CHAPTER 17 #2
“Hmmm.” Sheffield thought for a moment. “Well, we know he told Charlotte that he’s from a humbler background than the others. So perhaps he’s experienced enough hard times to know that life can be cruelly fickle and so he is careful with the money he earns.”
“We also know that he told Charlotte about Carrick having a heated argument with Milton just before the murder,” pointed out Wrexford. “She seems to think he is telling the truth.”
“And you don’t?” queried Sheffield.
“Regardless of appearances, nobody should be considered above suspicion right now. And so we need to arrange a talk with him,” countered the earl. “But first things first.” He flagged down a passing hackney. “Let us find Wayland and see what he has to say for himself.”
The streets soon turned to squalid lanes as they delved deeper into the slums of St. Giles, and they were forced to make the last part of the trip to the gambling den on foot.
A big, beefy porter led them through the ramshackle building’s dimly lit entrance hall and wrenched open the door to the warren of gaming rooms. The fug of smoke and sweat, mingled with the sweeter scents of port and brandy, immediately enveloped them as they stepped into the haze.
Flashes of white skittered through the lamplight as dice bounced over the felt-covered tables, the muted sounds punctuated by a chorus of groans.
“I had forgotten what god-benighted places these gambling hells are,” muttered Sheffield, surveying the scene with a twisted smile. “How was I so blind?”
“You were angry,” said Wrexford. “And bored.” Sheffield had passed through a bad spell in his life, flinging himself into reckless behavior in retaliation for his father’s attempt to control his life by keeping a tight hold on the family purse strings.
“I was stupid,” replied Sheffield. “And wallowing in self-pity.”
“A fact that I pointed out to you on many occasions.”
“I wasn’t ready to hear your lectures—”
A bloodcurdling cry rose from a nearby table as a man stood and flung his empty glass against the wall.
Sheffield looked away, a shadow passing over his face. “As the heir of an earldom, you had far more control over your life than I did. I—I resented your advice.”
“I don’t blame you,” replied Wrexford. “Thank God you met Cordelia, who somehow managed to hammer some good sense through your thick skull.”
“Amen to that,” said Sheffield.
“But enough about your youthful follies.” Wrexford squinted into the gloom. “We need to confront Wayland.”
As a harried serving wench made to pass them with a tray of drinks, the earl stopped her for questioning, taking care to flash a bit of gold as he made his request.
But the coin only elicited a disappointing answer.
“Damnation, she says Wayland isn’t here tonight,” he muttered on turning back to Sheffield.
“Perhaps we should ask someone else, just to make sure.”
However, passing over another guinea to the barman elicited the same information. And given that both bribes had been a very generous ones, Wrexford conceded that the interrogation would have to wait.
* * *
“At last, we can finally wash away the sour taste of unsavory friends and smarmy lies with a glass of decent whisky,” announced Sheffield as he followed Wrexford into the earl’s workroom and shrugged out of his overcoat.
Charlotte looked up from perusing the pile of notes she had spread out on Wrexford’s desk. “Did you not find Garfield?”
“Yes, we found him.” Wrexford made a face as he moved to the sideboard. “Perhaps the most interesting thing we learned tonight was how quickly a member of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society will turn on a fellow member—and supposed friend.”
Cordelia, who had returned to Berkeley Square with Charlotte to await word about the confrontation with Garfield, closed her eyes for an instant. “What do you mean?”
After passing out drinks, the earl settled into one of the armchairs by the hearth and recounted what Garfield had told them.
“We need to meet with Sarah Guppy,” said Cordelia once he had finished. “And the sooner, the better. It seems like she may be the one person who can help us cut through this Gordian knot of intrigue.”
Charlotte lifted her glass, but rather than drink, she watched the refractions from the cut crystal cast a pattern of whisky-colored flickers on the far wall. “Perhaps. And yet it feels as if we’re missing a piece of the puzzle.”
“If you ask me, I say we have too many damn pieces,” groused Sheffield. “I still don’t understand why the French radicals care so much about getting their hands on Milton’s innovation.”
“Perhaps they intend to sell it to someone else in order to fund their own objectives,” said Wrexford. “From what I have heard, Russia is desperate to improve its primitive transportation system. I wager that the tsar would be willing to pay a fortune to possess such a revolutionary technology.”
“That’s one plausible scenario,” said Charlotte. “But it doesn’t feel quite right.” A chill seemed to shiver through the cut glass in her hand. “If only Carrick would make an appearance.”
Cordelia shifted, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the silence grew heavier. She looked down, hiding her face, and the sag turned into a quiver.
Sheffield put down his drink and moved without a word to draw her up from her chair and into his arms.
All the fear and worry that was pent up inside her broke free in a muffled sob. Sheffield held her close and stroked her hair, allowing her sorrow to run its course.
“Ye heavens, I never cry!” Cordelia finally looked up in consternation, tears pearled on her lashes.
“It’s just that I can think of only two possible explanations as to why Oliver hasn’t shown his face.
” She swallowed hard, trying to steady her emotions.
“He must be dead . . . Or he must be guilty.”
Anguish rippled through her watery eyes. “A-And I’m not sure which one I want to be true.”
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest, knowing full well that murder destroyed far more than a single life. Trust, loyalty, love—all the truths that one took for granted could crumble into dust in the space of a heartbeat.
“Let us not lose faith,” she counseled. “We ought not jump to any conclusions until we have gathered all the facts.”
“Speaking of which, did you two learn anything from Mademoiselle Benoit?” asked Wrexford.
“Alison contrived to get us alone with her,” replied Charlotte. “She seemed agitated, and after assuring her that we only wished to help her if she was in trouble, she seemed on the verge of confiding in us—”
“But Montaigne rushed over and demanded that she come with him,” interjected Cordelia.
“However, Alison managed to get a private word with Mademoiselle Benoit later in the evening,” added Charlotte, and explained about arranging a possible rendezvous with the Frenchwoman.
“Perhaps she will come,” said Sheffield, “but in all honesty, I don’t think it likely. She’s involved too deeply in a very sordid scheme involving theft and murder—and she knows it.”
“Still, I’m willing to give her a chance,” said Charlotte. “I say we go to Green Park tomorrow.”
Cordelia gave a wordless nod.
“Fair enough,” said Sheffield. He then gave Cordelia another quick hug and drew her to her feet. “Come, my love. I think we’ve done all we can for tonight. Let us take our leave and return home.”
Charlotte waited until the sound of their steps died away before rising and moving to the earl’s desk to retrieve her notebook.
Wrexford was standing at the windows, his back turned to her as he stared out at the dark-on-dark gardens.
She recognized the set of his shoulders all too well—he was deep in thought, and she didn’t wish to break his concentration.
Instead, she returned to her seat and, after flicking to a fresh page in the notebook, began to draw random doodles. Sometimes the visual images that appeared when she gave her mind free rein sparked unexpected insights, though she couldn’t begin to explain why.
Whoosh, whoosh . . . on instinct, her hand moved over the page, rapidly filling it with lines and squiggles. Turning the page, she began anew. Perhaps the whisper of the soft graphite point dancing over the paper was a calming sound . . .
She looked up to find Wrexford had moved closer and was peering over her shoulder at the image.
“An apt metaphor,” he remarked after studying her drawing of a bridge crossing a dark and impossibly long chasm.
“I suppose it is.” She sighed. “Alas, it’s unclear whether the design or construction materials are strong enough to bear our weight as we attempt to cross it.”
“We are moving slowly and carefully,” he replied.
She was usually more optimistic than Wrexford, but the sight of the black chasm she had sketched suddenly shook her own self-confidence. “Yes, but it could crumble at any moment.”
“Fortes fortuna juvat,” he murmured.
Fortune favors the brave. His use of a Latin aphorism to lift her spirits made her smile in spite of her fears.
“There are risks in any endeavor, my love.” He added after leaning down to brush a kiss against the nape of her neck. “And you have to admit, whatever the dangers we stumble over, we always seem to land on our feet.”