CHAPTER 23 #2
“No,” he said. “The papers seem irrelevant to the authorities. It seems to me that their value—if any—is purely scientific. I would rather have experts who understand their significance assess them before deciding what to do with them.”
“That seems a logical—”
“Sshhh,” warned Wrexford, coming to a halt as voices rose from nearby. But it was merely a drunken couple who giggled again and stumbled off toward the Dark Walk to make their mischief.
They resumed walking and soon heard Charlotte’s signal. “All is well?” asked Wrexford, after slipping through the foliage and meeting her between the trunks of two tall oaks.
“The boys are in place, and the workshop is presently deserted. Hawk will alert us when both parties have gone inside.”
“They know—”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Be assured that they understand that they are to head straight back home.” A smile. “Or risk having their ginger biscuits cut off for the foreseeable future.”
“I would dearly miss Mac’s ginger biscuits,” mused Sheffield.
Charlotte was about to reply when a tiny flicker of lantern light sparked through the foliage from the pathway leading to the workshop.
They ducked down and waited in silence.
After ten minutes, another flutter of light appeared for an instant before disappearing.
Wrexford drew his weapon and signaled for Sheffield to do the same. Charlotte, he knew, had come unarmed, for he had insisted that she not accompany them inside to confront the conspirators.
A breeze stirred through the branches as Hawk materialized out of the gloom.
“They’re all inside, Wrex,” he confirmed.
“Excellent.” The earl turned to Charlotte. “Remember, you have strict orders. You are to take cover in the bushes once we get closer to the workshop and wait there until we return.”
She nodded.
Satisfied, Wrexford led the way back to the path, and they continued on to where Raven and Peregrine were waiting.
“There are two Frenchmen. They arrived first and unlocked the door,” reported Raven. “We didn’t see any weapons, but they were carrying a valise.”
The money, perhaps?
“The fancy fellow you described arrived alone,” added Peregrine. “He had nothing in his hands.”
“Well done, lads,” he whispered. “Now off you go—straight home to Berkeley Square.”
Raven hesitated—but only for an instant. His expression, however, indicated how little he liked being dismissed from the action.
However, butting heads over what risks were permitted was a problem for the future, thought Wrexford with an inward sigh. He forced himself to focus on the present moment.
The three boys disappeared with wraithlike stealth, and Charlotte retreated into the foliage to keep watch for any trouble coming down the path.
With a nod at Sheffield, he signaled for them to approach the workshop.
All at once, a momentous BOOM shuddered through the gardens, and an instant later the sky filled with a starburst of multicolored sparks.
“The fireworks have started,” muttered the earl, pausing to look up. “Right on schedule.”
Sheffield winced as another explosion rent the air. And then another.
Wrexford started forward. “Come, let us put an end to this sordid affair.”
The iron-banded oak door to the workshop was shut. Slowly easing the latch up, the earl released it without a sound and gave a tentative push to test the hinges. Hearing no hint of a groan, he opened it just enough for him and Sheffield to slip into the windowless anteroom.
The air was musty and redolent with linseed oil and wood shavings. It was dark as Hades, but a crack of light was visible straight ahead, where the door leading into the main room had been left slightly ajar.
Wrexford cocked an ear but heard nothing. He waited a moment longer, then tapped Sheffield’s arm and indicated for them to move ahead.
Slowly, slowly.
Still no sound of voices.
Wrexford paused to draw his pistol’s hammer to half-cock, then inched forward another step and placed his palm on the rough-grained door.
His flesh began to prickle.
He exerted a touch of pressure, opening the crack just enough to peer into the room.
* * *
Charlotte changed her position. And then changed it again.
The bright blaze of the fireworks continued to light the sky, the booms softening to a regular rhythm.
Close by, all the little noises—the twitter of a nightingale, the ruffling of the leaves, the faint music from the main pavilions—indicated that nothing was amiss. And yet she felt twitchy.
Perhaps, she thought ruefully, her muscles were still in knots from the latest fencing session with Angelo.
A leaf tickled against her cheek, nearly making her jump. She drew in a calming breath . . .
And froze at the snap of a twig.
The sound had come from up ahead. A feral cat foraging for food? Or a more sinister predator?
Squinting into the gloom, Charlotte tried to make out any sign of movement.
Nothing.
Raising a false alarm could put Wrexford and Sheffield at risk. She waited, but all she heard between the booms of the fireworks was the thumping of her heart against her rib cage.
After another minute passed, she cursed herself for a fool and sat back on her haunches, then turned her gaze to the path and resumed her surveillance.
* * *
A lantern, half hidden by the legs of a worktable, was set on the floor, its wick turned low so that only a faint aureole of light illuminated the floor. It showed . . .
Holy hell.
Wrexford’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene. Three bodies lay sprawled on the stone flaggings, their limbs unnaturally still.
A man wearing a black silk mask and holding a smoking pistol in one hand was crouched down beside the corpse nearest the door. “Damnation!” he hissed to his henchman, a muscled brute who had moved to the window to check the surroundings. “Why did the cursed fellows fire at us?”
“Only the devil knows,” came the terse reply. The henchman turned back to the room, a last rippling of smoke drifting up from the two pistols clutched in his hands. “But there will be hell to pay with our superiors. There wasn’t supposed to be any bloodshed.”
The earl pulled back and leaned close to Sheffield’s ear.
“Wayland and the Frenchmen are dead,” he whispered.
“There are two assailants. Their weapons appear spent, but Black Mask may still have one loaded.” He thought for an instant.
“I’ll handle the situation. You stay here out of sight—and I bloody well mean that. ”
“Search the bodies, and be quick about it,” urged the henchman. “The fireworks likely covered the sound of the shots, but we can’t afford to be caught. We must find those papers.”
Before Sheffield could respond, Wrexford slipped back to the doorway and took dead aim at Black Mask as he started to reach for the pocket of Mercer Wayland’s once-elegant coat.
“Don’t move,” warned the earl. “You and your friend have precisely three seconds to toss your weapons over here, else I will put a bullet through your brainbox.”
* * *
The breeze freshened, and Charlotte felt another tickling against her flesh. She reached up to brush away the leaf, only to have a gloved hand clamp down over her mouth.
“Mmph!” She struggled to break free, but her captor had seized her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. In desperation, Charlotte threw back her head, hoping to smash her assailant’s nose. But he deftly dodged the attack and tightened his hold.
“Achtung! Lady Wrexford, please hold your fire!” whispered a familiar voice. “We’ve no time to waste.”
Charlotte went slack from shock. “You!”
“Ja, me.”
A myriad of questions were whirling in her head as she twisted to face the man who had grabbed her. “You have a great deal of explaining to do, Herr von Münch—or whatever your damn name is.”
“Yes, yes, but not now. I fear that your husband and Mr. Sheffield are in grave danger.” He drew his pistol and checked the priming. “You must hurry and fetch your Bow Street Runner friend and his men, while I take up a position to reinforce them.”
She hesitated. “H-How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Because I’ve never been your enemy.” A pause. “There’s no time to argue. Please trust me—I, too, wish to scupper the French plans.”
Trust. Charlotte had to make a split-second decision. And Wrexford’s life might well be teetering in the balance . . .
“Milady?”
She scrambled to her feet and broke into a run.
* * *
Black Mask raised his gaze, the lantern catching the malicious gleam flashing from within the silk’s eyeholes. He hesitated, then a thump sounded as his pistol hit the floor and skidded across the stones to within inches of Wrexford’s boots.
“Now you,” said Wrexford, turning his gaze to Black Mask’s henchman.
The man tossed his weapons aside.
“Who are you?” demanded the earl.
An amused laugh from Black Mask, who answered with an obscenity.
“Kit,” called Wrexford. “Go alert Griffin and his men that we have a pair of murderers to hand over.”
“Not a chance that I’m leaving you alone with these bloodthirsty criminals,” replied Sheffield, coming to stand beside the earl. “Give the signal for Magpie. He can run and fetch them.”
Wrexford hesitated, loath to draw Charlotte into the fray even though it made logical sense.
“Who are you?” he repeated, giving himself a moment to consider the suggestion.
Black Mask let out a grunt and winced. “Might I stand?” he asked, raising his hands in surrender.
“Slowly,” said Wrexford after glancing at the henchman. On catching sight of a satchel lying beside one of the other bodies, he added, “Fetch that bag, Kit.”
Sheffield moved just as Black Mask straightened from his crouch—and lashed out a kick that shattered the lantern’s glass globe and sent it skittering into a pile of wood shavings.
Whoosh! A giant flame shot up, fueled by the spilled oil.
Wrexford shied back, blinded for an instant by the sudden blast of light.
Black Mask kicked over the table, sending an open can of pine spirits into the fire. Smoke billowed up from the burning wood.
Another heavy thud reverberated off the walls.
The earl spotted Sheffield through the wildly flickering light and shadows. The spinning table had knocked him down.
“Kit!” he cried in warning, seeing the henchman draw a knife from his boot.
Sheffield had fumbled his pistol as he fell and was just pushing up to his knees.
The blade flashed as the henchman started forward.
Wrexford pivoted to take aim, but in the same instant, another shot rang out.
A scream ripped free from the henchman’s throat as the knife in his hand flew up in the air and spun away to the far corner of the room.
Bloody hell, had Charlotte . . .
As the earl whipped around to spot the unknown shooter, Black Mask and the henchman both bolted for the rear window, where they smashed through the mullions and started to scramble out into the night.
Wrexford turned back in a flash but couldn’t bring himself to shoot a fleeing man in the back.
As for going after them . . .
He took a step in pursuit, but a hand caught his sleeve.
“Let them go, milord.”
The earl uttered a curse on recognizing the voice.
“They are dangerous men—perhaps more dangerous than you imagine.”
Wrexford couldn’t help but wonder how Ernst Josef von Münch—who on their first encounter several months ago had claimed to be the personal librarian to the king of Württemberg—appeared to know far more than he did about what was going on.
“They made short work of these three men,” continued von Münch. He gestured at the corpses. “One has to assume they are experienced assassins.”
The word assassin sent a sudden rush of ice through his veins. He knew that von Münch was a crack shot . . .
He grabbed the so-called scholar by the lapels. “Where is my wife?”
“I sent her to alert Mr. Griffin and his men. They should be here shortly.” answered von Münch. “But given the circumstances of my previous visit to London and the awkward questions that might arise, it would be best if I’m not here when they arrive.”
“What the devil are you doing back here?” demanded Wrexford, grudgingly releasing his hold.
“I, for one, am exceedingly grateful for Herr von Münch’s presence,” interjected Sheffield, cradling the satchel he had just retrieved.
“And for the fact that he’s a damnably good shot.
” He took a peek inside the bag and let out a low whistle.
“It looks like the French truly were willing to pay a king’s ransom—”
A small sound—a rasp of breath—caused all three of them to turn and then crouch down around Wayland’s body. Wrexford leaned in, close enough to feel the faint flutter of breath against his cheek.
“What happened here?”
Wayland was lying face up, a pulse of blood leaking from the bullet hole in his left breast with every fading heartbeat. His eyes were wet with tears as he struggled to form a word.
“A-Axe.”
“Do you know who he is?” coaxed the earl.
“He . . . he . . .” Wayland managed to move his hand and tried to lift it to his chest. “He . . .”
A gurgle. And the pulsing went still.
“Bloody hell,” intoned Sheffield as von Münch scrambled to his feet and cocked an ear.
Wrexford heard it, too. A shout from Griffin and the thud of boots as he and his men turned from the main walkway onto the side path.
“I must go.”
As von Münch turned, the earl responded. “I expect you to show your face at Berkeley Square within the hour.”
“With pleasure, milord. After all, nobody else in Town has such a fine selection of German wines.”
Wrexford didn’t smile as he began searching through Wayland’s coat and found a packet of papers. “Be assured that if you don’t show up, I will come find you. And the only cork I will be pulling is yours.”