CHAPTER 20
Wrexford shrugged out of his overcoat and let it drop to the floor as he turned for the sideboard, intent on pouring a much-needed glass of brandy. Or perhaps a Scottish malt. He needed a good jolt of—
“Bloody hell.” Two oaths, equally indignant, collided in the darkness.
“I think you might have broken one of my bones,” added Sheffield in a querulous mutter as he rubbed his bruised shin.
The earl winced, having tripped over his friend’s outstretched legs and hit up against the sharp corner of one of the worktables. “Why are you sleeping in my armchair rather than your own bed?”
“Your selection of beverages is better than mine,” quipped Sheffield.
In no mood for banter, Wrexford limped over to the tray holding the crystal decanters. The near-tumble had definitely tipped the odds in favor of the whisky. He poured himself a glass.
“As it happens, I’ve been waiting here since before midnight, a perfectly respectable time,” added his friend. “Which begs the question of what activities you’ve been up to in the witching time of early morn.”
Wrexford took a moment to strike a flint to the wick of the sideboard’s oil lamp and turn up the flame. “There’s been another unexpected twist in the case.”
The yawing yellow-gold light caught the sharpening of Sheffield’s features as he straightened from his slouch, suddenly looking wide awake. “Not another murder?”
“No,” he answered. “Though a rather colorful rooster did meet an untimely demise.”
“A rooster?” Sheffield raised his brows. “If I were you, I’d set aside the whisky. Your wits are befuddled enough without demon drink.”
“Not at all,” said Wrexford after savoring a long sip. “In fact, my night’s foray demanded clear-headed thinking in order to untangle all the threads. Suffice it to say, my efforts have resulted in a momentous discovery.”
“As have mine,” responded Sheffield. “And if you’ll stop being an arse and pour me a wee dram of that lovely malt, I’ll tell you about what I’ve found.”
A more than fair trade, conceded the earl. Having tasked Sheffield with mucking through the smoky, sweaty gaming hells for any rumors about Kirkland, his friend likely deserved a key to the entire wine cellar.
“Slainte mhath,” he murmured, handing Sheffield a generous helping of the whisky. Their two glasses came together in a crystalline clink, setting off a wildly winking pattern of amber light on the side wall.
“I shall cede the honor of going first to you,” Wrexford added. “My explanation will likely be the longer of the two.”
Sheffield dropped all pretense of ennui.
Setting aside his drink, he edged forward in his chair.
“I decided to try my luck at one of the less-frequented gaming hells in Seven Dials, as I recalled that Herrington, a fellow who’s said to run in Kirkland’s circle, tends to play faro there. And sure enough, I struck gold.”
To his credit, his friend didn’t overplay his hand.
“It cost two bottles of damn expensive brandy—for which I expect reimbursement—but Herrington’s tongue then began to wag,” recounted Sheffield.
“Apparently, the current Mrs. Ashton was, some years ago, Kirkland’s paramour.
He paid the rent on a charming little townhouse in the village of Morley, near Leeds, and supported her in style. ”
Wrexford nodded. “Well done, Kit. That confirms what I’ve just heard.”
Sheffield’s face fell. “You already knew?”
“Only by a scant hour or two. I’ll explain in a moment, but first finish your account.”
“Herrington wasn’t sure what broke up the previous arrangement. However, he said that Kirkland has recently been telling his cronies that he’s rekindled the relationship and expects to be a very rich man once the mourning period is over and the widow can remarry without scandal.”
“That is gold, indeed.” Wrexford cocked a toast.
Sheffield looked pleased. “Now, tell me of your night’s activities.”
“One might better call them adventures,” said the earl dryly. “It all began with one of the Weasels coming to alert me that an intruder had broken into Mrs. Sloane’s house.”
“What!” exclaimed his friend in alarm. “Was she injured in any way?”
Wrexford chuffed a quick laugh. “You need ask? Given the two little demons and her own hellfire resolve, the Devil himself wouldn’t stand a chance of gaining the upper hand.”
Sheffield sank back in his chair. “Who—”
“Miss Merton, one of our suspects. You see, she was after a ceramic rooster . . .” As promised, it required a rather lengthy explanation to apprise his friend of all the evening’s surprises.
“Bloody hell.” His friend let out a low whistle through his teeth when the story was done. “What next?”
“Sterling will try to trace Hillhouse’s whereabouts and the Weasels will organize their urchin friends to keep a close eye on Kirkland’s movements—and those of the widow,” answered the earl.
After a long, meditative swallow of whisky, he added, “I’m considering confronting Mrs. Ashton, now that you’ve corroborated the scandal in her past.”
“Have you told Griffin of these developments? It seems to me you’ve all but solved the case for him.” Sheffield pulled a sardonic face. “Greed, lust, and betrayal—it’s a primordial triangle that has played out countless times throughout human history.”
“So it appears, but until I’m certain, I’ve decided to stay mum.
Bow Street is caught on the horns of a difficult dilemma.
” Wrexford pursed his lips and stared into the amber spirits.
“The government is anxious to apprehend the radical leaders quietly while letting the public continue to believe Ashton’s death was simply the result of a random robbery gone wrong.
Unless there’s indisputable evidence, Griffin would be risking his own position to press them to start sniffing around a high-born aristocrat like Kirkland, especially as his father is such an influential man. ”
“And you are thinking you can wrest a confession from the widow?” Sheffield sounded skeptical. “It seems to me she has ice in her veins. She won’t be easily intimidated.”
“She may have ice in her veins, but she also has a clear-eyed pragmatism whirring inside her clever brain.” The earl gave a grim smile. “Ratting on one’s partner to save one’s own neck is also a common theme throughout human history.”
“How cynical you are.”
Wrexford finished his drink. “But that doesn’t make my words any less true.”
That earned a sardonic laugh. Then Sheffield, seeing a hint of dawn beginning to tinge the night sky, gave a lazy stretch and recrossed his legs. “When will breakfast be served?”
“As soon as I’ve had a few hours of sleep.” The earl rose. “If the ivories continue to roll in our favor, the day will demand that our wits stay sharp.”
His friend gave a gusty yawn. “Wake me when coffee is brewed.”
* * *
Charlotte set down her paintbrush and rubbed at her bleary eyes. She could barely see straight, but a last inspection of the finished artwork left her feeling satisfied. Exhausted, but satisfied.
A good night’s work. Though in truth, it was well after dawn.
The pale, pearlescent light was softening the shadows on the street and the houses opposite her own.
Somewhere in her back garden, a wood pigeon was cooing a welcome to the new day.
She slowly rose, feeling weariness penetrate to the very marrow of her bones, and rolled the drawing in a protective sheet of oilskin.
Upstairs the boys were stirring. No doubt they would welcome an early morning run to Mr. Fores’s print shop, especially if she added a shilling for a treat of hot sultana muffins from the bakery near Covent Garden.
Charlotte waited for the patter of their steps on the aerie stairs before stepping into the corridor.
Raven stopped short, fixing her with basilisk stare. “Ye told me a bouncer, m’lady. Ye said ye were going to go shut yer peepers, if I did the same.”
“I fully intended to, but I had a sudden idea.” She held up the roll containing her drawing. “And as Mr. Fores depends on me to meet my deadlines, honor compelled me to finish it without delay. He deserves no less.”
“I s’pose,” conceded Raven. He took the package. “After we deliver this, we’ll go find Pudge and have him help us alert the others that His Nibs has work fer us.”
Charlotte passed him several coins. “You must be sure to stop and buy some muffins for your breakfast.”
“Muffins!” Hawk eyed the silver hungrily. “Huzzah!”
She reached out and ruffled the younger boy’s hair.
“Be off with you now.” She hesitated, then couldn’t help adding, “And be careful. You heard more than I might have wished for last night, but let it serve as a reminder that we are dealing with very dangerous adversaries, who’ll stop at nothing to get what they want. ”
* * *
“Milord.” Riche entered the earl’s workroom after giving a knock on the door.
“Ah, is it time for tea?” asked Sheffield, looking up from the novel he was reading.
“Good God, we just finished breakfast. Given how much food you consume, it’s a wonder you don’t weigh more than an ox,” observed Wrexford, which earned a snicker from Tyler, who was busy polishing the scientific instruments on the far side of the room.
Setting aside Ashton’s technical drawings, he checked the clock on the sideboard, then raised an inquiring brow at his butler. He had only a half hour before he must leave for his appointment at the Royal Institution. “Yes, Riche?”
“Master Thomas Ravenwood Sloane wishes to speak with you.”
“Show him in.”
Sheffield looked surprised. “Has Mrs. Sloane a younger brother?”
“It was decided that the Weasels needed proper English names to fit into their new neighborhood. Be assured the civilizing effect is only skin deep . . .” As Raven entered the room, covered in more than his usual filth, the earl quickly added, “If that much.”
“We’ve alerted our friends,” said Raven without preamble. “They’ll meet me in the alleyway behind St. Stephen’s church in an hour te receive their instructions.”