocent, I’m perfectly willing to be convinced.” The candle flickered, sending skitters of light across the shadowed sketches. “But it will require more than mere histrionics.”
She held up the top drawing, depicting an intricate meshing of gears and levers. “The late Mr. Ashton knew it was imperative to show clearly why something was true. Like him, you’ll need to build a solid argument for why we should believe you.”
“Benedict and I have carefully assembled an explanation for what has happened, and can draw you a perfect diagram,” shot back Octavia. “Our suspicions have been confirmed by several sources. As for proof . . .”
Charlotte waited as a spasm of pain pinched the other woman’s lips to a taut line.
“Oh, what does it matter?” went on Octavia in a bleak whisper. “Without Benedict, all hope is gone.” Her face had gone ashen, accentuating the bruises from the struggle. “Go ahead, throw me in Newgate Prison. But it will mean that Mrs. Ashton will, quite literally, be getting away with murder.”
“That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Merton.”
“Yes, it is,” came the unhesitating reply. “Which is why I wouldn’t say it unless I was certain it was true.”
* * *
Wrexford looked up sharply from the book he was reading. The sound came again—the ping, ping of pebbles hitting up against the diamond-shaped panes of glass.
He rose and twitched back the half-closed draperies of the workroom’s windows. The back garden was a netherworld of dark, leafy shapes rising up from a quicksilver sea of mist. The low ornamental trees swayed in the fitful breeze, their black-fingers branches twining with the tendrils of fog.
Squinting into the night, the earl tried to spot any furtive movement within the plantings. The stones hadn’t launched themselves. He waited another moment, then unlatched the casement and cracked it open.
“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered as a gust of night-damp air slapped against his cheeks.
“Yer not supposed to swear in front of children.” A hand appeared from the gloom below and grabbed hold of the ledge. Wrexford heard the rustling of ivy an instant before Raven swung a leg up and hauled himself to a perch on the narrow jut of stone.
“You’re not a child. You’re an afreet who’s been released from some devil-cursed bottle in order to plague mankind.”
“What’s an afreet?”
“A demon.” He offered a hand. “Come inside. It looks like a squall is blowing in.”
“Can’t,” replied Raven. “M’lady says ye’re to come quick-like.”
Wrexford felt a frisson of alarm. “What’s happened?”
“An intruder broke into the house—”
“Was she hurt?” he interrupted sharply.
“Naw, we pummeled the miscreant into submission,” answered the boy. “And then tied ‘em to a chair right and tight. M’lady’s standing guard, but she wants ye to see what happened.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” called the earl as he hurriedly fetched a pistol from its case.
“You’ll see fer yerself,” said Raven darkly. “Shake a tail feather, sir. We need te hurry.”
Bloody Hell. All sorts of dire possibilities flashed through his head. Why was she always so infernally afire to charge straight into the maw of danger?
An idiotic question. Wrexford blew out a breath, exasperation warring with admiration. Because she was the Warrior Queen, possessing more passion and principle than was good for her.
“Meet me on the far side of the square,” he called. “It will be quicker to take a hackney part of the way than to go the entire distance on foot.”
The flash of gold urged the driver to fly through the deserted streets like a bat escaping from the bowels of hell. They careened to a halt a few streets from Charlotte’s residence, and Raven led the way through a series of alleys to the back garden.