CHAPTER 25 #2
McClellan chuckled. “I understand. But perhaps I may be of practical use while I’m here.” Flexing her freed wrists, the maid thanked Hawk politely and stood up. “I’m a credible cook. Allow me to fix supper while you take a moment to settle in from your errands.”
“I don’t expect you to toil at household tasks,” protested Charlotte.
The reply was brusquely dismissed. “Nonsense. I’m far happier when I’m not sitting in a corner twiddling my thumbs. And besides, my feeling is you have more pressing things to think about.”
Charlotte decided not to argue. The suggestion made sense. “Thank you. But first, allow me to show you to your quarters. I must warn you, though, you won’t have the same fancy comforts—”
McClellan cut her off. “I’m comfortable anywhere, Mrs. Sloane.”
Charlotte turned to Hawk—and suddenly realized that in the unexpected helter-pelter of her return she hadn’t registered Raven’s absence. “Where’s your brother?”
“I dunno. He was here one minute, and then when I looked again, he was gone.”
Raven was often running in and out, so there was no reason for alarm. “Well, if he doesn’t return soon, he will have to eat his stew cold.” She reached out and ruffled Hawk’s hair. “That was very brave of you to protect our castle.”
“Oiy, well, the earl says a gentleman must always take care of his family and friends.”
She held back a skeptical laugh. Wrexford would rather eat nails than ever voice such a maudlin sentiment in her presence. But she found it rather endearing that he had said such a thing to the boys.
“Indeed. However, I think we’ll have no further need for swashbuckling adventure tonight. Pick up your sword and carry it back in your room.”
* * *
Quickening his pace, Wrexford emerged from the passageway and crossed the small square at the head of Adam Street, his boots beating a staccato tattoo on the uneven cobbles. Behind him, still hidden in the murky darkness, Raven broke into a run to catch up.
The slap-slap of the hurried steps brought him out of his brooding. He came to a halt and turned, surprised the boy had been dawdling.
“You’re usually swift as quicksilver,” he said. “What’s—”
“There’s somebody following us,” whispered Raven.
Wrexford came instantly alert. If the boy sensed trouble, the earl was sure it was there.
Sure enough, an instant later, a man burst out from the shadows, a pistol in each hand. At the same time, a second figure clattered into the square from the adjoining alley. He, too, was armed, though only with a stout cudgel.
Wrexford cursed himself for a bloody fool. He had been one precious step ahead of the enemy but had let the advantage slip away. Mind whirring, he sought a way to salvage what he could of the situation.
“Don’t move, milord,” ordered the man with the pistols, as he slowed to a stop a short distance away. “I would dislike putting a bullet through your brain, but I’ll do so if necessary.”
“Aren’t blades more to your liking than bullets?”
The retort earned a nasty laugh. “I’m equally skilled with either.”
“No need to shed any blood,” said the earl calmly. “Let me get rid of the beggar boy and then we can conduct our business in a civilized manner.” From his pocket he pulled the folded paper and, keeping it hidden in his palm, quickly passed it to Raven.
“Here’s a farthing, brat, now be off,” he barked, punctuating the order with a sharp shove and praying the boy would understand that flight was a far better choice than senseless heroics.
Raven, to his credit, flew for cover.
The man with the pistols hesitated for a heartbeat, then seemed to realize his mistake and squeezed off a shot.
Shards of stone exploded just as Raven darted around the corner of a building.
Had the boy been hit? Wrexford couldn’t tell.
Swearing, the man took aim with the second pistol, then thought better of it. “Smythe!” he cried. “Go after the guttersnipe and finish him off.” To Wrexford, he demanded, “What did you give the filthy brat?”
“Naught but a coin,” said the earl calmly “I hope he spends it wisely.”
The man’s face darkened for an instant, but he quickly released his anger with a laugh. “You’re a clever fellow, milord. That bodes well.”
For what? But before Wrexford could begin to parse its meaning, the man’s accomplice returned.
“There’s a trail of blood—quite a bit of it—but it leads into a maze of alleys. Seemed a waste of time to follow,” called Smythe as he reappeared from the gloom. “I swear, I saw the bullet hit him. He won’t last long.”
“Say your prayers. You’ll soon be a dead man,” said Wrexford softly to his captor.
Another laugh. “No, I’ll soon be a very rich man,” sneered the man. He flashed a hand signal to his accomplice. The cudgel swung through the air with a sudden whoosh and cracked against the earl’s skull with a sickening thud.
* * *
Feeling a tad guilty, Charlotte listened to the faint clatter of dishes being washed and dried in the kitchen before returning her attention to her sketchbook.
McClellan had proved to be an excellent cook, and after the meal refused to allow any help with the cleaning.
It would have seemed like a luxury, save for the fact that it forced her to confront the taunting, devil-cursed dangers still at large.
Who was the enemy?
Charlotte uttered a frustrated oath. She felt she should have seen the answer by now. Noticing the telling little details was supposed to be her strength. And yet, her mind remained blank as a pristine sheet of paper.
Picking up a pencil, she forced herself to set aside conscious thought and simply start sketching. Why not let intuition have a try, as intellect had failed?
To her surprise, Charlotte found she was drawing Lord Kirkland’s face.
How strange, she thought, as she had seen it only once and for just a few moments as it lay devoid of life and painted a sallow yellow by the greasy flicker of lamplight.
Even so, the viscount’s features had possessed a saturnine beauty.
Why do they seem familiar?
She moved the pencil point to a blank part of the page and started again. This time, another face—similar, yet different—took shape. She stared at it, trying to place the slightly hooded eyes and well-shaped mouth.
And then it hit her—a man brushing past her in the closeness of a corridor, his face all the more memorable because of his fire-bright eyes.
Dear God. It took a stretch of the imagination, but all at once she saw how it all could make perfect sense.
Charlotte quickly folded the sketch and hurried to her bedchamber to change into her urchin’s garb. After tucking the paper safely into her shirt, she went downstairs and found McClellan busy reorganizing the shelves in the kitchen foyer.
“I’m going out,” she announced, feeling McClellan deserved her trust. Besides, she needed her to keep the boys in check. “I have to find Wrexford.”
The maid slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “The thing is, His Lordship ordered me to stay with you, Mrs. Sloane, and not allow you to hare off on your own.”
“Circumstances demand that we improvise,” she shot back. “Time is of the essence, and I’ll move faster alone.”
McClellan’s brow pinched as she considered what to do.
“It’s vitally important,” added Charlotte. “Lives may depend on it.”
“Then I suppose,” said the maid slowly, “we had best act on the old adage that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
Charlotte nodded her thanks.
“Do you need a weapon?”
“I have one, though apparently I’m not nearly as skilled as you are in its use.”
“Like anything, marksmanship takes practice,” said the maid. “It is, perhaps, a skill you would find useful to acquire.”
“Quite likely.” Charlotte tugged at her cap. “I need you to keep Hawk from dashing after me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And when Raven returns, you must see to it that he doesn’t leave,” she added. “Though that won’t be an easy task.”
“I’ve a good deal of experience with fiercely stubborn lads,” assured McClellan.
“Thank you.” Charlotte reached for the latch of the door leading out to the back garden, only to have it flung open by some unseen hand.
“Raven!” she cried as the boy stumbled in, his face half-covered in blood.
“Never mind that!” he exclaimed, fending off her attempt to enfold him in her arms. “It’s just a scratch from flying stones!”
McClellan had been quick to fetch a wet cloth from the kitchen and offered it to him. “She’ll calm down if you don’t look like death warmed over.”
“It ain’t me who’s in any danger of meeting the Reaper! It’s His Nibs—he’s been coshed on the head and abducted.” Raven plucked a paper from his pocket. “By a bloody bastard named Geoffrey Blodgett!”