CHAPTER 26
“Slow down, sweetening,” Charlotte cautioned as she and McClellan climbed down from the carriage and followed Hawk through the entrance to the Royal Botanic Gardens.
The clouds had cleared during the ride from Town and the dew-damp foliage was sparkling with the morning sunlight. “You mustn’t run along the paths.”
“Ha! I can barely walk!” Hawk made a pained face. “What wiv the stiff collar, the tight coat, and all these cursed buttons and furbelows, I feel like a trussed pig.”
“But you look like a little gentleman,” replied McClellan in a voice that held a note of warning. “Rather than a heathen savage.”
Charlotte suppressed a smile. She had recently purchased fancy new clothing for both boys in preparation for their first forays into Polite Society. But she wasn’t quite sure how the maid had managed to get Hawk dressed in his finery.
Bribery, no doubt. There was likely a platter of fresh-baked jam tarts waiting at home.
“McClellan is right. You look very handsome,” she murmured. By some miracle, his face was still clean, and his hair untangled. However, the vast array of plantings and thick bed of dark earth didn’t bode well for that lasting long.
The thought of such mayhem helped lift her spirits.
On waking, she had promised herself to set aside all worries for a few hours.
Now, seeing the look of wonder on Hawk’s face as his gaze fell on one spectacular specimen after another, she didn’t regret it.
No word had come from Wrexford the previous evening, and she assumed he had made no progress in finding Hollister.
As for her own discovery about Cordelia . . . it could wait until evening.
“Here is a guide to the gardens”—Charlotte reached into her reticule for the leather-bound volume she had ordered from Hatchards—“along with some sketchbooks. Come, let us make some drawings of the plants that capture your fancy . . .”
The sunlight soon warmed the chill from the morning air. Bees buzzed through the colorful flowers, and a gentle breeze ruffled the foliage, perfuming the air with the sweet essence of a world in bloom.
Closing her eyes, Charlotte took a moment to breathe in deeply and listen to the scratch-scratch of Hawk’s pencil adding to the symphony of garden sounds. This had been a good idea. Life must be celebrated, no matter that Death was stalking through the shadows.
“Look, look!” he exclaimed, holding up a page for her to see.
“It’s wonderful,” she replied, determined to keep the specter of dread at bay. After admiring the drawing, she pointed to another intriguing specimen up ahead. “Shall we move on and see if we can capture that one on paper?”
For the next few hours, they made their way through the winding pathways, taking delight in the profusion of colors and textures.
On reaching the famous pagoda designed by William Chambers in the previous century, they found a bench and McClellan spread out their picnic.
All around them, monarch butterflies flitted through the gold-flecked light, bright dots of orange and black against the ever-changing shades of green.
It’s an idyllic place, thought Charlotte as Hawk’s happy chattering rose above the ruffling of the long grasses. The boys needed to broaden their horizons with trips to the countryside.
A laugh from McClellan drew her back to the moment. Hawk had set off in chase of a squirrel, only to take a tumble as his foot snagged in a bramble.
“I would have caught it, if I hadn’t been wearing such cursedly stiff shoes,” he grumbled on his return.
Charlotte dusted the dirt from his shoulders. “Oh, come, gentlemanly dress is a small price to pay for such a magical place, is it not?”
He grinned. “Yeah, I s’ppose so.”
“Then do try not to destroy your coat,” drawled McClellan as he gobbled down a chicken leg and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “At least, not until the carriage ride home.”
Smiling, Charlotte shaded her eyes and spotted a flash of sunlight through the trees. “Ah, there is the hothouse where Sir Joseph’s original specimen collection is housed. Shall we take a stroll to view them, once we’re finished with our picnic?”
* * *
Wrexford was jarred from his brooding by the thump of a boot against his workroom door. It was followed by an oath as the latch sprung open and Sheffield stalked in.
“You must be ill,” drawled the earl, seeing his friend’s hands were empty. “It’s the hour of the midday meal, and yet you’ve purloined no food or drink from my larders.”
Sheffield didn’t respond with a quip—a sign that something was seriously amiss. Instead, he went to stand by the hearth, his back to the room, and braced his hands on the marble mantel.
The silence felt louder than the cracking of the coals. It sent a frisson of alarm skittering down Wrexford’s spine.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Sheffield turned, his expression bleak. “Be damned with what she believes the evidence says—in this case, I think Lady Charlotte is bloody wrong.”
He stiffened. “About what?”
“You haven’t heard?” Surprise flickered in his friend’s eyes.
“Lady Charlotte arranged several days ago to take Hawk on a visit to the Royal Botanic Gardens this morning. They departed by carriage at an early hour and aren’t expected back until the end of the day,” answered Wrexford.
“I imagine she intends to tell me whatever she’s discovered then.
” He shifted in his chair. “However, I’d rather hear it from you now. ”
Sheffield drew a heavy breath and proceeded to explain about the meeting with Lady Cordelia, and Charlotte’s shocking observation.
“A gesture, glimpsed for an instant, in the dead of night, by a child!” he finished, unable to hold back a grimace.
“It seems far too thin a thread to use as a hangman’s noose. ”
“Alice has proven herself to be a very accurate observer,” pointed out the earl. “She’s not prone to fantasy.”
Sheffield had the grace to flush. “I wasn’t implying she’s making things up. Just that she might be . . . mistaken.”
Wrexford sensed that he must tread carefully.
“That’s possible. But we both know Lady Charlotte is not prone to jumping to conclusions.
She cares deeply about justice, and would never want to accuse the wrong person.
” He hesitated, aware that the wrong words might injure their friendship.
“I doubt she is basing her assessment solely on the gesture. Lady Cordelia does possess a Wellington hat, and has admitted to masquerading as a man.”
“I simply can’t believe she’s capable of cold-blooded murder. You met her. Do you?”
How to answer?
“Would that I had the godlike powers to discern what lies in the deepest, darkest recesses of the heart, Kit. However admirable a person may appear, I fear we can never know what demons lurk within.”
Sheffield’s shoulders slumped. “I know what you say is reasonable. Just as I know what you say about Lady Charlotte is true, and that I should listen to my head, and not my heart.” He huffed a self-mocking laugh. “Ye gods, unrepentant rogues like us aren’t supposed to have hearts.”
Wrexford rose and went to pour two measures of Scottish malt from the decanter on the sideboard.
“They are,” muttered his friend, “cursedly painful encumbrances.”
“So they are.” The earl handed his friend a glass, the brusque movement sending shards of fire-gold light skittering over the far wall. “But we must be able to feel pain, if we are to be able to feel joy.”
Sheffield watched the patterns flash and die away as he drew in a mouthful of whisky and swallowed. “I never thought I’d hear you wax poetic about sentiment.”
Women seem to be addling our wits.
“There are others who do it far more skillfully than I,” he replied. “Such as, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’”
“Or quote from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Wrexford allowed a faint smile. “I never thought I’d hear you correctly identify the Bard.”
“A lucky guess,” murmured his friend through another mouthful of malt.
The momentary glimmer of Sheffield-like humor in his friend’s eyes was reassuring. In response, he cocked his glass in salute. “To us rogues, and all our many faults.”
They finished their drinks in companionable silence. Wrexford welcomed the mellow fire of the whisky as it seemed to chase away some of the darkness of his own thoughts. A glance at Sheffield showed the tension was melting from his features.
Still, the worry that he hadn’t been as good a friend as he should have been prickled at his conscience. “If Lady Cordelia is innocent,” he said, “we will—”
“Milord!” Tyler shouldered his way through the door. “The fellow I set to watching the Albany Hotel has just sent word that Hollister has returned to his rooms. If you hurry, you can catch him there.”
* * *
A kiss of warm, moist air caressed her cheeks as Charlotte clicked open the brass-mullioned glass door and stepped inside the large hothouse.
Brick walkways meandered through long rows of raised beds filled with plantings.
Around the perimeter, a selection of potted trees in all shapes and sizes created an exotic jungle-like feeling.
Shadows flickered through the leaves, punctuating the steady drip-drip of unseen water.
She heard a sound of wonder catch in Hawk’s throat. She felt it, too. It was as if they had suddenly been transported to another world.
“Do be careful, sweeting. You heard the attendant—we mustn’t touch anything,” she reminded as he bent low to examine a cluster of magenta-striped leaves. “And watch your step when we move through the potted trees . . .”
She stopped short on seeing a flutter of movement through the foliage.
A gentleman came around the corner of the walkway, head bent in study of the papers in his hands.
He looked up over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles as Charlotte cleared her throat, a look of mild surprise on his patrician face.