CHAPTER 18 #2
“I suppose that is why a true friendship is the best foundation for marriage,” replied Cordelia.
“So in answer to your question, of course there are adjustments to be made. It is frightening to realize that you are no longer an entity unto yourself, but bound together with another, body and soul.” A pause.
“But it is also exhilarating. Finding the right balance will take time—”
“And the balance will keep changing,” said Charlotte.
“I suppose that is what will keep the journey full of surprises,” replied Cordelia.
“It appears that I’ve missed an interesting conversation,” announced McClellan as she appeared with the tea tray.
“Have you ever considered marriage, Mac?” asked Cordelia.
The cups rattled as the maid set down the tray. “I do not consider myself a good candidate for matrimony.”
“Oh?” Charlotte raised her brows. “Because you are intelligent, independent-minded, and would refuse to be ruled by the whim of a husband?”
The three of them exchanged looks and burst out laughing.
“Yes, those are rather elemental reasons,” said McClellan, once the chortling ceased and she began to pour the tea. “But I suppose the most important one is that I’ve never met anyone who has tempted me to change the status quo.”
“You never know,” murmured Cordelia.
“Hmmph.” McClellan held out a plate of ginger biscuits. “Help yourselves. The rest I shall wrap up and give to the Weasels. They are taking the late-night shift of keeping mademoiselle’s residence under surveillance.”
“I’ll bring the biscuits to the boys.” Charlotte glanced at the clock and put down her cup. “I had better go wake them.” She had insisted that they take a nap after returning from the fencing academy so they wouldn’t doze off during their assignment.
“And be sure that they wear their coats, as the night is turning chilly.”
* * *
“Wayland isn’t here,” muttered Wrexford after rejoining Sheffield in the shadows of the gaming hell’s foyer. “The barmaid said he hasn’t been seen for the last four nights, which is unusual.”
“Perhaps the fellow is gambling on making his fortune on something other than the turn of a card.”
“Perhaps.” The earl brushed a hand over the pistol in his coat pocket. “Why don’t we go and ask him?”
Earlier in the day, he had learned of Wayland’s current address from the organizers of the transportation conference.
“He has extravagant tastes in his lodging as well as his clothing and entertainments. He has rented a set of rooms at the Albany from one of his rich friends for the duration of the conference.”
The Albany was a prestigious residence for the wealthy and well-connected located just off Piccadilly near St. James’s Palace.
“At least the environs will smell a good deal more salubrious than our present location,” said Sheffield. “And it’s only a short stroll from there back to Berkeley Square.”
Such optimism, however, proved short-lived.
The porter at the Albany informed them that Wayland was out and had left no word as to when he might return.
Wrexford considered asking for access to search the rooms—greasing a few palms would likely smooth over any hesitation—but decided not to reveal his interest in Milton’s murder to their suspect quite yet.
They walked to Piccadilly, but instead of turning right, the earl turned left and waved down a passing hackney.
Sheffield’s face fell. “Now where?”
“To Garfield’s residence,” replied Wrexford. “He’s the man who sent us haring after Wayland. Let’s press him for a more a detailed explanation as to why. Somehow, I have a feeling he hasn’t told us everything he knows.”
* * *
Hawk hunched deeper into the collar of his coat and blew on his bare fingers. “I had forgotten how cold an autumn night can be.”
“Sleeping in a fancy mansion has made you soft,” sniggered Raven. “I remember when finding a broken crate in which to shelter was cause for jubilation.” He glanced out from their hidey-hole at the building across the street before adding, “Who has the ginger biscuits?”
Peregrine dutifully passed him the oilskin sack. “I’ll take the first watch while you two get some rest.”
Raven yawned. “Oiy, there’s no sign of life in mademoiselle’s residence.” Indeed, every house on the street appeared to be slumbering soundly, draperies drawn, lights extinguished, a peaceful stillness blanketing the shadowed brick and stone.
Peregrine kept himself alert by silently practicing a poem by Coleridge that their tutor had asked them to memorize.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea . . .
A movement, barely more than a ripple within the darkness, suddenly snapped the boy’s attention to full alert. He caught the pale flicker of a face as a man mounted the entrance steps of Mademoiselle Benoit’s residence and thumped his gloved fist against the door.
“Oiy, someone’s seeking entrance,” whispered Peregrine.
Raven and Hawk came instantly awake. They wriggled over to join him.
“He’s tall,” said Peregrine, “and looks to be slender despite his overcoat.”
A weak flutter of light—a single candle?—momentarily lit one of the upper windows, and after a minute or two had passed, the door opened, and the man slipped inside.
Hawk looked to his brother. “What should we do?”
They knew from an earlier reconnaissance that there was no easy access to the back of the house.
“We wait for now,” said Raven. “Let’s see if we can creep closer and try to get a look at his face when he leaves.”
But before they moved, the door opened again, and the man hurried out. Without pausing on reaching the street, he turned left and quickened his pace. Within moments, he was swallowed in the gloom.
“She’s gone back upstairs,” observed Peregrine. Even though the draperies were drawn, they could see a faint line of light.
And then all at once it was gone.
“I guess she has blown out the candle,” said Hawk.
But an instant later it appeared in one of the lower windows.
The three of them held very still, watching and waiting.
Once again, the door opened and a cloaked figure—they saw just enough of her shadowed face in the moonlight to recognize Mademoiselle Benoit—emerged. On reaching the street, she hesitated and then headed for the west corner of Eaton Square.
“Pssst, follow me,” said Raven, scrambling to his feet and setting off in pursuit.
Several hackney carriages and their drivers were loitering beneath the single street lamp illuminating their small patch of King’s Road. Hoping, no doubt, for one last fare before night turned to the wee hours of morning.
Mademoiselle approached one of them, and after a quick exchange of words and money, she climbed into his hackney.
Raven waited until the whip cracked and the wheels lurched forward before darting across the cobbles.
One driver pushed him away, but on seeing the flash of a guinea, the third fellow was eager to make a deal. The coin passed hands, and Raven signaled for Hawk and Peregrine to join him inside the shabby carriage.
Seeing Hawk was about to speak, Raven held up his hand for silence. “We must seize the chance to learn what she is up to. Wrex and m’lady are struggling to solve the murder, and this may provide a vital clue.”