CHAPTER 29
“What the devil—” began Griffin.
“Come, come—don’t you think you and your men ought to search and secure the rest of the building before badgering Wrexford with any more tedious questions?
” Sheffield released his hold on the latch, and spun around to place a restraining hand on the Runner’s chest. “The corpses aren’t going anywhere, whereas their villainous minions might be making their escape. ”
Griffin’s gaze narrowed to a suspicious squint.
Sheffield batted at the ghostly puffs of steam that were swirling up from the floor below. “Not to speak of all the devil-cursed racket the machinery is making. Shouldn’t you see to having the bloody things shut off so they don’t blow us all to Kingdom Come?”
“Why is it I smell a rat, Mr. Sheffield?” growled Griffin, looking to the oaken door and then back at the earl’s friend. “Was that Phoenix—”
A shout from one of his men echoed from the bowels of the building before he could go on.
“We’ve found another prisoner!” A flurry of muffled bangs and thumps followed. “Says his name is Hillhouse!”
“Ah, Ashton’s missing assistant!” Sheffield gave Griffin a little shove. “Let us hurry. Surely he’ll know what to do about all the infernal hissing and clanking.”
* * *
The perversely sweet stink of death clogged her nostrils as Charlotte darted around the slowly spreading pools of blood and flung her arms around the earl. His coat smelled of horse dung, noxious chemicals—and some indescribable male essence that she had come to recognize as uniquely his own.
“Wrexford!” She pulled him into a fierce hug and held him tightly, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart shudder through every tiny fiber of her body.
Thud, thud. Its pulsing warmth slowly penetrated through the layers of damp wool and softened the clench of dread that had hold of her vitals.
Thud, thud.
Filling her lungs with a ragged inhale, Charlotte pulled back in one swift, herky-jerky motion and smacked her fists against his chest.
Thud, thud.
“Of all the bacon-brained, beef-witted, foolhardy things to do!” Thud, thud. “God in heaven, you bloody idiotic, infuriating man! What were you thinking to confront a vicious killer and goad him into a fury?”
Wrexford raised a dark brow. “I am,” he drawled, “assuming that is a rhetorical question.”
How dare he appear amused! One didn’t taunt the gods by cocking a snoot at Death. Not when its snapping, snarling jaws were a mere hairsbreadth away.
“However, as to my state of mind—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze pinching to a wary stare. “Are you crying?”
“No, of course not!” She blinked the tears from her lashes. “Bloody hell, I never cry.”
“I didn’t think so.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek and gently wiped away a bead of moisture. “It must be the steam from Ashton’s invention.”
Charlotte nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. Now that all her pent-up fears had spent their fire, her mouth felt filled with ashes. She hadn’t realized just how terrified she had been at the thought of losing him from her life.
And how terrified she was now at having to face her innermost feelings.
“It works, you know. Ashton was right about the new design,” went on Wrexford, seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil.
Thank God—one never had to fear that the earl’s ironclad scientific reasoning would ever bow to emotion.
“I suppose we may take a small measure of satisfaction that its power has been saved from falling into evil hands,” he mused, “and will, as Ashton intended, be used for good.”
“No small thanks to you, Wrexford,” pointed out Charlotte. “You refused to give up on finding the truth.”
“As did you.” His smile had its usual mocking curl. “You have to admit, we make a formidable team.”
“Yes, God help any miscreants who cross our path,” she murmured, taking care to match his sardonic humor. “They usually end up dead.”
At the offhand mention of death, her brooding concerning the earl quickly gave way to another unsettling thought. “Speaking of which, if Blodgett was the villain, what of Mr. Hillhouse? Poor Miss Merton—”
“There’s no need to worry,” interjected Wrexford.
“Hillhouse is safe in one of the rooms below. It turns out the fellow is entirely innocent. He was abducted and forced to build the valves—the one missing part to the new engine design—because Blodgett threatened to harm Miss Merton. And then Blodgett nabbed me because . . .”
He paused. “Well, it’s rather a long story—”
“Then I suggest you wait to tell it,” said Charlotte. “As Miss Merton and Jeremy, along with Mr. Sheffield and Mrs. Ashton, have played an integral part in fighting Blackstone and Blodgett’s evil plot, they deserve to be present to hear all the gory details at the same time as I do.”
Charlotte darted a glance at the massive iron-hinged door. “And besides, I’m not sure how long Mr. Sheffield can hold off Griffin. The Runner didn’t see through my disguise last time we met, but it would be foolhardy to press my luck.”
At the far end of the room, lit by the oily glow of a single lantern, was a narrow stairwell.
“So I think it best if I slip away.” A coward’s retreat perhaps. And yet she suddenly wasn’t sure how to express her emotions—or whether Wrexford would welcome them. “But first, promise me something.”
The floorboards creaked loudly as Wrexford shifted his weight from foot to foot, an oddly uncertain expression rippling to life in the shadow-dark depths of his eyes.
“Promise me that you will be more careful next time you decide to take it upon your lordly self to solve a heinous murder.”
A short, cynical laugh rumbled deep in his throat. “I would think my demise would be cause for celebration—you wouldn’t have to endure any more of my awful moods and irascible snarls.”
It was said lightly, yet the simple statement seemed to quiver in the air, tangling itself in multiple meanings. Or perhaps it was just her own overwrought imagination that was tied in knots.
“If you’re implying that I would be happy if you had met your Maker, I do confess my first impulse was to throttle you myself. However . . .” A pause. “However, life might be a trifle dull without your sharp sarcasm and overbearing arrogance to stir scandal and gossip.”
Charlotte let her gaze trace the angled ridge of his cheekbone, where the faint stubbling of a bruise was darkening to purple.
Strange how all the subtle contours of his face had become so familiar—the shape of his eyes, the aquiline jut of his nose, the tiny creases pulling at the corners of his mouth when he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he wished to appear.
It was that small hint of vulnerability that impelled her to go on. “Do I hope there won’t be a next time?” she said. “Yes, of course I do. However, I fear a passion for justice has burned itself into your blood.”
“I don’t have passions,” pointed out Wrexford. “Merely ill-tempered flaws.”
“But you have an unyielding sense of honor.” She reached up and tucked a tangled lock of his hair behind his ear. “Which may be even worse.”
“Me? Honor?” He made a self-mocking face. “Ye god, don’t let that cat out of the bag.”
Their eyes met and Charlotte couldn’t hold back a smile. “I—” The rest of her words caught in her throat as he suddenly caught her hand and brushed his lips to her knuckles.
Her heart thumped against her ribs. “Was that a . . .”
A kiss? No, surely not.
“If it was,” he murmured, “don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”
“As you know, I’m very good at keeping secrets,” she replied, too confused to think of a clever quip.
“Speaking of secrets . . .” Wrexford suddenly took her arm and drew her toward the stairwell.
“To the devil with Griffin. He’ll have his hands full cleaning up this sordid mess, so he can wait until tomorrow to question me.
Given all the secrets within secrets we’ve unraveled, you are right to insist that our friends deserve to hear the report without delay. ”
They were quickly swallowed in shadows, the clump-clump of their boots sounding unnaturally loud on the age-worn stone steps.
“I take it the Weasels are close by? And Skinny?” he asked as the stairs made a tight turn and continued downward.
“Yes. McClellan was clever enough to bring Skinny back from my house in your unmarked carriage to where Griffin and Sheffield were waiting. The boys are waiting with them.” The darkness was giving her a welcome respite in which to compose her emotions.
Though Wrexford had appeared not to notice, she feared her face couldn’t help but give away the true state of her feelings.
“Excellent. We’ll have the Weasels go spirit Hillhouse away from the Runners, and then we can all head to Mrs. Ashton’s townhouse.”
“McClellan already dispatched word to Jeremy in Cambridge telling him about your abduction. I assume he’s already on his way back to London,” said Charlotte.
“Her efficiency is very impressive, as is her fortitude. She seems remarkably un-rattled by the havey-cavey antics of my household. Most maids would swoon at the sight of her mistress dressed as an urchin and brandishing a pistol.”
“McClellan is no ordinary maid,” murmured Wrexford, “and no stranger to havey-cavey antics.”
“Which begs the question of how she came to be part of your household.”
“She’s Tyler’s cousin,” he replied. “Apparently she made some sort of mistake in her past—I know not what, nor do I care. And when he asked me if I might consider hiring her so she could get out of Scotland, I was happy to do so. It’s my belief that everyone deserves a second chance.”
A second chance. Charlotte flinched, her boot catching in a crack and causing her to stumble. How much had he already guessed about her past?
“Steady.” Wrexford caught her arm.
A mirthless laugh nearly slipped from her lips. Steady? Of late, it felt as if her life had been wrenched loose from its moorings and was spinning-spinning-spinning in a whirling vortex of dangerous crosscurrents.