CHAPTER 17 #2
“Through here,” said the boy, loosening several hidden pegs and shifting a loose board to make a narrow gap in the fence.
The house was completely dark, which stirred yet another pinch of worry as Wrexford waited for Raven to refasten the secret entrance.
“Hurry,” he snapped. “The cursed fellow may have gotten free.”
“Not from my knots,” replied Raven as he signaled for the earl to follow him. “And even if the prisoner did get free, m’lady would knock her arse over teakettle again.”
Her? The rustling leaves must have distorted the words.
“Let me go first,” whispered Wrexford, holding Raven back once the boy’s key released the kitchen door’s lock. Drawing his pistol, he eased through the opening and entered the darkened corridor.
The faint sound of voices was coming from up ahead. He slowly eased back the hammer and started forward.
Then came a loud clink—metal hitting against metal. Wrexford broke into a run.
The drawing room door was half closed, the weak aureole of light making it hard to see what was going on. Charlotte had her back to him. She was leaning over . . . a sudden silvery flicker flashed behind her—
“Don’t anyone move!” he ordered, kicking open the door and raising the snout of his pistol.
Charlotte slowly turned. “Thank you for coming, Wrexford. My apologies for rousing you at such an ungodly hour.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Would you care for some tea?” she added, gesturing at the steam-swirled pot sitting on the pewter tray.
“Ye untied her,” said Raven with a scowl as he joined Wrexford in the doorway.
“Yes, she convinced me she was no threat,” replied Charlotte.
Wrexford stepped into the room and slowly looked from Charlotte to Octavia, who was seated on a straight-back chair and chafing her wrists amid a tangle of rope. “Is this your idea of jest?” he demanded. “If so, it’s not remotely funny.”
“I assure you, sir, I would never stoop to such puerile pranks,” replied Charlotte. “Though there are times when your high and mighty attitude richly deserves it.”
The earl bit back a retort as he took in Octavia’s disheveled clothing and the bruises on her face. It was only then that he realized Charlotte was wearing naught but her nightrail and a wool wrapper. Her feet were bare.
His gaze then found the shards of shattered pottery on the floor and the two swords propped against the wall. “Might I ask—with all due humility, of course—what’s going on here?”
“Sit down, milord.” She indicated one of the armchairs, which along with the sofa had been knocked askew. “It’s going to be a lengthy conversation. However we must wait for one other person to arrive before we begin.”
If he were in need of a libation, decided Wrexford, it would be brandy, not tea.
“Hawk will be bringing—” She cocked an ear. “Ah, I believe they are here now.”
The earl turned to see the boy’s familiar face—though covered with more than its usual streaks of grime—appear in the doorway.
Behind him, still mostly in shadow, was a tall, slender stranger, whose well-tailored garments announced he was a gentleman despite looking as if they had been thrown on in a hurry.
“Charley, are you sure you’re not injured?” exclaimed the fellow to Charlotte. “And Miss Merton . . .” He paused to take in the disarray of the room. “Good Lord.”
“I’m quite fine, Jem,” replied Charlotte. To Wrexford she said, “Allow me to introduce Lord Sterling.”
Her dear friend and benefactor. The reminder did nothing to improve his mood.
“This may be a tea party, but let’s dispense with the bloody formalities, shall we?” growled the earl. “I’m Wrexford,” he said brusquely to Jeremy. “Now, can we cut to the chase? I assume that we’re both anxious to hear why we’ve been summoned here by Mrs. Sloane.”
Jeremy raised his brows at Charlotte, a silent seconding of the earl’s statement.
She wordlessly picked up the sheaf of papers from the tea table and held them up.
Jeremy made a choking sound in the back of his throat. “Are those Ashton’s missing drawings?”
“That,” replied Charlotte, “is something I’m hoping Miss Merton will explain to us.” A pause. “Along with a great many other things. She’s made some serious allegations to me, which she claims can be proven. ”
Plumes of pale vapor wafted up from the teacup Octavia had cradled in her hands, blurring her face. It struck Wrexford as an apt illusion. Everything about the inventor’s murder seemed to dance in and out of focus, taunting every sense of perception.
“Let me begin with an explanation of what happened here earlier, before I let Miss Merton speak for herself,” went on Charlotte. “I awoke to hear an intruder entering my house and went downstairs to investigate.”
“Did it not occur to you how dangerous that was?” said Wrexford.
She ignored the question. “I saw a cloaked figure slip into the drawing room—Miss Merton, as I later discovered—and steal the majolica rooster which Mrs. Ashton had given to me. Intent on stopping the theft, I confronted her, and with the help of the boys—and the earl’s swords—we managed to subdue her. ”
“Good God.” Wrexford shook his head. “You risked your life for a piece of pottery?”
Her chin rose to a pose he had come to think of as Stubbornness Personified. “It was a matter of principle.”
Principle. A word that brought out the best and the worst in her.
“And besides, it turned out to be a very valuable bird. During the struggle, it fell and shattered—revealing the technical drawings hidden inside.” Charlotte hesitated and took a moment to pour herself some tea.
She suddenly looked exhausted, but several swallows seemed to revive her.
“Those are all the facts I possess. For further explanations, we must turn to Miss Merton.”
Silence filled the room. Even the boys stopped fidgeting. Octavia looked away. She seemed to shrink into herself with each slow undulation of the candle flame.
“Enough shilly-shallying, Miss Merton,” said Wrexford impatiently, deciding it was time to play the iron fist to Charlotte’s velvet glove. “Would you rather we summon Bow Street?”
“Octavia,” appealed Jeremy. “Please. If we are to have any hope of helping you and Benedict, you must tell us the truth.”
The young woman slumped forward and took her head in her hands. “I confess—Benedict and I did it.”