CHAPTER 3 #2
“On the contrary, Griffin, I’ve been sleeping the sleep of the innocent,” Wrexford retorted.
He and the Bow Street Runner had first met when Griffin had suspected him of a gruesome murder, but they had since become allies rather than adversaries and had worked together in solving several other deaths.
“So please swallow any further attempts at humor. I’ve not yet had my breakfast.”
A smile curled at the corners of Griffin’s lips. “What are we having?”
“Bloody hell, how do you survive when you’re not feasting off my largesse?” grumbled Wrexford. Their meetings usually took place at a tavern, with the earl purchasing a very handsome meal in return for the Runner’s help in working through the conundrums of a case.
“Very poorly,” shot back Griffin. He gave an appreciative sniff as a footman discreetly knocked, then entered the room, bearing a large tray of covered dishes.
The earl blew out a long-suffering sigh. “You might as well set an extra place, Tyler. Otherwise he’ll stay for supper.”
The valet dutifully cleared a spot on the massive desk and carried over an extra chair.
“Much obliged, milord,” murmured the Runner.
Wrexford slouched into his seat and poured a fresh cup of coffee. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit—other than the need for you to fill your growling breadbox?”
“The fact that you’re the most learned man I know.” Griffin helped himself to a freshly baked muffin. “Does the word argentum mean anything to you?”
“Anyone who’s had the classical languages thumped into his head can’t help but know it,” the earl replied. “It’s Latin for ‘silver.’ ”
“Hmmm.” The Runner took a bite of the pastry and chewed thoughtfully.
“Why do you ask?”
A swallow. “There was a murder at Queen’s Landing last night. The watchman who found the victim reported that he said the word argentum—several times, in fact—with his last dying breath.”
“Who’s the dead man?” inquired Wrexford.
“A clerk with the East India Company,” answered the Runner.
“With all the unloading of valuable cargoes, the Company wharves attract a criminal element,” observed the earl. “Perhaps he witnessed the theft of a silver shipment, and that’s why he was killed.”
“Perhaps,” replied Griffin as he studied the sultanas studding his muffin. “But . . .” He looked up. “Why say it in Latin?”
Wrexford shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmm.” The Runner sliced off a large chunk of ham and forked it into his mouth.
Griffin’s slow movements and laconic style of speech often caused people to think he was dim witted. The earl, however, knew otherwise.
“What is it about the death that’s caught your attention?” he asked. “Bow Street prefers that you investigate crimes involving the highest circles of Society. So, regrettable as it is, the murder of a clerk wouldn’t normally be a case that concerns you.”
“I can’t say for sure.” Griffin polished off a bite of eggs before adding, “At least not yet.”
“Well, do take your time in thinking it over,” quipped Wrexford. “You’ve still got a platter of deviled kidneys and a slice of pigeon pie to plow through.” He rose. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. Unlike you and Tyler, I have work to do.”
* * *
“Now, about the murder . . . Let us start from the beginning,” said Charlotte, taking a seat in the armchair facing Skinny.
“It happened last night at Queen’s Landing,” replied the streetsweep. “The watchmen found the cove just before eleven bells in an alleyway near the gate leading out to Commercial Road.” His eyes widened. “Word is, his throat was sliced open from ear te ear.”
Her stomach gave a small lurch at the gruesome detail. “Is the victim’s identity known?” she asked.
Skinny nodded. “Oiy, Alice the Eel Girl heard from Pudge that he was a . . . a clerk.” His face scrunched in thought. “Wot’s a clerk?”
“A man who keeps all the records organized for a company. He writes down all the business information and makes copies of all the letters sent and received,” explained Charlotte.
“Sounds boring.” Skinny rubbed at a gob of mud on his sleeve. “Are you and His Nibs gonna solve the murder?”
Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt. Much as she mourned the passing of any living being, she couldn’t find justice for all of them.
London was a large city, and murders were a grim reality of its everyday life.
The heartless truth was, only those that involved a prominent person or touched on a juicy scandal were of interest to the public who purchased her prints.
Mr. Fores wouldn’t publish something that everyone from the lowest pauper to the highest aristocrat knew was true—that countless nameless souls who inhabited the city would die as they had lived, with no one taking note of their existence.
“Alas, I’m not sure that Lord Wrexford and I can be of any help in this case,” she said softly. “The man was likely killed for the few pence in his pocket, and the murderer has melted back into the stews, leaving no trail of his misdeed.”
“Aye,” agreed Skinny, with fatalism well beyond his years.
“Bad things just happen. Not much ye can do about it when the Reaper decides te swing his blade at ye.” His expression quickly brightened, however, as McClellan carried in a tray heaped with treats and moved a side table in front of his chair.
As he dug noisily into a jam tart, Charlotte leaned back, feeling troubled by the conversation.
Am I losing my moral compass?
Once she had made the momentous decision to step back into the splendor of the beau monde, she had vowed that she wouldn’t lose her passion for fighting against the injustices of the world. But what if its seductive pleasures tempted her into losing her edge?
The thought squeezed the air from her lungs.
Lost in her brooding, Charlotte didn’t hear the front door open or the patter of light-footed steps in the corridor. It was the sudden lush swirl of floral perfume tickling at her nose that caused her to sit up.
“Faawgh,” exclaimed Skinny, making a face. “What happened? It smells like a French brothel in here.”
“It’s ungentlemanly to say the word brothel in front of a lady,” called Hawk as he and his brother paused just outside the parlor.
Skinny grinned. “I ain’t a gentlemun.”
“No—you’re an imp of Satan,” called McClellan from the corridor. “I swear, you’ve left more horse droppings on the rug than a regiment of the King’s Household cavalry!”
“Let us not tease Skinny,” chided Charlotte as she turned in her chair. “I—”
Her words stuck in her throat as she caught sight of the massive bouquet of flowers the boys were carrying toward her. Pale pinks, creamy whites, and dusky lavenders, punctuated by curls of leafy greenery . . . and two dirt-streaked faces peering at her through the fronds.
The effect was breathtakingly beautiful.
A low whistle sounded. Even Skinny was rendered speechless.
“Mr. Tyler said that it’s de-de . . . ,” stuttered Hawk.
“De rigueur,” prompted Raven.
“That it’s de rigueur for a gentleman to show his admiration for a lady after a ball by sending her flowers the next day,” finished Hawk.
“We know how well you waltz,” added Raven. The boys had served as her practice partners while Tyler and McClellan had taught her the steps of the dance in preparation for the occasion. “And we saw how grand you looked in your ball gown . . .”
“Like a fairie princess!” chirped Hawk.
“So we wanted to present you with a token of our esteem.” Raven then nudged his brother and waggled a brow.
“Oh. Right.”
They both stepped forward and bowed in perfect unison.
Charlotte felt tears pearling on her lashes.
“Do you like them?” asked Hawk, looking up through his tangled curls.
“I love them.”
They both smiled as she took the flowers, and suddenly the room seemed filled with a burst of warm light, chasing away the specter of Death and her own dark worries.
“Here, let me take those and put them in a vase.” McClellan flashed a wink at the boys as she bustled by them. “Well done, Weasels.”
“You knew,” murmured Charlotte.
The maid assumed a look of innocence. “Knew what?”
“Owwff.” Having polished off all the pastries, Skinny slid down from his chair. “I need te bobble my bones back te Piccadilly Street.” He looked at the boys. “Ye wanna come along?”
“I can’t. I have a lesson.” Raven glanced at the mantel clock. “I’d better fetch my books and papers from upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Hawk. “I wish to have a look around Covent Garden and see if there are any interesting new plants to sketch.”
“Mebbe we’ll hear something more about the murder,” said Skinny as the two boys trooped out of the parlor.
“Thank heavens I don’t have to turn my pen to the subject of violent death for my drawing,” murmured Charlotte, though she still felt a little guilty that the poor man would go unremarked, save as a grim statistic. She turned and let out a startled huff.
“Forgive me for appearing unannounced, but the front door was open.” Cordelia Mansfield paused in the doorway. “And McClellan waved at me to enter.”
Charlotte quickly smiled. “As you know, we don’t stand on ceremony in this house. Please come in. Raven is fetching his things from the aerie.”
“What murder were the boys discussing?” asked Cordelia as she stepped into the sunlit parlor.
“A clerk was knifed to death.”
“How terrible,” replied her friend. “The city seems to be growing more perilous.”
“I didn’t mean to alarm you. The crime took place far from Mayfair, and the dockyards are known for being dangerous places.”
The bag of books Cordelia was carrying slipped from her grasp and fell to the carpet with a thud. “How clumsy of me,” she muttered, stooping to pick it up. “The crime occurred in the dockyards?”
“On Queen’s Landing,” explained Charlotte.
“Ah.” Her friend tightened her hold on the books. “As you say, a world away.”
“Indeed, a world away.” Charlotte quickly cleared a jumble of skittles off the sofa table to make room for the sheets of equations and textbooks.
“I’ll ask McClellan to bring some tea and biscuits,” she murmured after plucking the skull of a mouse from among the pillows and stuffing it into her pocket.
“Sorry. Hawk was in here earlier, sketching from his collection of nature objects. But have no fear, there’s nothing alive back there. ”
She checked a few more nooks, just to be sure. “At least I don’t think so.”
Cordelia gave a small smile, as she took a seat on the sofa. “As you know, I’m quite at home among eccentricities.”
“No need for a summons.” McClellan appeared with refreshments. “I took it upon myself to fix some hearty refreshments.” She set down a tray loaded with savory tarts, fresh-baked bread, and a selection of cheeses. “You two were dancing until dawn, and that requires more than mere crumbs.”
“Bless you,” murmured Charlotte, surprised to find she was ravenous.
Cordelia, however, took only a tiny morsel of cheddar—and left it unnibbled on her plate.
In response to the maid’s curiosity about the previous evening, the talk turned to the opulent decorations, the sumptuous refreshments, and the other guests.
“Though he claims otherwise, Mr. Sheffield dances quite well,” observed Charlotte, having noticed that Cordelia had twice been his partner. In fact, she hadn’t seen her on the dance floor with anyone else.
“Mr. Sheffield is more adept than he thinks at a great many things,” replied her friend.
“Perhaps it’s the same with gentlemen as it is with ladies—if you possess beauty, it’s presumed you don’t possess a brain.
” Her brows rose in a sardonic arch. “Of course, I’m not speaking from personal experience. ”
Charlotte surreptitiously studied Cordelia with an artist’s eye.
It was true—her friend didn’t fit the pattern card for feminine allure.
There was nothing sweet or delicate about her looks.
Strong nose, wide mouth, angled cheekbones, eyes that blazed with a lively intelligence—no doubt the aura of strength and vitality overpowered most people.
However, Charlotte found her face striking.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she murmured.
“The beau monde may currently favor delicate, doll-like features, devoid of any personality. But those who find pasteboard perfection boring prefer real individuality.” She dusted the crumbs from her fingers.
“I would love to draw you sometime, if you would be willing to sit for a portrait.”
“I . . .” Cordelia appeared a little flustered. “I can’t imagine that my face could be of any interest to you.”
“Lady Charlotte sees nuances that most of us miss,” said McClellan.
Despite the flush that had risen to her cheeks, Cordelia appeared to turn pale.
We all have our own vulnerabilities and fears, mused Charlotte. No matter how silly they may seem to others. “Ah, here is Raven,” she announced, spotting the boy and looking to put an end to her friend’s embarrassment.
“Did you work your way through all the assigned problems?” asked Cordelia.
“Yes,” answered Raven. “Save for the last one, where I had a question about inverse functions.”
“Well, come have a seat,” she said, indicating a spot on the sofa next to her, “and let us see if we can figure out the answer together.”
As McClellan cleared the refreshments, Charlotte took a few moments to gather up a few stray items lying around the parlor before heading up to her workroom.
Cordelia was an excellent teacher, she noted, striking just the right note of encouragement and challenge.
Raven, who tended to keep his feelings closely guarded, appeared to be flourishing under her tutelage.
The enthusiasm in his voice made Charlotte smile. To her, numbers were merely numbers, but to him, they were like her lines and colors—they could be formed into endlessly unique patterns that expressed something meaningful.
But enough philosophizing. She had a drawing to finish.