CHAPTER 25
Charlotte slept fitfully, exhaustion too weak to fight off the dark dreams clawing at her peace of mind. She finally gave up any further attempt at repose and threw off the bedcovers, wincing as a blade of afternoon sunlight cut across her face.
An apt metaphor, she decided, for how her life had been turned upside down. She always rose at the crack of dawn. Only indolent aristocrats had the luxury of lingering in the silky cocoon of sleep, blissfully ignorant of the inevitable everyday triumphs and disasters taking shape.
As she splashed cold water on her cheeks, Charlotte found herself yearning for her old life, her old world, where the hours were, for the most part, filled with ordinary tasks.
Shopping, washing, cooking, drawing. A hard rhythm, perhaps, but one that had grown comfortable because of its familiarity.
This new life was even more complicated than she had expected.
And about to get even more complicated, given her promise to Wrexford.
After dressing, she hurried downstairs, filled with a sudden resolve to fend off her worries, at least for an interlude, with mundane tasks. The larder needed to be restocked, her paints and paper replenished.
The boys had left a note—thank God they had not shirked from heading off to their lessons. She hoped that boded well. Both of them seemed to like their new tutor. Wrexford had chosen well.
Wrexford. Charlotte didn’t want to think about him and all the conundrums and confusion entangled in their relationship. Death and disaster were the forces that had brought them together. And now, she must face giving up her most vulnerable secret . . .
No wonder her emotions were out of sorts.
Taking up her cloak and marketing basket, she headed out to the street.
* * *
Coffee—thankfully as dark and scalding as boiling pitch.
Blowing away a cloud of steam rising from the cup, Wrexford took a quick swallow, hoping its burn might jolt him fully awake.
He had slept for a goodly number of hours—a glance out his work room windows showed that dusk was already falling—and yet his brain still felt muzzy. He needed to get his thoughts in order.
And quickly.
Riche had left a note on his blotter informing him that Griffin had stopped by earlier. The Runner couldn’t afford to be patient much longer. The government was likely pressing him for answers about the radical group’s involvement in Ashton’s murder.
Wrexford reread his butler’s missive. Griffin would be heading to Henning’s surgery later that evening after finishing his official duties, and expected the earl to be there. The 10 o’clock rendezvous time was clearly an order, not a request.
Damnation. He had been hoping to have an idea or two about who might have murdered Kirkland to offer Griffin. But unless any of the others had a suggestion . . . He rubbed at his temples, then took another swallow of coffee.
Still no inspiration.
He decided there was nothing to lose by paying another visit to Mrs. Ashton. Between her husband’s business and her own personal problems, she had been in the thick of the plot. Surely she must have some conjecture, now that she had had some time to think on it.
After finishing his coffee, Wrexford shuffled through the documents he had on the investigation, and then jotted down a few more notes. His overcoat and hat were still on the armchair where he had tossed them, and perhaps the short walk in the brisk air would help clear his head.
He exited his house and circled around from the elegant square to the alleyway behind the mews, following the way through several sharp turns before it intersected with an even narrower passageway.
Overhead, clouds scudded over the rising crescent moon and scattering of stars, dimming what little glow was left by the fading twilight.
As he ducked through the opening, the earl heard the pelter of footsteps up ahead. They were coming towards him, and at a dead run. On instinct, he closed his hand around the butt of his pistol and moved quickly to take cover within the crevasses of the uneven buildings.
A small black blur came flying out of the gloom.
“Weasel!” called Wrexford as the boy took shape, feeling a spurt of alarm at his obvious agitation. His first thought was of Charlotte and how vulnerable she was.
“M’lord! m’lord!” Raven skidded to a stop and hurriedly grabbed a paper from inside his jacket. “Look! Look!”
The clench in his chest relaxed. A note from her meant there was no reason to panic. The boy would never have left her alone if she were in any danger.
“What is it, lad?” Wrexford asked, the rush of relief sharpening his voice.
“The answer!” The boy waved the paper as he gasped to catch his breath. “The answer!”
A cryptic reply, considering how many lethal mysteries they were facing.
“Slow down,” he ordered. “What has Mrs. Sloane discovered?”
“Not m’lady,” responded Raven in rush. “Me!”
Wrexford found the paper thrust right under his nose.
“Look, sir! Mr. Tyler was right—the numbers are a code! M’lady left the copy ye gave her on her desk, so I borrowed it and began te play to with the patterns he showed me.”
The earl grabbed both the paper and the boy, then hurried to a spot in the passageway where a weak dribbling of light from an overhead window afforded a bit of illumination.
“Ye see, Mr. Tyler said he thought it was some sort o’ Vigenère Square, so I just decided te make some tries with the diagram he showed me,” explained the boy.
“Ye use a keyword to encrypt the message, otherwise it will just come out as goobledy-gook. Then ye got to convert the numbers te letters of the alphabet—A equals 1, B equals 2 and so on.”
Raven paused to gulp in a breath. “Mr. Tyler had been trying a passel of words, like Ashton and steam. But m’lady told me the murdered cove who wrote the note said numbers—the numbers reveal everything.” Another gulp of air. “So I tried numbers.”
Good God—the simple insight of a child. Wrexford heard no more. He was too engrossed in reading what Raven had decoded.
Nevins—I’ve been duped and set up to appear
Ashton’s killer. I know who the real culprits are.
The earl swore on reading the names, as all the topsy-turvey pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.
And I can guess why—I’ve learned from a friend that Ashton truly did plan to use the profits from a patent to better the lives of his workers rather than line his own pockets.
I think the miscreants intend to take the inventions for themselves.
You must unmask them for the blackguards they are, for they’ve made our group appear guilty of the heinous crime.
He looked up to find Raven watching him expectantly. “Did you show this to Mrs. Sloane?” he demanded.
“She was out when I came home and started work on it. And she hadn’t returned by the time I finished. So I decided I’d better come show it to ye.”
“You did exactly the right thing, lad.” Wrexford pocketed the note, along with his pistol. “Now, let us hurry back to your house and tell her what you’ve discovered.”
A new clench of fear had taken hold of him. One of the villains had seen Charlotte with Miss Merton. No matter that McClellan was a crack shot, he worried that she was now in grave danger. From now on, until all the miscreants were under arrest, he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight.
“Then we’re all going to head to Henning’s surgery,” he added, turning away from the light and urging the boy forward. “Griffin will be arriving there later this evening, and we can finally put the wheels of justice in motion.”
* * *
Her basket brimming with purchases, Charlotte turned the corner to her street.
She had been away longer than expected, but a stop at the workshop entrance of her modiste’s fancy shop had resulted in the invitation to share tea with Madame Franzenelli.
It had been a very pleasant diversion to talk about Tuscany’s beauty and the latest fripperies of fashion instead of ghoulish murders and menacing dangers.
Indeed, she had lost track of time. It was now past suppertime, and the boys would likely be starving.
A quick rummaging in her reticule located her key. She unlocked her front door—and froze at the sound of voices coming from the parlor.
Setting down her basket, Charlotte groped for the small pocket pistol concealed in her cloak pocket.
Thank God she’d been wise enough not to venture out unarmed.
She cocked the hammer, careful to make no noise, and started forward, feeling as if her pounding heart had leapt up and lodged in her throat.
A lamp was lit inside the room, its outer ring of light just edging out through the open doorway and into the corridor. Charlotte crept along the wall, and then, weapon held ready, she ventured a peek inside.
A sound—something between a gasp and a laugh—slipped free from her lips.
Hawk turned quickly, the heavy sword nearly twisting from his grip and whacking the captive seated in the wooden chair.
“I captured another intruder!” exclaimed the boy proudly.
“I knocked,” said McClellan, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And on finding the door ajar, I took the liberty of entering, to make sure nothing was amiss.”
“My apologies,” said Charlotte, lowering the pistol. “Untie her, Hawk. At once, if you please.”
His face fell. “She ain’t the enemy?”
“She isn’t,” replied Charlotte.
“But I commend you on your vigilance, young man,” said McClellan as Hawk fell to unknotting the ropes binding her to the chair. “You were entirely right to be on your guard. Better to be safe than sorry.” A pause as she looked back to Charlotte. “Did His Lordship inform you I was coming?”
Charlotte had, in fact, let the fact slip her mind. “Yes, but—”
“But you’re not pleased.”
“It’s not that,” she answered. “It’s . . .” How to explain?
“It’s just that you prefer that other people don’t make such decisions for you,” suggested McClellan.
She gave a wry grimace. “That’s one way of putting it.”