CHAPTER 11
A blade of sunlight pierced through the windowpane, its angled brightness a sharp reminder that the day was well past its zenith.
“Merciful heavens, I vowed that I wouldn’t fall into the same slothful habits of the indolent rich,” muttered Charlotte as she hurriedly shoved the last pins into her coiled hair and rose from her dressing table.
“But at least I have a better excuse for my slumber than the frivolities of drinking and dancing until dawn.”
To the devil with champagne. Smothering a yawn, she grabbed up a shawl and hurried downstairs. At this moment she would gladly sell her soul to Satan for a cup of steaming black coffee.
McClellan was busy kneading dough at the worktable and didn’t look up as Charlotte slipped into the kitchen. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot on the hob,” murmured the maid, “and rolls warming in the oven.”
“Bless you,” replied Charlotte with a grateful sigh. She poured a cup, the rich burnt-spice aroma chasing the lingering smells of the stews from her nostrils as she quaffed a long swallow.
“A long night.” It was more of a statement than a question. After dusting the flour from her meaty hands, McClellan added, “I hope whatever you were doing proved worth the risk.”
“We shall have to wait and see,” said Charlotte.
She fetched the warm rolls from the oven and took a seat at the table opposite the maid.
“The earl and I have faced other wretchedly complicated investigations, but this one . . .” She broke off a bit of bread.
“This one is proving difficult beyond words.”
McClellan carefully wiped down the tabletop with a damp cloth. “Perhaps because it is your friends who are involved in possible misdeeds, and you fear that solving the mystery will bring heartache as well as justice.”
Charlotte stopped crumbling the bread between her fingers.
The maid, she knew, had some dark incident in her past. They had never discussed what it was.
Charlotte was all too familiar with guarding painful personal secrets to have pressed for a revelation.
However, she sensed McClellan understood that decisions were never black and white.
And every shade of grey was tinged with consequences.
“Yes,” she answered. “Right and wrong is a question that can cut one’s heart in two.”
“No, it isn’t,” replied McClellan. “Your heart knows what’s right, and to act otherwise would be a betrayal of all you hold dear—a far worse crime than any of your friends may have committed.”
“Thank you.” She managed a wry smile. “For making the essence of a dilemma sound so simple.”
The maid shrugged. “It usually is.”
“Errare humanum est,” murmured Charlotte. To err is human. “If our friends have made mistakes, let us hope Wrexford and I can help them find a way to make things right.”
Any further discussion on the subject was forestalled by the sound of steps racing down the corridor.
“Awake at last.” Raven fixed her with an accusing stare as he skidded to a halt by the table.
“You never sleep late unless you’ve been up to something dangerous,” added Hawk.
“Which means we should know about it.” Raven scowled, mimicking the earl’s expression of annoyance with frightening accuracy. “Where did you go?”
Charlotte raised a brow. “Do you really wish to pursue the subject of secretive nocturnal activities?”
It was almost comical how quickly their faces flushed with guilt.
“I thought not.” She softened her words with a quick smile. “I know we are all trying to help our friends. But let us use prudence and good sense in how we do so.” A pause. “Be assured that the earl knew what I was doing.” Whether he agreed with it was another matter.
Raven gave a solemn nod, signaling an end to any further butting of heads. “Speaking of friends, we’ve just come from seeing Skinny. He’s feeling much better, but he’s still a bit quiffy-niffy.” He looked to McClellan. “May we get some food and broth to bring to him?”
“Hmmph.” The maid rose and turned to the larder. “Never mind that. I’m coming with you. I’ve some purchases to make in Covent Garden, so I’ll have a look at him, just to be sure all is well.”
“If you’ve any concerns about his well-being, bring him back here,” said Charlotte. “I’ll set up a cot in the aerie. The boys can go ask Wrexford for—”
“For what?” queried the earl, pausing at the kitchen’s entrance. “Forgive me, but the front door was ajar, so I took the liberty of entering to ensure nothing was amiss.”
Charlotte felt a rush of relief. Oddly enough, his deep-throated drawl had come to have a steadying effect on her.
“Skinny has been feeling poorly,” answered McClellan. “I’m accompanying the boys to have a look at him. If need be, we may wish to borrow your carriage to bring him here.”
“Take it now. It’s right outside,” said Wrexford. “I’ll find a hackney for the trip home.”
As the maid began assembling a basket of food, Charlotte flashed him a look of gratitude, then turned her attention to the boys.
“Don’t fret about Skinny,” she said. “We’ll take care of him.”
“Oiy,” mumbled Raven, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets. But the assurance didn’t dispel his troubled expression.
“Come, Weasels. Let’s be off.” McClellan shooed them toward the corridor.
A sigh slipped from Charlotte’s lips.
“Rest easy. Skinny is in good hands.” Wrexford took her arm. “As for our other friends . . .”
She allowed herself to be led to the parlor. He was right. They could solve only one conundrum at a time.
“Any luck with Annie Wright?” he asked once they were seated on the sofa.
“Annie was wary—understandably so.” She explained the details of the encounter.
“She clamped up tighter than an oyster when I mentioned David Mather. But whether it has any significance for our friends is impossible to tell.” A sigh.
“However, she promised to think about my request. I’ll return in a day or two to press her further. ”
“Assuming she doesn’t simply melt away into another one of the countless rookeries in London,” mused the earl.
“Seeing as I’m morally opposed to using the stick, I chose to use the carrot instead,” replied Charlotte. “I promised to help her find a situation more befitting to her station in life—a lady’s maid or a seamstress—than that of a barmaid in a hellhole neighborhood.”
“Clever,” he conceded with a ghost of a smile.
“I can, on occasion, be as pragmatic as you are,” she answered. “Speaking of Mather . . .” She recounted the unpleasant scene with the murdered clerk’s cousin. “His reaction seemed odd.”
Wrexford frowned. “Perhaps. But there are any number of reasons he might not have wanted his association with the dark-haired gentleman known.”
Charlotte conceded the point. “What about you? Have you any news to report?”
“I do.” He leaned back against the pillows. “Though it only casts more shadows rather than light on the situation.”
She listened with a sinking heart as he described the banking list that Sheffield had found in Woodbridge’s study.
“I suppose the stars could mean something other than a secured loan,” she said, unable to muster any conviction for the assertion. “Perhaps they merely mean he had an acquaintance at the banks.”
“And perhaps pigs have learned how to fly.” A pause.
“However, there’s a glimmer of good news.
Tyler is fairly certain he’s uncovered Professor Sudler’s location.
It’s an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge.
” He shifted. “An excellent spot in which to take refuge if one doesn’t want to be found. ”
“I see.” Charlotte bit her lip, taking a moment to think. “I think it’s imperative for me to be part of the coming confrontation. I may have better luck at having a candid conversation with Lady Cordelia than you.”
“Sheffield will insist on coming, too,” said Wrexford. “By the by, I’ve told him everything. It . . .” He gave a wry grimace. “It felt like the right thing to do.”
She couldn’t help it. A laugh welled up in her throat.
“Yes, yes, I don’t need your hilarity to grasp the irony of me acting on intuition.”
“If it’s any salve to your pride, I think you did the right thing,” responded Charlotte. “He deserves our trust.”
“The question of how to arrange the logistics of travel is an issue,” mused Wrexford. “As you know, my estate is quite close to Cambridge, and Sheffield can stay with me. But propriety forbids you—”
“As to that, I have an idea,” she interjected.
He raised a brow. “Dare I ask?”
“I’d rather not say just now.” Just in case, thought Charlotte, the idea blew up in her face. “When do you plan to leave?”
“The sooner the better,” he answered. “However, we can’t ignore the other dangling threads in this case, so I wish to make an inquiry this evening and see where it leads before we make our next move.”
* * *
It was still early in the evening, and White’s had not yet come alive with the daily rituals of masculine revelries.
The club’s main reading room was empty, save for several elderly gentlemen asleep near the blazing fire, their snores punctuating the occasional rustle of the abandoned newspapers in their laps.
Wrexford moved into the main corridor and signaled to a passing porter. “Has Sir Charles arrived?”
“He’s in the Blue Parlor, milord. It’s Wednesday, so he’s awaiting his usual backgammon partner.”
The earl nodded his thanks. “Bring us a bottle of the club’s best Madeira,” he said and then headed for the stairs, grateful that the admiral—whose scientific papers on seashells had earned him a coveted membership in the Royal Society—was a creature of habit.
“Ah, Wrexford.” The admiral looked up from the red and black draughts arranged on the game board as the earl entered the room. “How go your experiments with acids and quartz?”
“I’ve had some very interesting chemical results,” answered the earl. “I’m working on a paper to submit to Philosophical Transactions.”