CHAPTER 13
St. James’s Palace, the king and queen’s official residence in London, sat just a stone’s throw from Piccadilly Street and looked like a fading spinster in the deepening twilight, its age-dark brick walls and austere lines overshadowed by the flash and glitter of the colorful silk pavilions rising up from a screen of trees bordering the park behind it.
“As if the royal family hasn’t frittered away enough money this summer on extravagant entertainments,” muttered Wrexford as he and Charlotte descended from their carriage.
“This mindless pomp and pageantry are an egregious waste of funds that would be better spent on the common people rather than a gaggle of overfed aristocrats.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Charlotte had accepted the invitation in order to have a close look at the details of the party and who was attending. If ever there was a perfect event for her to skewer with her pen . . .
A line was already forming to pass through the gated entrance of St. James’s Park.
As they joined it, the quartet of gentlemen just ahead of them began grousing about the fact that no footmen had yet appeared with trays of champagne.
But their ire rapidly turned to the latest drawings of A. J. Quill.
“How dare that scurrilous scribbler imply that the government isn’t doing enough for the soldiers returning from the wars,” ranted one of them, a jowly fellow with a sheen of Macassar oil highlighting his silver curls. “It only stirs the masses to feel discontent and question the powers-that-be.”
His three friends all nodded in agreement.
“The fellow is devilishly dangerous,” muttered one of them. “The government ought to hunt him down and put his head on a pikestaff at Traitors’ Gate as a warning to those who question their betters.”
Charlotte waited for them to march through the entrance. “Pompous popinjays,” she said softly. “But it’s good to know that I’m ruffling their feathers. It means I’m doing my job.”
Wrexford smiled. And yet she noted that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Come,” he said, “let us join the festivities.”
A myriad of flickering torchieres lined the footpaths, their fire-gold flames accentuating the jewel-tone hues of the dinner pavilions and refreshment tents that dotted the lawns.
She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, the surfeit of decorative gilding, crimson silk, and countless candle flames glittering in the twilight an assault on her senses.
Prinny did everything to excess. Rich food, lascivious friends, extravagant parties, profligate spending on his personal pleasures while the poor are starving. . .
Charlotte forced her attention back to the moment. “Ah, I see that Alison is chatting with her friend, Sir Robert,” she observed, indicating one of the park benches by the main walkway. “I’ll go join them and leave you free to find Herr von Münch.”
The earl nodded and moved off to join a group of German diplomats gathered around a pair of liveried servants who were serving champagne.
The dowager waggled her cane in greeting. “Sir Robert and I were just discussing A. J. Quill’s latest drawing.”
Her friend popped to his feet and inclined a courtly bow. “Indeed we were, Lady Wrexford. I admit that I sometimes find the fellow’s sentiments a little too radical for my liking—”
Alison made a rude sound, which made Sir Robert chuckle.
“However, one can’t argue that asking uncomfortable questions is not always a bad thing,” he hastily added. “It makes us think about what is going on around us.”
They conversed for a short while on the present state of politics in London—Sir Robert knew Alison well enough not to dare suggest such topics were beyond the understanding of the female intellect—and then the dowager shooed him away with an imperious wave.
“Go have a chin-wag with your friends from the Botanical Society,” commanded Alison after rising and hooking Charlotte’s arm with her free hand.
“I have some private matters to discuss with my niece.” To Charlotte, she said, “Come, let us stroll down to the lake. Word is that they have decorated the Chinese pagoda on the bridge with colorful paper lanterns.”
Charlotte allowed herself to be led away.
“Should I be alarmed?” she asked dryly, once they turned down one of the quieter footpaths.
Alison’s brows shot up in surprise. “Alarmed over what?”
“The fact that you have a suspicious gleam in your eye,” responded Charlotte.
“Oh, pffft, what nonsense.” The dowager walked on for several steps. “I simply wanted to tell you about an invitation I received. It occurred to me that it might prove useful for our current investigation.”
An invitation? That sounded harmless enough. Charlotte smiled, though the niggling little tickle at the base of her neck didn’t entirely disappear. “As I told you the other day—”
“My dear Charlotte, kindly drop that charade that no investigation is going on,” cut in the dowager. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” A rueful grimace. “Or the day before.”
“I—” began Charlotte.
“Ye heavens, do you really think I’m woolly-headed enough to believe that Wrexford would simply delegate to someone else the task of bringing the murderer of his brother’s best friend to justice?”
Charlotte felt herself flush.
“Or that A. J. Quill would not be taking a closer look at the race to build an oceangoing steamship, especially given the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory?”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Alison. I was only trying—”
The dowager stopped short and waggled her cane. “If you’re about to say ‘protect me,’ I just might swat you with my stick!”
Taking the ensuing silence as surrender, the dowager resumed walking. “Getting back to my invitation, it’s for a gala reception given by the Taviot consortium. The event is being held next week.”
A gala reception? That was news to Charlotte. And as to why Alison had been invited—
“Would you care to come along with me?”
She took a moment to think. Wrexford had told her about the conversation that Peregrine had overheard in the reading room of the Royal Institution.
Granted, the boy might have misunderstood the nuances of what had been said.
But given Cordelia’s concerns over the Taviot family—which was at odds with her own more positive reaction to Lady Kirkwall—the chance to spend some further time with Lord Taviot and his sister would give her a chance to form a more accurate opinion.
“Yes, I would very much like to attend,” answered Charlotte. “However, I can’t help but wonder as to how you came to be invited.”
“While you were off talking with Cordelia in private at Lady Thirkell’s soiree, I had a chat with Lady Kirkwall . . .” Alison gave an airy wave. “And I may have slightly exaggerated my interest in investing.” A small cough. “As well as the size of my fortune.”
Before Charlotte could reply, the two of them were hailed by Cordelia and Sheffield. Though they were together, the tension radiating between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.
“What scheming are you two doing out here in the shadows?” asked Sheffield, which earned him a warning whack from the dowager’s cane.
“Ouch!”
“I don’t scheme,” said Alison primly. “I plot.”
“Speaking of which, what brings you two here?” asked Charlotte. “You don’t usually attend Prinny’s parties.”
Sheffield looked around to make sure no other guests were within earshot. “Wrex mentioned that he was meeting with the librarian who overheard Greeley’s argument with his killer.” He then hesitated as his glance slid back to the dowager.
“You may go ahead and speak freely, Kit,” murmured Charlotte. “Alison has already guessed that we’ve once again become caught up in the crosscurrents of intrigue.”
“Thank God. That cane has a very sharp point.” Just to be safe, he edged back a step before picking up where he had left off.
“Apparently, the librarian has some new information that may have a bearing on the murder. I wished to be here just in case Wrex needs any assistance.”
The answer stirred up Charlotte’s worries over her husband’s quest. “Herr von Münch gave no hint as to what that information might be. I fear . . .” She looked up for a moment, watching the moon scud in and out of the clouds.
“Wrex has taken this murder very much to heart. But with so few clues, I fear he may be terribly disappointed if all his efforts to find the killer come to naught.”
Sheffield nodded in understanding. “I’ll go join the diplomats gathered by the gardens and keep an eye out for any trouble.”
Cordelia waited until the crunch of gravel faded away. “What of the missing manuscript? I take it that Wrex hasn’t located a copy of it?”
“Not yet,” replied Charlotte.
“What we need is to find a thread that pulls all the disparate pieces of the puzzle together,” observed Cordelia.
Charlotte lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug. “If there is one, I’m not clever enough to see it.”
* * *
“Lord Wrexford!”
The earl turned as von Münch broke away from a very spirited discussion—in several different languages—on the Peace Conference taking place in Vienna and joined him on the walkway.
“I confess, I much prefer the calm and quiet of a reading room,” said the librarian, “where conflicting opinions express themselves on ink and paper rather than in stentorian shouting.”
“I, too, find solitude and silence more conducive to serious thinking,” agreed Wrexford. “But throwing volatile elements into a cauldron and lighting a fire beneath it can also create worthwhile discoveries.”
The observation made von Münch chuckle, but the sound was quickly carried away by the evening breeze. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Please follow me. I have something very important to tell you.”
Gravel crunched beneath their shoes as the librarian abruptly indicated that they should take one of the side footpaths that led through a copse of trees down to the lake.