CHAPTER 28
Lungs burning, pulse pounding, Wrexford raced up the front steps of his townhouse and flung the door open, Sheffield right on his heels. The sound of their boots echoed like gunfire as they crossed the entrance hall’s marble tiles and skidded into the main corridor.
“Milord!” Riche’s hail went unheard.
Wrexford’s palms were clammy as he fumbled with the brass latch to his workroom.
“Sorry, sir.” Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Raven was standing with his back to the banked fire. “I bolloxed the job. But—”
After crossing the carpet in three swift steps, Wrexford swept the boy into a fierce hug.
“Oiy, oiy! You’re cracking my ribs!”
Be damned with appearing a sentimental fool. He held tight, reveling in every little jab and jut of the boy’s bony body.
Sheffield cleared his throat with a cough—or perhaps it was a laugh. Wrexford didn’t care. Raven’s warmth was melting the ice from his blood.
“What happened to your face, lad?” queried his friend.
“I slipped on the cobblestones . . .”
Wrexford reluctantly allowed Raven to wriggle free. The boy’s cheek was scraped, and the bruise spreading over his jaw made his grin look a little lopsided.
“But thanks to Skinny, the smarmy dastard couldn’t catch me!”
“What dastard? And why Skinny—” began the earl, only to have the rest of his question die on his lips as Raven plucked a packet of papers out of his pocket.
“The dastard who pushed Copley under the wheels of a curricle—it was horrible—tried to steal these documents from inside his coat,” explained the boy in a rush. “I figured they must be important, so I snatched them for you.”
The thick papers were speckled with blood, noted the earl, as he accepted them from Raven. “Well done, lad.”
“That isn’t all, sir.”
His hands tightened, setting off a faint crackling.
“Lord Copley whispered something just before the dastard crushed his throat,” continued Raven. “He said, ‘Blue Peter. Watch for Blue Peter.’ ”
Wrexford frowned in thought. “Who would be called by such a moniker?”
“Someone at the docks?” suggested Sheffield. “There are all manner of exotic foreigners working as stevedores or warehouse workers. Perhaps blue refers to a tattoo?”
“Excellent thinking, Kit. That makes sense. Sir Darius and his friends might know of him.”
“There’s another thing, sir,” said Raven. “The dastard who pushed Copley was wearing white gloves. Seemed odd to me.”
The boy was right. It was odd. However, that little detail could wait. The earl moved to his desk. “Never mind that now. Before anything else, we need to look at these papers.”
Raven and Sheffield hurried to join him as Wrexford unfolded the sheaf of documents. The top sheet was a letter, written in a tiny, cramped script. But before he read it, he took a quick look beneath it.
A smile touched his lips, mingling both surprise and satisfaction. He passed several of the pages to Sheffield.
“By Jove,” murmured his friend as he quickly scanned the contents. He paused for a moment to touch the thick wax seals affixed to one page, next to the signature of Jameson Thirkell Mansfield, Earl of Woodbridge, before looking up. “I thought it a lost cause, but you did it, Wrex.”
“We did it,” murmured Wrexford, reaching out to ruffle Raven’s hair.
In addition to the legal papers naming Woodbridge as sole proprietor of Argentum Trading Company, Copley had included all the bank promissory notes that Woodbridge had entrusted to the consortium.
While the others chortled in celebration, the earl quickly returned to the letter, anxious to know what had caused Copley to have a crisis of conscience.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered after reading through the long and detailed explanation. It didn’t excuse the baron’s choices. But perhaps his final act was an atonement of sorts for his past sins.
“What?” demanded Sheffield.
“Copley has given me all the pieces of the Argentum puzzle.” A grunt. “Save for the name of the real ringleader, which he wanted to tell me in person, rather than commit to paper.”
The earl refolded the letter and put it in his pocket.
“But never mind that now. We must move quickly. You need to rush to Woodbridge’s residence.
I’ll be by shortly with my carriage to fetch both of you.
” He explained why. “But say nothing to Lady Cordelia. I don’t wish for her to get her hopes up, in case things don’t go well. ”
Turning to Raven, he touched the boy’s scraped cheek. “My apologies, lad, but might I ask you to run several more errands?”
Raven let out a snigger. “Just because I agreed to a fancy new name doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft as a prancing popinjay. What do you need me to do?”
Wrexford scribbled out two short notes and handed them over.
“Run to Bow Street and hand the first one to Griffin, who should be waiting for it. Then head to the Sun and Sextant Club and leave the other for Sir Darius Roy,” he replied.
“After that, return to Lady Charlotte and ask her to don her urchin’s garb and come to my townhouse as soon as it’s dark. ”
By then, he hoped to have some good news. “Oh, and you may tell McClellan that she has orders to make you and Hawk as many ginger biscuits as you can eat.”
A whoop echoed in the corridor as the boy raced off.
“Ah, to possess the resilience of youth,” said Sheffield, flexing his shoulders as he picked up his hat from the work counter. “It’s a sad commentary on my advancing age when the prospect of a full night of sleep seems far more desirable than a great many other pleasures.”
The earl opened his desk drawer and took out several items, which he quickly shoved into his pockets. Given what the rest of Copley’s letter had spelled out, the final moves of the games within games were about to play out.
“If Luck falls our way, we will all soon be resting easy.”
* * *
Charlotte paused in her pacing to take a look out the window of her workroom. No sign of the boys. But a grudging glance at the mantel clock was a stark reminder that sheer force of will couldn’t force the hands to turn any faster.
“Then again,” she muttered, “perhaps Professor Sudler could design an intricate machine to make time fly.” A sigh. “His Engine certainly makes numbers do things that astound the imagination.”
The street below was quiet, with naught but a stray dog sniffing through the bushes.
A breeze ruffled the ivy growing outside the mullioned glass, setting the dark, glossy leaves to chattering against the panes.
Twitching the draperies back in place, Charlotte returned to her desk and picked up her pen.
The half-finished sketch was a clever composition. A caricature of Copley peered out from behind an ornate tea chest, its lid open to reveal a pile of silver coins. In pencil, she had lettered a large caption that read WHAT IS LORD COPLEY HIDING?
But instead of dipping the nib in the inkwell, Charlotte set her pen down in frustration.
Until Wrexford returned from his meeting with the baron, it was pointless to continue.
Satire was most effective when one knew a subject’s weaknesses.
And given the events of last night, it was she and her friends who were most vulnerable.
Copley was no fool. She shuddered to think of how he meant to leverage his advantage.
Another glance at the clock. Surely by now, the meeting was over.
Realizing that her hands were shaking, she curled her fingers into fists and pressed them to her temples.
Where the devil is Wrexford?
* * *
A muted jingle of bells sounded as Wrexford pushed open the door to J.
F. Stockton & Co. Despite the windows looking out on the narrow side street, the reception area was dark, and the air fusty with the scent of stale smoke and sour cabbage.
A lone clerk was at work at the desk behind the reception counter, a massive fortresslike hulk of age-black oak that looked deliberately designed to repel intruders.
He rose reluctantly, his eyes narrowing to a suspicious squint as he peered out at the earl.
“Yes?”
Wrexford assumed his most imperious stare.
“I wish to speak with Mr. Stockton.” He placed a pristine calling card on the dusty wood and slid it toward the fellow.
“I need to conduct some financial transactions, and I have it from reliable sources that this establishment is capable of handling them in a discreet manner.”
The clerk’s expression turned decidedly less hostile. “Please have a seat for a moment . . .” He waved at two straight-backed chairs sitting in the shadow of the reception counter. “While I see whether Mr. Stockton is free to see you, sir.”
He disappeared through a paneled door leading to the back of the building. Ignoring the chairs, the earl moved to the window and flashed a quick signal.
A moment later, the clerk returned, followed by a tall, beefy man with a fringe of greying hair circling his bald pate. His face was unremarkable, save for the ferret-like eyes that gleamed through the round glass of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Lord Wrexford, I am Stockton.” He rubbed his plump hands together. “How may I be of service?”
“I understand you are an establishment that can be trusted to do its business discreetly.”
“Quite right, quite right. Discretion is our motto, milord,” replied Stockton with an oily smile. “We pride ourselves on performing our tasks so efficiently and quietly that no one even notices we’re here.”
Wrexford pursed his lips.
“Does that satisfy your needs, sir?”
“I believe it does.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Stockton stepped aside with an unctuous bow and gestured for Wrexford to proceed into the inner sanctum. “Let us go into my private office, where we may discuss your needs with all due privacy.”
The earl took several steps and then turned, making sure to block the opening in the counter so the banker couldn’t slip past him. “Just a moment.” A wave to the window. “My partners in this transaction are joining me.”