CHAPTER 29
Tyler looked up as Wrexford slipped into the workroom. “The others are all gathered downstairs. I’m just gathering some papers Lady Cord—”
“Ssshh.” The earl quietly closed the door. “I prefer to come and go without them knowing I’ve been here.”
“Trouble?” asked the valet, watching the earl take down the pearwood case holding his pistols from one of the shelves.
“Perhaps.” He checked the priming and then shrugged out of his snugly tailored dress coat. “Kindly fetch my black overcoat.”
The valet returned in a moment from the adjoining storeroom. Wrexford slid the weapons into the deep pockets, along with a pouch of extra bullets.
“I need you to do one other task for me,” he said.
“Once you’ve taken the papers to Lady Cordelia, leave quietly, and then go to Bow Street and ask Griffin to come meet me at Old Dock, within the East India Company complex.
Have him bring several of his men and find a place to hide and wait for my signal. ”
Wrexford added a vial of gunpowder to his pocket.
“I’d ask the Weasels to do it, but I fear that Lady Charlotte would feel compelled to follow me.
” The idea of her crossing swords with a man for whom violent death was a way of life made the burn of bile rise in his gorge.
“And that would be too bloody dangerous.”
“You know who’s behind all this?” asked Tyler, passing over a thin-bladed knife for the earl to slide into the hidden sheath inside his boot.
“I do.”
“The question is, can you prove it?” The valet’s expression was grim. “I’ve heard that Copley passed on a number of incriminating documents, but these dastards have been awfully clever in leaving no tangible clues. And with the other conspirators dead . . .”
“You’re right. The man who’s been manipulating all the pieces on the game board has been exceedingly clever. However, there is one telling piece of evidence, and I expect to find it tonight. That, along with the confessions in Copley’s note, will be enough to prove the dastard’s guilt.”
Wrexford reached up and adjusted his hat, pulling it low on his brow.
“You see, I now understand what those mathematical calculations that Lady Cordelia and the professor have been running are for. Our adversary isn’t just interested in buying and selling silver.
He’s got an even more lucrative plan in mind. ”
Tyler, never one to dither in his thoughts, hesitated in answering. “Which makes him even more bloody dangerous.” Their eyes met. “You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll come—”
“No,” he said flatly. “Copley’s murder proves the ringleader has at least one ruthless henchman on the loose. Lady Cordelia and the professor may be at risk, so I need you and Kit to remain on guard here.”
The valet’s nostrils flared in frustration.
“There’s no need to worry. Griffin and his men are reliable.” After a last pat to his pockets, Wrexford turned without further word and moved noiselessly into the corridor.
A muffled laugh floated up from the stairs leading down to the kitchen and workroom.
Charlotte. However faint, her voice had a way of wrapping itself around his heart.
He paused for just an instant and then quickly retraced his steps to the front of the townhouse, taking care to stay light on his feet as he crossed the marble tiles of the entrance hall.
Silence shrouded the unlit space. He reached for the door latch—only to freeze as a muted click-click caught his ear.
A long moment slid by, and then it came again. Click-click. He turned to see a large shaggy shape materialize from the gloom.
Click-click. Harper padded across checkered tiles, his long claws trailing tiny sounds across the stone.
“Go back,” growled the earl, punctuating the order with a brusque wave.
The hound stopped and wagged his tail.
“Back!” he repeated. “Stay with the Weasels.”
A whuffle. Which sounded suspiciously similar to a human sigh. Wrexford held his breath, silently cursing Tyler’s soft-headedness in bringing the big beast to London simply to amuse the boys. But to his relief, Harper turned, head drooping in disappointment, and retreated back the way he had come.
He waited until silence had once again settled over the house, then eased the door open and slipped out into the night.
* * *
The tide was at low ebb, the stink of decay rising up to foul the mist-chilled air.
The earl crept down Robin Hood Lane and let himself into the East India docklands through the locked gate by Leicester Street.
A cluster of squat warehouses stood huddled dark on dark within the gloom.
After following the narrow walkway around to the front of the complex, he found a recessed niche and took shelter in order to survey the surroundings.
Up ahead, past the cluttered shipyard, a glimmer of moonlight on the wind-rippled water showed the silhouette of the naval frigate moored in the protected pool of Old Dock. Flickers of lantern light showed the ship wasn’t sleeping.
Was that a flutter of a naval flag atop the mainmast? Wrexford squinted, but the distance was too great to tell for sure.
Swiveling his gaze to the row of windowless brick buildings to his left, he saw a dull hint of light skitter through the fog. One of the far doors appeared slightly ajar. Easing a pistol from his pocket, Wrexford picked his way through the shadows toward the glow.
A muttering of voices floated out from behind the half-open door. After inching a step closer, he ventured a peek through the narrow gap between the heavy hinges.
“All is in readiness?” Despite its low pitch, the voice was instantly recognizable.
“Aye, sir,” came the reply. “Pass me the cargo by noon, and I’ll sail on the afternoon tide.”
A ghost of a laugh. “Never fear, Barton. You’ll have the precious letter of credit. And once you pass it off to our East India captain in Tenerife, this voyage will be the most profitable one ever.” A pause. “But not nearly as profitable as our other venture.”
Wrexford allowed a small smile. His guess had been right about the ringleader. You rolled the dice and chose to move the wrong pieces on the game board.
Barton cleared his throat. “I apologize again for Lieutenant Waltham’s mishandling of his mission.”
“An unfortunate bungling. But Copley’s crisis of conscience has come to naught.
Thankfully, we need not fret over a filthy little urchin who was hoping to snatch money.
I’ll wager that the documents have already been tossed away in some stinking alleyway, which serves our purposes just as well,” replied the ringleader.
“However, incompetence in our underlings can’t be tolerated.
See to it that Waltham is lost at sea before you reach Tenerife. ”
“Aye, sir.” The scuff of leather on stone. “If you’ve no further orders—”
“Actually, I wish to borrow your book of navigation tables until morning.” A whisper of shuffling papers. “I’ll come with you to the ship. There are times when I miss the feel of a deck beneath my feet.”
Wrexford quickly drew back and slipped into the narrow gap between buildings.
The two men came out. A scudding of starlight sparked in the ringleader’s silvery hair as he closed the door behind him. The earl watched them turn onto one of the walkways leading through the warren of smaller storage sheds down to the wharves.
Hubris. There had been no snick of the lock and no sign of papers in the ringleader’s hands. A fatal flaw in men who think themselves so much cleverer than other mere mortals.
Holding himself in check, Wrexford remained in his hiding place, watching and waiting to be sure the area was deserted.
There was no hurry. He merely needed to retrieve the sample calculations run by Lady Cordelia and the professor—he was now sure the whispery flutter had been made by the incriminating papers—and show them to Griffin.
The evidence, along with Copley’s letter explaining the scheme and his own testimony, should convince the Runner to arrest the three conspirators.
As the shadows suddenly deepened, he looked up and saw the clouds were thickening. All the better for making his move.
It took only a moment to dart around the corner of the building and enter the warehouse. The oil lamp had been left alight, and there on the small table were the mathematical tables created by the Computing Engine.
Numbers calculated in blood. Three men lay dead.
The earl reached out to pick them up. . . .
Only to feel the prick of a sword point between his shoulder blades.
“Tsk, tsk, Lord Wrexford. You’ve been alarmingly clever about a good many things.
But, alas, you failed to realize that a man who’s spent his life at sea becomes attuned to every tiny sound around him, no matter how nuanced.
I thought I heard a whisper of wool.” The blade dug in a little deeper.
“So I decided to come back. And lo and behold, look what I’ve found. ”
Hubris. Wrexford cursed himself for being such a bloody, bloody fool. “Do try not to put a hole in my coat, Sir Charles. My valet would be greatly distressed. It pains him when I injure my clothing.”
“An injury to your clothing is the least of your concerns,” replied the admiral.
“Now kindly raise your hands above your head.” One by one, he removed the pistols from the earl’s coat pockets and tucked them in his own.
“And now turn around. Slowly, if you will. I would hate to cut your throat now, but be assured I’ll do so if necessary. ”
Wrexford did as he was ordered.
“Well, well, here we are, with the last roll of the dice about to be made.” The admiral’s smile was coolly unemotional.
He might have been merely sliding the black-and-white backgammon markers across the game board.
“You played well, milord, with a bold and imaginative strategy. I like that in a man.”