CHAPTER 12
Wrexford descended from the carriage and took a moment to appreciate the tranquil beauty of Berkeley Square’s center garden. The night air was still—not a leaf fluttered—and the silvery moonlight cast an aura of enchantment over the foliage.
“A ha’penny for your thoughts,” murmured Charlotte as she joined him on the pavement. They had not lingered at the French ambassador’s reception after the encounter with Mademoiselle Benoit, and the darkness had not yet deepened to its midnight hue.
“They’re not worth a farthing,” he replied lightly.
She took his arm. “Nonetheless, I should like to hear them.”
He hesitated, his evening shoes scraping softly over the paving stones as he shifted. “In quiet moments like these, one can almost imagine that there are places in the world where Evil dares not tread.”
Charlotte drew him closer and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry about all this. I know you were looking forward to a peaceful interlude in the country in which to contemplate personal matters.”
“In the grand scheme of things, sorting through the books from my father’s library is not a pressing concern, given that our dear friends need our help in solving the murder of a loved one.”
And yet Wrexford couldn’t help but regret having to put off the chance to make peace with his own inner demons.
“I know that’s true,” she replied. “But it doesn’t diminish your desire to . . . put to rest the ghosts of the past.”
Wrexford felt the warmth of her closeness ease the knot in his chest.
“Come,” said Charlotte after a long moment of companionable silence.
“There is nothing more that we can do tonight concerning the murder. Let us spend an hour or two unpacking the crates of your father’s books that you brought with us from Wrexford Manor.
” She smiled. “Who knows—perhaps we will discover some hidden papers which show that your father was a romantic at heart and secretly penned poetry.”
“Heaven forfend,” he said, marveling at how she always seemed to know exactly how to draw him back from his dark broodings. “Some revelations are too shocking to contemplate.”
“You really think it impossible?”
“My father was a great many things. A romantic was not one of them.”
Hand in hand, they turned away from the moon-dappled garden and entered their town house, taking care to tread lightly as they headed for the earl’s workroom so as not to rouse the rest of the household.
“Shall I pour you a whisky to sip as you work?” asked Charlotte after pausing by the sideboard.
“A wee dram would be welcome.” Wrexford rummaged through his top desk drawer and withdrew a magnifying glass, a small notebook, and several freshly sharpened pencils.
“I want to catalogue the contents of the crates so that Tyler can cross-check the titles against the books in my own collection. The extra copies I will save to gift to the boys when they are older.”
“That’s a lovely idea.” Cupping the glass of amber spirits in her hands, she turned to the door connecting the workroom to the library—
Only to have it thrown open from the other side.
“What are you three Weasels doing up at this hour?” inquired the earl as he approached the archway.
“We know how much you were looking forward to sorting through your father’s books,” answered Raven. “So we decided to help.”
He stepped back to join Hawk and Peregrine by the side of the door, revealing four long worktables at the center of the room, each of them holding a double row of neatly stacked books.
Wrexford paused in the opening to regard their handiwork.
“We arranged them by subject,” offered Hawk. “Save for the ones in French and German, which we grouped separately.”
“What a lovely surprise,” said the earl after inspecting the first table. “It’s an excellent job.” He turned to face them. “Thank you, lads.”
To his surprise, the boys didn’t crack a smile.
Charlotte noted their solemn demeanor as well. “Is something amiss?” she asked gently. “If perchance an accident happened while working with the books, and one of them was damaged, I would hope that you wouldn’t hesitate to tell us.”
“No, m’lady, no harm has come to any of the books,” assured Raven, though he didn’t quite meet her gaze.
It was only then that Wrexford noticed that the boy had his hands clasped behind his back.
Which didn’t bode well.
“So then, what’s the trouble?” he pressed.
Hawk sidled over and whispered something in his brother’s ear. Raven nodded, prompting Hawk to gesture for Peregrine to join the huddle.
Wrexford would have been amused if he hadn’t suddenly felt a prickling of foreboding at the nape of his neck.
“We found something in one of the books—” began Raven.
“The pages fell open as I was lifting it out of its crate—” explained Peregrine.
“We weren’t snooping,” interjected Hawk.
Wrexford tried to imagine what could possibly be making them so worried about his reaction.
Charlotte, however, was quicker to make a guess. “Books make excellent hiding places for things one wishes to keep private.”
He was about to dismiss the suggestion that his father—a gentleman of exemplary character and spotless reputation—had anything to hide with a rude snort, but then thought better of it.
We all have secrets that we wish to keep to ourselves, he told himself.
“Whatever it is,” she continued, “Wrex appreciates that you have found it for him.”
Looking reassured, Raven revealed the piece of folded paper he was holding and offered it to the earl.
Wrexford hesitated for an instant, torn between curiosity and dread. So much had been left unsaid between him and his father . . .
However, forcing a smile, he took it and flicked it open. The sight of the familiar looping script—written in the distinctive shade of blue ink that his father had always favored over black—made his throat constrict.
Memories, memories.
But aware that all eyes were on him, Wrexford made himself concentrate on the words. It was a letter—an unfinished one—put aside, said the last line, until later that day.
Only later had never come. The date scrawled at the top was the day the late earl had suffered a fatal heart spasm while out riding with his closest friend.
He looked up. “It appears to be the last letter my father ever wrote.” To his surprise, his voice sounded perfectly normal.
Charlotte, however, wasn’t fooled. A look of sympathy pooled in her eyes. “To you?” she asked.
Wrexford shook his head. “To someone whose name apparently begins with A.” He handed her the paper.
It was a short missive and took only a moment or two to read.
“Hmmm.”
“Is that all you have to say?” he asked, keeping his voice light despite the emotions churning in his gut.
“For the moment, yes.” Charlotte turned her attention to the Weasels. “You boys have done a splendid job in organizing the books for Wrex. But the hour is late, and it’s time for you to head up to your eyrie. You have lessons with Mr. Lynsley first thing in the morning.”
A shadow of disappointment flitted over Raven’s face. “But who is ‘A’?” he blurted out.
“Sweet dreams,” she said with smile that didn’t belie the note of steel in her voice.
“Oiy,” Hawk tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “G’night, m’lady. G’night, Wrex.”
As Peregrine was already heading for the corridor, Raven reluctantly allowed himself to be led away.
“I couldn’t tell the lads even if I wished to do so,” said Wrexford, once they were alone. “Damn me for being such a stubborn fool.” Guilt tangled with regret, making him feel achingly vulnerable.
“Ye heavens, you must stop taking on the sole blame for the misunderstandings between you and your father, Wrex,” counseled Charlotte. “He admits it right here”—she waved the letter—“that he should have made the effort to reach out to you—”
“Reach out about what?” he demanded.
“About ‘A’ and whatever relationship the two of them had.” She took a moment to reread the words.
“You’ve told me that your mother died when you and Tommy were very young.
Your father must have felt lonely over the years, especially when you both left home.
” She allowed a brief pause before adding, “Did he never have . . . a romantic liaison?”
“A good question.” Wrexford watched the flame of the desk lamp flicker within its glass globe. “As a child, one certainly doesn’t think of those things. I do remember that he would take occasional trips to his estate in West Yorkshire where he kept a small stud for breeding hunting horses.”
He made a face. “I always thought that horses were his passion in life—they seemed to bring him great pleasure. However, when Tommy and I were at university, we began to suspect that he might have a mistress. Several of our friends mentioned seeing him at the Newmarket races accompanied by a very attractive lady.”
A sigh. “But when Tommy ventured to mention it, my father said it was merely an old acquaintance he had encountered. We both accepted that, for there seemed no reason not to.”
“Of course not,” agreed Charlotte. She fell silent, but only for a moment. “Could ‘A’ have been a neighbor?”
“It seems unlikely. Like my father’s estate, the neighboring ones were used mainly as hunting retreats. There was little in the way of social entertainments in the area. I can’t imagine a widow or any unattached lady taking up residence in such isolation,” replied Wrexford.
“And yet it’s hard to interpret this as anything other than an exchange between two intimately acquainted people.” Charlotte cleared her throat and began reading it aloud.
My Dear A,
Much as I long for your presence, I understand your continued absence—God knows, you are right to chastise me. I should have reached out to Alexander long ago. It is a sad state of affairs when a father is too cowardly to contact his son . . .
Wrexford looked away, throwing his face in shadow, as Charlotte continued.
I shall do so later this afternoon, as I have promised Needham to ride out with him and give my opinion on his newly purchased stallion.
As for our other concern, I promise that I—
Blast it all, Needham is here early! I will finish this later as well.
The ensuing silence seemed to thunder in his ears, a painful reminder of all the precious moments he had let slip by.
“I wish I could make sense of what you have just read,” he finally said. “I wish . . . Damnation, I wish a great many things . . .”
“Sweeting, you don’t think that I regret not making peace with my father?
” asked Charlotte softly. “These tug-of-heart conflicts that occur in all families are impossibly hard. The hubris of youth allows for little nuance—things are either black or white. While we’re now wise enough to realize the most of Life is actually colored in a subtle range of greys. ”
He let out a pent-up breath that ended in a rueful smile. “How would I live without you and your wisdom?”
“Quite peacefully,” she quipped, “and free from chaos and crime.”
Wrexford laughed, and all at once the shadows seemed to lighten.
“I can’t make things right with my father,” he mused. “However, I can make an attempt to find ‘A’ and perhaps understand a part of his life that he felt compelled to hide from me.”
“The unknown ‘A’ is a mystery for now,” said Charlotte. “But we’re very good at unraveling mysteries. Once we’ve solved this current murder, we can turn our attention to the task. Griffin has an excellent nose for sniffing out old clues and following them wherever they lead.”
Their good friend Griffin was Bow Street’s best Runner and had helped them in a number of previous investigations.
After folding the late earl’s letter and placing it on the side table, she took his hand. “Come, let us retire for the night and leave any further thinking until the morning.”
“Yet another wise suggestion, my love. Lead the way.”
* * *
“Why is Wrex upset?” asked Hawk.
“Because his father had a secret mistress—” began Raven.
“We don’t know that,” interjected Peregrine.
“Oiy. But it certainly sounded like something niffy-naffy was going on.”
“Wrex looked more sad than angry,” mused Hawk. “What can we do to help?”
“Nuffink!” said his brother with a wry smile. Hawk tended to mispronounce certain words when he was agitated. Nothing was one of them.
“If this was a question of ferreting out information in the slums or pilfering papers from some Mayfair mansion, we would have a good argument for being included in any plans,” said Raven.
“But m’lady has explained to us that the heart is a devilishly complex organ and that until we are older, we can’t comprehend all the variations of Love. ”
“Variations?” Hawk scrunched his face in a frown. “That makes no sense. Love is love.”
“Actually it’s more complicated than that,” offered Peregrine.
“Shakespeare’s plays are a good example.
My uncle Willis used to tell me about how the playwright understood human nature better than most and captured both the light and the dark side of love.
He said like most powerful forces, it can be used for good or for evil. ”
“What did your uncle mean?” asked Hawk.
“Ummm . . .” Peregrine lifted his shoulders in a baffled shrug. “I don’t exactly know. But one of his favorites sayings from Shakespeare was Lord, what fools these mortals be!”