CHAPTER 28 #2
Stockton wet his lips. “W-wouldn’t d-discretion be better served by a more intimate discussion . . .”
He fell silent as the bells jangled.
“Not at all,” said Wrexford. “I trust them wholeheartedly.”
The banker’s throat constricted in a sickly swallow as he eyed the untidy bulk of Griffin, flanked by Sheffield and Woodbridge, squeeze through the front door.
“Come.” The earl took Stockton’s arm. “Lead the way.”
The thud of their steps sounded unnaturally loud as they made their way through the dimly lit corridor. Wrexford could smell fear wafting off the banker as the man pushed open the door to his private lair.
“We needn’t take up much of your time, Stockton,” he said. “What we have in mind is actually a simple transaction. We simply need to close an account that we have with you.”
Stockton had scuttled behind his desk as soon as Wrexford had released his arm. He was now staring at the earl in confusion. “I fear there has been some m-mistake. You gentlemen have no—”
“Ah, did I neglect to mention the name of our enterprise?” interrupted the earl. “It’s Argentum Trading Company. Of which Lord Woodbridge is the sole proprietor.”
Woodbridge stepped forward and placed the official company documents on the desk, along with the account statement provided by Copley.
“B-but I’ve always dealt with someone else from Argentum,” stammered the banker. “He gave strict orders—”
“Never mind his orders,” snapped Sheffield. “He no longer works for the company.”
“B-but . . .”
“Be assured, you won’t be seeing the fellow again,” said Sheffield with a wolfish grin. “He’s dead.”
Wrexford gave Stockton a moment to digest the news. “As you see, the papers are all in perfect order. In fact, to ensure that all the legalities are followed to the letter, we’ve brought along our friend Mr. Griffin, the head Runner with the Bow Street magistrates.”
Griffin shifted his unbuttoned coat just enough to show a flash of his red vest and badge.
The flickering lamplight showed that Stockton’s face was now the same sickly shade of white as the underbelly of a dead codfish.
“Once this particular transaction goes smoothly, we’ll all be on our way.” The earl tapped the account statement. “We wish to withdraw these funds and receive a document, signed and witnessed by the present company, acknowledging that Argentum’s account is closed.”
“I-I haven’t anywhere near that amount of money here, milord. It will take—”
In one swift motion, Wrexford seized the banker by his soiled cravat and hauled him up from his chair.
“On the contrary, you expected to turn the funds over tomorrow. So, you’ve conveniently converted all the various bills of exchange made out to Argentum that have been deposited here over the past three months into standard Bank of England letters of credit, which are negotiable anywhere. ”
Stockton’s eyes were bulging.
“Yes, I know exactly how you do business with Argentum. Now, make your decision. Head to your safe now, and we’ll overlook your part in this scheme. Or head to Newgate Prison.”
A whimper as the earl released his hold, followed by a hurried scrabbling as Stockton unlocked his desk drawer and snatched up a ring of keys.
“And you will, of course, add the additional funds that have come in over this week from the daily arbitrage trades,” Wrexford called as the banker scurried from the room.
Woodbridge expelled a pent-up breath. “Thank you, Wrexford.”
“You’re welcome. But next time you’re tempted to make an investment, kindly consult your sister.
She has a better head for business than you do.
” He passed over a second packet of papers to Lady Cordelia’s brother.
“I’ll leave the three of you to finish up here.
Once you have the letters of credit, Woodbridge, go to the banks from whom you’ve borrowed and pay off your loans.
Once you’re done, I imagine you’ll have a tidy sum left over for putting your estate back in order. ”
Cocking a small salute, Wrexford moved for the door. “Now it’s time to put an end to the rest of this sordid scheme.”
* * *
“Copley is dead?” Charlotte had risen from her chair when Raven rushed into her workroom, but now sat down again rather heavily.
“Oiy!” The boy explained about the shove that had sent the baron to his death, and the ensuing struggle for the documents.
A horrified hiss slipped from her lips as he described his escape from the man’s clutches. “Thank heavens for Skinny’s quick thinking.”
Raven grinned, accentuating the purpling bruise spreading over his jaw. “Us guttersnipes stick together.”
“That scrape needs to be cleaned, and a cold compress put on the swelling,” she said, forcing herself not to think of what else might have happened. As for Skinny . . .”
“No need to fuss!” Raven danced out of arm’s reach. “McClellan said she’ll have a piece of beefsteak ready to put on the bruise by the time the batch of ginger biscuits comes out of the oven.”
Charlotte surrendered a sigh. For the boys, sweets were panacea for every ailment. “Very well. But let us go to the kitchen now.”
McClellan had just set the hot pan of pastries on the hob as they entered the sugar-scented room. A moment later, Hawk flew in through the back door.
“Biscuits!” he chirped. “Huzzah! I’m famished.”
A telltale smudge of jam on his chin belied the assertion. And it explained why he had taken so long to return from delivering a note to Alison.
“After you’ve gobbled down your share,” said his brother, “we need to go down to the docks and ask around for a man by the name of Blue Peter.”
“Blue Peter?” pressed Charlotte.
“Oiy.” Raven told her about Copley’s last words. “His Lordship and Mr. Sheffield think the cove must know something important.”
“Perhaps he’s privy to the identity of the man who’s manipulating all this mayhem,” suggested McClellan.
Charlotte shook her head. Raven had dodged enough danger for one day. One did not spit in the face of Luck. “No, I think it best not to stir up suspicions on the wharves until Wrexford has decided what to do.”
The boy made a face, but he didn’t argue. “Optimam partem exercitus discretio,” he murmured. Discretion is the better part of valor. “I suppose that makes sense. His Lordship wants us all to gather at his townhouse right after dark, so we can draw up a plan for crushing these bastards.”
“Don’t say ‘bastard,’ ” whispered Hawk. “It’s very ungentlemanly.”
Raven crammed a biscuit in his mouth. “Those bastards ain’t gentlemen.”
* * *
“Well, well.” Sir Darius steepled his fingers and stared pensively at the fire burning in the private parlor’s hearth. “Both Alston and Copley are dead?”
Wrexford nodded. “Within hours of each other.”
His friends Jiang and Gu exchanged troubled looks.
“Our informants have passed on no other names,” said Jiang. “That means whoever is in charge is—”
“Diabolically clever and cunning,” finished Sir Darius.
“There’s Mather,” pointed out Gu. “Though it would surprise me. He’s ambitious enough but doesn’t strike me as having the cold-blooded imagination for such actions.”
For a long moment the only sound in the room was the hissing of the undulating flames.
“Copley said the name Blue Peter with his dying breath.” Wrexford raised a brow at the two Chinese diplomats. “Have any of your informants mentioned a man by that name?”
They shook their heads.
“The only other clue is that the assassin was wearing white gloves,” the earl added.
Jiang tapped his fingertips together. “But all you English gentlemen wear gloves when you go out, and in a wide assortment of colors.”
“Yes, but never white,” replied Wrexford. “It must mean something.”
The echo of his words seemed to crackle through the air, along with the sound of the crumbling coals.
“By Jove, of course!” Sir Darius suddenly sat up straighter, nearly tipping over his chair. “Blue Peter! It’s not a person. It’s a nautical flag! One that’s flown from the topmast to signal all hands must return to the ship because the vessel is about to set sail. The thing is . . .”
Wrexford went very still, waiting for him to go on.
“The thing is, it’s mostly used by the Royal Navy. And it’s British military officers who wear white gloves.”
“We saw a naval frigate moored at one of the East India Company docks yesterday,” said Jiang.
“And were told that it’s rare to see one there,” added Gu.
“Which wharf?” demanded the earl.
“The one nearest Old Dock,” replied Jiang.
“The devil be damned.” The earl snatched up his hat and bolted for the door.
“Wait! Where are you going?” called Sir Darius.
“To beat a dastard at his own cunning little game.”