CHAPTER 12 #2
Feeling unaccountably chilled, Wrexford placed several chunks of coal in the hearth of his workroom and slowly coaxed a flame to life.
Light and shadow. He watched the two intertwine, recalling his words to Charlotte.
It was true. The more they learned, the darker things looked for their friends.
He now understood her wrenchingly visceral reaction to seeing her cousin charged with murder.
He had sympathized, of course, but it had been an intellectual reaction, not this knife-sharp blade of fear jabbing at his gut.
If it turned out the clerk’s murder was connected to Cordelia and her brother, that could mean Sheffield was entangled in something very dangerous.
His worries would, of course, prove unfounded if it turned out Peabody’s murder was a matter of personal passions gone awry.
But somehow, he couldn’t quite make himself believe that a love triangle lay at the heart of the conundrum.
Woodbridge, Mather, Peabody . . . the connections seemed too much of a coincidence.
Feeling unsettled—he wasn’t usually plagued by self-doubt—Wrexford rose and fetched the bank list that Sheffield had found in Woodbridge’s desk before taking a seat in front of the dancing fire.
He tried to make himself believe that the tiny stars drawn next to the bank names could mean something other than success in negotiating a loan.
But Reason refused to yield to Desire.
“Money,” growled the earl, wondering what the devil Woodbridge was up to. “Money is the root of all evil.”
“Actually, most people misquote the Bible.” Tyler shouldered his way into the room and came to warm his hands by the fire. “The exact wording is ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil.’ Timothy, chapter six, verse ten.”
“Please don’t quote the Scriptures at me,” said Wrexford. “I’m in a foul enough mood as it is.” He glanced down at the list. “Did you learn anything new about the murder?”
Tyler shrugged out of his overcoat and placed it on the work counter before answering, “A bloody knife was found this afternoon, hidden in a stack of crates waiting for shipment on Queen’s Landing. Bow Street thinks it may be the weapon used to murder the clerk.”
“Does it provide a clue as to who the killer is?”
“Not exactly.” His valet moved to the sideboard. “Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
In answer, Wrexford uttered a scalding oath.
“Lud, you really are in a foul mood.” A muted chink of crystal. “If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself. I’ve been sleuthing for hours, and it was damnably cold down around the docks.” After a quick swallow, Tyler took a seat in the other armchair.
The earl expelled a breath, trying to dispel the worst of his fears.
“Forgive me for snapping. This investigation has turned very personal. Kit may be tangled in whatever trouble Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia have gotten themselves into, and I fear it may destroy him unless we can find a way to help.”
“We will,” said Tyler. The firelight winked off the faceted glass, setting off amber sparks. “Heaven help any villains who dare threaten our friends.” His mouth twitched. “Lady Charlotte would cut out their livers with a rusty penknife.”
A grudging smile ghosted over Wrexford’s lips. It shouldn’t be of moral comfort that Charlotte was his partner in mayhem. And yet it was. Yes, she was putting herself in danger. But Charlotte wouldn’t be Charlotte without her fierce passions. He was learning to live with that.
“True,” he murmured. “However, if I get to them first, they will already be chopped into mincemeat.” He watched the flames lick up from the logs. “But at the moment, I feel like I’m wandering in the dark. I’ve just come from a meeting with Lord Copley, a director of the East India Company . . .”
Wrexford explained what he had been told. “The baron is under the impression that Bow Street thinks the murder may be a crime of passion and has nothing to do with money. But I’m finding that difficult to accept.”
“I had better tell you about the knife.” Tyler’s expression turned troubled. “It’s quite distinctive. The blade is Damascus steel, honed to a razor’s edge,” he explained. “And the hilt is made of chased silver.”
“Argentum,” mused Wrexford.
The valet nodded. “That’s not all. On the butt is an ebony knob, inset with an ornate silver lion rampant.”
Lion rampant was a heraldic term, signifying a lion standing on its hind legs, with its front paws raised.
The earl pursed his lips. “The majority of aristocratic families in Britain have a lion rampant as part of their coat of arms. Including the royal family.”
“And including the Earl of Woodbridge,” said the valet.
* * *
With a twitch to her skirts, Charlotte resettled herself against the pillows. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you about my artistic work and how I earn my bread.”
Alison’s expression turned even more owlish. “You mean to say you don’t draw pictures of the latest fashions for publication?”
“Not precisely. Though I do occasionally highlight what people are wearing.”
A chuckle. “By Jove, that reminds me of the wickedly sly caricatures you used to make of the pompous prigs among your father’s friends. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged your drawings, but you had an uncanny knack for capturing their foibles.”
The dowager gave another laugh. “You must enjoy A. J. Quill’s satires as much as I do. The man has a razor-sharp eye and a cutting tongue. However, one cannot help but wonder . . .” She pursed her lips. “How on earth does he manage to uncover all those secrets?”
Charlotte fingered an ink stain on her cuff. “Through an extensive network of informants, no doubt.”
Alison looked skeptical. “He would have to be rich as Croesus to buy that sort of information.”
“Not necessarily,” she replied. “You might be greatly surprised to discover just how intimately well servants know their employers, and how much is seen by the people on the streets—the streetsweeps and the flower girls, the costermongers and the urchins—who go unnoticed by their so-called betters.”
“Hmmph. I confess, I hadn’t considered that.” The dowager furrowed her brow. “You think that’s how he does it?”
“It’s the most logical explanation.” Charlotte allowed a small pause. “What makes you think A. J. Quill is a he?”
“Oh, pish. What woman would dare to lampoon the high and mighty? It would require . . .” Alison’s voice suddenly trailed off.
It took another instant for the penny to do a last spinning somersault through the air and drop to the floor.
“Oh, no. No. Surely you’re not saying . . .”
“You were asking how I came to know Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “If you recall, he was the prime suspect in a heinous murder—”
“Yes, of course,” interrupted Alison. “And A. J. Quill was savaging his character, which fanned the flames of speculation.”
“A. J. Quill was satirizing his character,” Charlotte corrected. “The earl has conceded that it was a fair portrait, as he had been deliberating baiting the pompous Reverend Holworthy in the days leading up to his death.”
“I believe that the authorities wondered how the artist depicted the murder scene with such accuracy,” mused the dowager.
“As did Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “Which, to make a long story short, is how Raven and Hawk came to assault His Lordship.”
Sitting back with a wry laugh, Alison shook her head. “Ye heavens, how did I not see it? Now that I think of it, so many of the little details in A. J. Quill’s caricatures should have struck me as familiar—the way of depicting curling hair, the exaggerated shape of a nose, a lady’s scowl.”
“One of the many lessons I’ve learned about human nature is that we tend to see what we expect to see,” she murmured.
Alison nodded but maintained a pensive silence.
Charlotte stirred her now-cold tea, unwilling to intrude on the dowager’s thoughts. Shock and surprise were likely some of the emotions swirling inside her head. Were disappointment and revulsion also among them?
As Alison’s first reaction had indicated, there were boundaries past which a woman trespassed at her own peril....
Courage was one thing. Foolhardiness was quite another. And unlike herself, Alison had never been a fool. Outspoken, yes, but aware of just how far she could step without putting her foot in forbidden territory.
The dowager cleared her throat, but only as a prelude to shifting in a whisper of silk.
As more seconds slid by, Charlotte realized how much the dowager’s support meant to her. Alison had believed in her, had thought her dreams worthy.
“Please allow me to explain a bit more,” she ventured. “It was Anthony who created A. J. Quill in order to make ends meet when he didn’t get the painting commission he expected on returning to London from Italy. He was good at it.”
A pause. “When he died, I decided to pick up his pen, as it offered the opportunity for more income than scrubbing floors or sewing piecework. As you know, I could never stitch a straight seam.”
Charlotte didn’t dare look up from her lap, for fear of what she might see in Alison’s expression.
“I was good at it, too. Not just the art, but the ideas behind the lines and colors. I felt I could help make sure that the rich and powerful were held accountable for their actions. I also wanted to be a voice for those who had no one else to speak for them, and focus attention on social injustices.”
She knotted her hands together. “No doubt I’ve made more than my share of mistakes, but I have always tried to do what was right, not merely to pander to what the public might want to hear.”
“Hmmph.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Charlotte hastily. “But—”
“I doubt it,” responded Alison, finally rousing herself to speech. “I am still searching for the words to articulate my . . . my . . .”
Charlotte steeled herself. A tongue-lashing from family had always been painful. But coming from the dowager, it would cut to the quick.
“My profound admiration and respect for your talents and passions,” said Alison. “And how you have worked against all odds to use them for the Higher Good.”
“I-I feared you might think I had no right to throw stones when I myself am so flawed.”
“My dear Charley, none of us are perfect, but you . . . you have always demanded more of yourself than anyone else has.” The dowager reached out and took her hand.
“So strong, so capable,” she murmured, brushing a soft caress to Charlotte’s ink-stained fingers and palm.
“I’ve never been prouder of you than I am at this moment. ”
A tear fell from Charlotte’s lashes, and then another, and another. “Lud, I never cry,” she murmured, blotting her cheeks with her sleeve.
After composing herself with a watery sniff, she quickly went on.
“I was hoping you would accept me for who I am. Your unwavering support is the reason I dared to follow my heart all those years ago, no matter where it led. And now that we’ve come together again, I don’t wish for there to be any secrets between us. You’re too dear to me.”
“I should hope you know you can trust me,” replied Alison stoutly.
“I would trust you with my life.” Charlotte gave a wry smile. “In fact, I just have—that is, my life as I know it. If I had to give up my pen . . .” A chill seized the nape of her neck at the thought of it.
“Thank you, my dear. I’m so glad you decided you could confide in me.” An impish glint flashed in the dowager’s sapphirine eyes. “I confess, I’m relieved to learn why I never drew A. J. Quill’s notice. It made me feel quite low to think that I was losing my fire.”
Alison regripped her cane. “But never mind that right now. You said that you wished to ask me a favor.” She leaned forward. “How can I help?”