CHAPTER 15
Charlotte stared down at the pristine piece of paper, its crisp folds sealed with a scented wafer of rose-colored wax.
The faint perfume—a sudden reminder of long-ago sunshine and laughter—tickled her nostrils as she set aside her marketing basket and made herself pick it up from the tray on the side table.
Dare she hope her memory hadn’t deceived her?
Aunt Alison had always stood out as a bold splash of color amid the unremitting greyness of the rest of her family.
An unconventional intellect, an iron will, a tart sense of humor, a sly delight in refusing to fit the pattern card of propriety .
. . Charlotte knew that even her stiff-rumped, autocratic father was intimidated by the dowager.
With good reason. Alison didn’t suffer fools gladly.
But people changed, she reminded herself. Her own seventeen-year-old self felt as strange and distant as the Man in the Moon.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Charlotte looked up to find Raven eyeing her intently. But before she could answer, Hawk burst in from the garden, a large glass jar covered with a scrap of gauze clutched in his grimy hands.
“Look, look, I captured a monarch butterfly!” His face—what little could be seen of it through the crust of mud—beamed in pride as he held up his prize.
“A very handsome specimen,” admired Charlotte.
“I’m going to draw it,” announced Hawk proudly. “And then let it go.”
She made a mental note to pay a visit to Hatchard’s bookstore and purchase more illustrated volumes on flora and fauna. “An excellent plan. But I suggest you rinse your hands before picking up your sketchbook and pencils—you wouldn’t want an errant speck of dirt to alter the accuracy of your art.”
“Insects and slugs are disgusting,” muttered Raven with a mock shudder as his brother pelted off for the stairs.
“We all have our passions,” she murmured. “Be gentle in your teasing. He values your good opinion, and it’s important to be supportive of what sparks his imagination.”
Raven’s grimace softened to a ghost of a grin. “He’s very good at drawing, isn’t he?”
“Yes, extremely good. More than that, he’s very observant and possesses an excellent eye for detail.”
Alas, so did Raven, for the boy’s gaze immediately went back to the letter in her hand.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he repeated. “It looks like it’s from your great-aunt.”
Charlotte reluctantly cracked the seal and unfolded the paper.
“Well?”
She knew Raven was heading to his weekly mathematics session with Wrexford’s valet.
“When you arrive at His Lordship’s town house, kindly ask him if I might have use of his unmarked carriage later today.
” A second glance at the dowager’s distinctive script.
“I need it to call here at a quarter hour past two.”
Concern clouded his eyes. “Are you afraid?”
“I’m terrified.” Charlotte forced a smile. “But battles are rarely won without facing one’s fears.”
“What will you do if The Dragon refuses to help?”
Her heart gave a clench at the note of uncertainty in his voice. The weight of their worries shouldn’t be falling on his bony shoulders. “I shall simply find another way to help my cousin.” Charlotte ruffled his hair. “Now run along. You mustn’t be late for Mr. Tyler.”
Raven scuffed his boots, and then suddenly put his arms around her waist and pulled her into a fierce hug.
Before she could react, he was out the door, leaving naught but the whisper of rippling air in his wake.
“Men.” Though Charlotte conceded she was hardly one to judge. It wasn’t as if she wore her own emotions stitched like gaudy-colored ribbons to the cleavage of her bodice for all to see.
After putting away her purchases in the kitchen pantry, she headed up to her bedchamber. The sound of her steps on the landing drew McClellan from sweeping the floor of Charlotte’s workroom. “Did Lady Peake agree to a meeting?”
“Yes.” Charlotte closed her eyes for an instant. “And soon, so I must be quick about changing into yet another disguise,” she added with an edge of sarcasm. “That of an oh-so proper lady.”
McClellan followed Charlotte into her bedchamber. “Sit,” she ordered as she moved to the armoire. “Which gown would you like?”
The options were extremely limited. Yet another part of her life that would have to change. Participating in the beau monde’s frivolous social swirl required an obscene amount of frills and furbelows.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied a little testily. “I leave it for you to choose.”
McClellan didn’t hesitate. “The slate blue. It’s reserved, yet elegant, and it accentuates the color of your eyes.”
“Accentuating the color of my eyes is the least of my concerns,” muttered Charlotte as she stripped off her work gown.
“It shouldn’t be,” counseled McClellan, handing over a more elaborate corset. “Since you’re intent on stepping onto a new battlefield, you must learn to wield a new set of weapons.”
“Touché,” she conceded. The observation was true, but it didn’t make her mood any less prickly as she began lacing herself into the silk and whalebone.
With her maid’s help, she rushed through the rest of her toilette and headed back down to the street, where the earl’s carriage was waiting.
Charlotte settled into her seat and fisted her hands in her skirts.
Maintaining a tactful silence, McClellan took a place on the facing bench. A rap on the trap signaled for the coachman to get under way.
“Forgive my black humor,” she said over the iron-shod clatter of hooves and wheels.
“Change isn’t easy,” replied her maid. “But one adapts quicker than one might think.”
McClellan’s cool pragmatism helped settle her jumpy nerves.
Leaning back, Charlotte drew a deep breath and sought to compose her thoughts for the coming confrontation.
Having faced the prospect of violent death from bullets, blades, and fiery explosives over the past year, she knew that a simple conversation shouldn’t have her insides quaking like aspic. And yet . . .
All too soon, the carriage arrived at the entrance of Green Park.
Offering up a silent plea for Lady Luck to look favorably on a fellow female, Charlotte steeled her spine and descended to the pavement.
McClellan dutifully trailed along behind her, maintaining the correct distance expected of a lady’s maid.
She took a moment to survey the surroundings.
The rendezvous with her relative had been set for one of the footpaths that threaded through the copse of trees skirting St. James’s Palace.
To her relief, there were few people in the park at this hour, save for a handful of nursemaids and their young charges playing in the grass near the dairy stall.
After smoothing the strings of her bonnet into place, Charlotte set off down Queen’s Walk and soon found herself within the welcome shelter of the trees.
She came to a halt in a patch of shade and drew a steadying breath.
A breeze ruffled through the leaves overhead and she was suddenly acutely aware of the flickering patterns of sun and shadow on the gravel beneath her feet. Light and dark, so clearly defined. And yet her life seemed to move through a far more subtle play of nebulous greys.
Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a voice from the past.
“My dear Charlotte! Is that really you?”
* * *
“Wrex!” Sheffield shouldered his way into the earl’s workroom. “Wrex!”
“No need to bellow.” The earl looked up from his laboratory ledger. “I’m here, not in Timbuktu.”
“Ah, thank God you’ve risen from your slumber.” Wincing as a shaft of sunlight from the mullioned windows cut across his face, Sheffield ran a hand through his hair. “Why the devil is there no food in the breakfast room?”
“Because certain of my friends are like a plague of locusts. Cook has been ordered to lock up the larders, lest they be stripped bare.”
“Your butler is far more sympathetic. He’s promised to bring me coffee and a crust of bread.”
“Is there something urgent?” demanded the earl. “Aside from your growling stomach.”
“It would serve you right if I didn’t tell you,” said his friend primly. “However, my loyalty to Mrs. Slo—that is, Lady Charlotte—compels me to overlook your less-than-hospitable welcome.”
“Kit,” warned Wrexford as he put down his pen.
“Yes, yes.” Sheffield dropped his posturing.
“I made the rounds of the gaming hells in Southwark after last night’s gathering, hoping to learn a little more about Westmorly.
” He paused as the earl’s butler carried in a tray with a steaming pot of coffee and a cold collation of meat and cheese. “Bless you, Riche.”
Holding back his impatience, the earl allowed his friend to take a bite of cheddar before prodding, “And?”
“And I uncovered something that may have relevance to our investigation,” answered Sheffield.
“Two of the porters at Lucifer’s Lair were gossiping about a private exchange they overheard several nights ago.
Apparently, Jameson Mansfield—the new Earl of Woodbridge, as his father recently passed away—confronted Westmorly and accused him of cheating at cards.
He said he wouldn’t make it public if Westmorly stopped playing at all the establishments frequented by the ton. ”
Wrexford frowned. There was no greater sin against the gentlemanly code of honor than to cheat at cards. Those caught at it were usually publicly called out and ostracized from Polite Society. “I wonder why Woodbridge let him off so easily?”
“As do I.” Sheffield wolfed down another big bite of meat and cheese. “He’s currently at home—I checked with the coachman in the mews. The family town house is just off Hanover Square.”
“Well done, Kit. I suggest we pay him a visit.” He eyed the still-full tray. “Now, if you please.”
After taking a long swallow of coffee, his friend let out a wordless grumble. “Very well. But you owe me a decent supper.”
* * *
Charlotte should have remembered that her great-aunt always arrived early for any appointment.