CHAPTER 26 #2
How to describe its glow? He was not a poet.
His eloquence was in observing and analyzing things that one could see and measure.
Emotions were more elusive. But as he stared up at the limestone and granite facade of his residence, Wrexford felt a surge of wordless wonder at the joy of having Charlotte and his family as part of his very being.
He couldn’t imagine his world without them.
“I have,” Wrexford whispered, “become a sentimental fool.”
The thought made him smile, but after spending another moment savoring the light through the scrim of flitting shadows, he crossed the cobblestones and let himself in through the front door.
It was late. He lit a candle from the entrance table and headed for his workroom, wishing to finish sorting his thoughts before heading upstairs to Charlotte, who was likely asleep by now.
As he turned down the corridor leading to the rear of the townhouse, a flutter of lamplight through the half-open door caught his eye.
He quickened his steps. Perhaps Tyler had discovered some further clue in the chemical sample found at Taviot’s secret laboratory. However, as he entered the room, he stopped short.
The work counters, usually a scene of cheerful disarray, had been neatly organized, the unruly piles of paper on his desk shuffled into order, the curio cabinet dusted—
“Ye heavens, what prompted this burst of activity, Mac?” he asked wryly, seeing the maid crouched in front of the hearth, stirring the coals to life.
She rose and slowly turned to face him . . .
And Wrexford’s heart leapt into his throat.
“What’s happened?” he rasped.
“I—I am not sure, milord,” she replied. “P-Perhaps nothing—”
“You’re not making any sense.” Wrexford fought to keep his voice calm.
“As you know, m’lady and Lady Peake attended a soiree for potential investors at Taviot’s townhouse this evening. However, they have not yet returned.”
Wrexford felt his heart skip a beat.
“Tyler and Raven have gone to reconnoiter around Taviot’s house, Hawk has run to see whether they have gone to Lady Peake’s home, and Peregrine .
. .” She lowered her voice and glanced at the door to the adjoining room.
“Peregrine and Lady Peake’s young relative, Midshipman Horatio Porter, are waiting in your library.
It seems that Horatio was able to identify the scrap of cloth that you tore from the man who attacked you in Taviot’s secret laboratory. ”
Feeling a little dizzy, Wrexford pressed his fingertips to his temples, hoping to stop his head from spinning. “Are you saying that he knows the name of the man?”
McClellan hurried to pour a glass of whisky from the decanter on the sideboard and made the earl take it before answering. “Yes.”
He took a long swallow, its liquid fire finally burning through the haze of his initial shock.
As he stared into the whisky, Wrexford suddenly recalled von Münch’s remark about it being hard to believe that two British traitors had been active during the Peninsular War.
But what if it were true?
He had assumed that Taviot was the evil mind behind the treachery. But a pair of villains working together would be the answer to a great many baffling questions.
As to Pierson’s assertion that the government believed that Taviot was merely a pawn, Wrexford was inclined to disagree. After all, Pierson had made a point of Taviot’s intelligence and cleverness, which meant he wasn’t a man easily duped.
Setting aside his half-empty glass, the earl drew in a measured breath. “Mac, please summon Peregrine and Midshipman Porter.”
The maid rushed to fetch the boys from the adjoining library.
“Sir!” exclaimed Peregrine. “Is there—”
“There is no news yet, lad. But never fear, we will soon have m’lady and Aunt Alison home.” Wrexford made himself sound confident. He refused to consider an alternative. Turning his gaze on Peregrine’s companion, he gave a friendly nod. “You must be Midshipman Porter.”
“Y-Yes, milord.” Horatio snapped to attention and gave a salute.
“At ease, Horatio.” He gave the boy an encouraging smile. “I understand that you’ve identified the man to whom the torn fabric belongs.”
“Yes, milord,” repeated Horatio. “You see, I know who owns the coat, and I spotted the damage this morning.”
He hesitated, then said a name.
* * *
The villain is trying to help me? Charlotte wondered whether she was now hallucinating. His words made no sense.
Still, she ceased her struggling. “W-Why?”
No answer, though his grip on her wrists relaxed ever so slightly.
Squinting through the gloom, she tried to make out any identifying features. But he was no fool. Only his eyes showed above the length of black linen wound snugly around his face, which also served to muffle his voice.
Those eyes. Charlotte was sure that she had seen them before.
Her captor—or savior—kept darting frequent looks out the carriage window.
Charlotte decided to obey his orders for the moment, using the interlude to marshal her strength.
She knew that she would never be able to muster the effort for more than one escape attempt, so she decided to be patient and wait for the right moment.
The road was getting rougher, and the buildings were giving way to a muddled darkness that seemed to indicate they were reaching the outskirts of Town. She felt her captor shift, his muscles tensing.
“Start to make a ruckus,” he said. “Though I would prefer that you smack the seat rather than me.”
It startled her to think he might have a sense of humor.
“I’m going to shout at the driver to stop and help me get you out of the carriage, as you’re about to be sick,” he explained. “Stay slumped, and for God’s sake, don’t get in my way.”
The question of whether to trust him flashed through her still-aching head. But as he seemed the lesser of two evils, she decided to play along. Pounding her fists against the leather seat, she filled her lungs and began to wail.
Flinging open the door, her captor jumped down and reached back to grasp her arm.
“Damnation! Come help me with this hellbitch,” he called.
“Hell’s teeth, she’s a bloody nuisance.” The driver, a big bear of a man, lumbered over to join the fray. “Shouldn’t we just twist her neck and be done with it?” He looked around at the scrubby hedgerows and glade of trees. “It’s deserted enough—”
Before the driver could finish, her captor smashed the butt of a pistol against the man’s skull. Quick as a cobra, he then wrapped an arm around the driver’s throat and then tightened his hold.
A gurgle gave way to silence . . . followed by a thud as the body hit the hardscrabble road.
“Is he dead?” queried Charlotte.
“He’ll awake in an hour or two, though he won’t be feeling terribly well,” answered her captor. “How is your head?”
“It feels as though a regiment of the Royal Household Cavalry has ridden roughshod over it.” Charlotte winced as she fingered the lump above her right temple. “But I daresay I’ll survive.”
He reached into his coat and extracted a flask. “Perhaps a nip of brandy would help?”
“Bless you,” she murmured. “Are you going to remove that rag around your face so that I may thank you properly, sir?”
A chuckle. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to refuse.”
Charlotte watched in growing dismay as the man’s face was revealed. “You!”
She expelled a grudging sigh. “Much as it pains me to say it, I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Kurlansky.” A pause. “Though I can’t help but wonder whether you staged all this just to annoy me.”
‘Even I am not that devious, milady.” His smile thinned to a grim line. “It was pure luck that I happened to be watching Taviot’s house.”
“Which begs the question of why you were there.”
“Explanations can wait. Right now, I would rather return you to your home before your husband comes looking for you.” Kurlansky grimaced. “And cuts my liver into mincemeat before I have a chance to convince him that I’m not the enemy.”
The brandy had helped clear the cobwebs from Charlotte’s head, and at the mention of the word enemy a spurt of panic suddenly rose in her throat. “Alison!” she cried.
Kurlansky appeared nonplussed. “The dowager was attending the soiree?”
“Y-Yes!”
“I saw no sign of her being a captive,” he said. “I think it likely that she simply left the gathering along with the other guests and went home.”
“No, no,” protested Charlotte. “Alison would never have taken her leave without me.” Steadying herself against the side of the carriage, she sucked in a breath and began to climb back in.
“I hope you are a dab hand at driving, sir. Because we need to fly like a bat out of hell to Berkeley Square.”