CHAPTER 21 #2
“That’s kind of you, milord,” answered Sir Bentley after another wheeze. “I’m under no illusion as to my prowess with a sword. But a gentleman ought to know the rudiments of wielding a blade, so I make an effort, however paltry.”
“Which is all to your credit.”
Sir Bentley looked a little puzzled at having attracted Wrexford’s attention. He flashed an uncertain smile and was about to retreat to the washbasins when the earl shifted slightly to block his way.
“Might we have a private word with you, sir?”
“Y-yes, er, of course . . .” The baronet’s expression turned wary, but he shrugged and stepped back into one of the changing alcoves. “But I can’t imagine why.”
“It’s about your youngest brother.”
The baronet’s gaze turned clouded. “It’s not a subject I enjoy discussing.”
“I understand,” replied Wrexford. “I’d simply like to ask if you know his current whereabouts.”
A hesitation, punctuated by an unhappy exhale. “Some graveyard in Jamaica, though I couldn’t tell you which one. As far as the family is concerned, his memory is best left buried in oblivion, along with his corpse.”
Wrexford gritted his teeth. Damnation. Yet another dead end.
Seeing the earl’s reaction, Sir Bentley added, “Fenwick was killed several years ago. An altercation over business matters.”
“Might I ask exactly when?” inquired Sheffield.
The baronet pursed his lips. “Three . . . no, less than that . . . It was the summer of eleven.”
“And in what sort of business was he engaged?” pressed Sheffield.
Another awkward silence.
“We’re not asking out of prurient interest, sir,” said Wrexford. “We’re aware of your brother’s trouble in India and are trying to discern whether he might have been part of a current trading enterprise.”
“An illicit one, I take it,” said the baronet tightly. “Perhaps he was.” A pause. “Since I’m aware of your reputation for solving crimes, I’m willing to tell you the sordid details, milord. But I ask for your word of honor in keeping it confidential.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Very well.” Sir Bentley blew out his breath. “A well-placed friend in the governor-general’s office in Jamaica let me know that Fenwick was suspected of trading goods with the French on Martinique. That would, of course, be not only illegal, but . . .”
“Treasonous,” said the earl softly.
“So, you understand why I wish to leave my brother dead and buried,” responded the baronet. “I trust that answers your questions. If you are looking to punish those responsible for a current crime, you may rest assured that Fenwick is already roasting in hell for his sins.”
The devil seemed to be taking malicious delight in tangling the Argentum conundrum into a proverbial Gordian knot. Wrexford glanced at the rack of practice weapons hanging on the wall. Perhaps I need to borrow Angelo’s rapier to slice through it.
But even then, would it cut to the truth?
“Thank you for your candor, Sir Bentley. Be assured that you can count on our discretion,” he replied. “We won’t detain you any longer.”
Once out on the street, the earl gave vent to his frustration with a muttered oath. “Hell’s teeth, we’re not a damnable step closer to finding the dastards.” He hated feeling so lost. “Let us hope Lady Charlotte has had better luck with Annie Wright.”
Though that was a two-edged sword, as she would insist on following any lead. Which would likely put her in danger.
“Come, we had better return to my townhouse and see if the Weasels have brought any message,” Wrexford added.
“You go on,” said Sheffield. “I have a few things I wish to do first. I’ll meet up with you later.”
* * *
Silk rustled against silk as Charlotte shifted against the sofa pillows. And then shifted again. She put down her teacup and fluffed her skirts, then rose and moved to the bowfront window overlooking the street.
“Do stop skittering around like a cat on a hot griddle,” counseled Alison. “I’m sure Wrexford will come as soon as he gets your note.”
Charlotte knew her impatience was irrational. The ship had sailed. And even if it hadn’t, they would never have been permitted to board an East India Company vessel and interrogate its passengers.
“Sorry.” She flicked at the draperies. “I was na?ve to think Annie Wright would trust me. If only—”
“If only there were winged unicorns, we could fly to the heavens and take tea with the Man in the Moon,” drawled the dowager. “If only I were forty years younger, I would . . .” A pause. “Oh, pish. I would likely do not a thing differently.”
Charlotte laughed in spite of her jangling nerves. “Do you think the Man in the Moon prefers Bohea or Hyson tea?”
“Being the ruler of his realm, I daresay he would choose Imperial,” replied Alison.
“While I,” cut in a voice from the doorway, “would welcome a wee dram of good Scottish malt, if given my druthers.” Wrexford moved past the dowager’s butler before the fellow had a chance to announce him.
He favored Alison with a smile, but Charlotte knew him well enough to read the underlying tension in his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, quelling her own impatience to tell him what she had just discovered.
“Alas, the lead on Alston led nowhere.” He explained about his meeting with the baronet.
She heard the frustration in his voice—a mirror of her own—though he sought to temper it as he finished with a wry observation. “Kit is acquiring a knack for sleuthing. He asked some astute questions, though they came to naught.”
“There’s a bottle of malt on the sideboard,” said Alison. “As well as an excellent French brandy—from before the Revolution, I might add, so it’s not smuggled goods.”
“Thank you,” replied Wrexford. “Much as it’s tempting, I prefer to keep a clear head.” He looked to Charlotte. “Dare I hope you’ve learned something?”
“Yes,” warned Charlotte. “But it only adds more urgency to the mystery we’re trying to unravel.”
“Sit,” ordered Alison.
Wrexford perched a hip on the arm of the facing chair. “Go on.”
“As you suspected, Annie Wright scarpered . . .” Charlotte recounted her conversation with Squid and the cryptic message the barmaid had left with Alice the Eel Girl.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” she added, seeing his mouth tighten to a grim line.
“Raven and Hawk accompanied me to the docklands and made the rounds of their friends to gather the latest scuttlebutt while I met with Alice. While they were talking with Strings, the boy who picks apart old rope to make oakum for caulking, two gentlemen passed close by on their way to an East India merchant ship about to depart.”
Alison edged forward expectantly, having not yet heard this part of the story.
“They paused behind a stack of crates, and the boys overheard their conversation,” continued Charlotte. “The older of the two was adamant that his companion had to leave the country immediately for his own safety.”
Wrexford looked about to speak.
“And yes,” she went on quickly, “the boys caught a name. The man being ordered to sail on the ship was Mather. As you know, they have sharp ears and sharp memories and recalled it from our councils of war.” Her voice tightened.
“And the two gentlemen were then joined by a woman who fits Annie’s description, and she accompanied Mather onto the ship.
It seems she was in league with the dastards, after all, and betrayed her old friend. ”
Charlotte paused for just an instant. “Clearly, the conspirators are aware that their activities have come under scrutiny. Which will make the ringleaders even more difficult to discover.”
“Damnation.” However, the earl didn’t waste time in recriminations. “What about the other man’s name?” he demanded.
“Unfortunately, Mather didn’t say it,” she answered. “But the boys did get a description of both gentlemen.” Charlotte quickly described the one called Mather, and the earl nodded a confirmation that it fit the banker.
“As for the other gentleman,” she went on, “he was older, with dark hair silvering at the temples and combed à la Brutus. Medium height, average build, and dressed in expensive clothing, fashioned by Weston or Stutz, guessed Hawk.” The boy had developed a frightfully discerning eye for detail.
“Though the muted shades of navy and charcoal grey offer no distinctive clue that either tailor might use to identify the man.”
Charlotte shifted her stance. “He did, however, have one unusual item—a walking stick covered with an exotic-looking black leather. Hawk got close enough to see the pattern—you know how interested he is in the natural world—and identified it as snakeskin. And he saw that the knob was carved from a dark reddish translucent stone, which he thinks might be carnelian.”
Wrexford was suddenly on his feet.
“Does that help?” asked Charlotte.
“I shall have a better idea later this evening,” he answered.
Their eyes met.
“After I have a private word with Lord Copley.”