CHAPTER 29
Alison’s silvery hair gleamed for an instant against the dark-as-Hades waves before the swirling current dragged her under—
Charlotte awoke with a scream quivering on her lips. A glance out the window showed that it was still dark. Still, she sat up in bed and pressed her palms to her brow, trying to get her bearings.
“I was going to let you sleep a little longer,” came Wrexford’s voice from the gloom of his dressing room. He moved out of the shadows, the glimmer of the waning moonlight catching the white of his dress shirt as he knotted a cravat around his upturned collar.
“You are looking very . . . lordly,” she observed.
“As I have no official credentials to flaunt if questioned by anyone from the Royal Navy, I may have to depend on appearing every inch the aristocrat in order to convince Tilden to do as I ask.” His jaw tightened.
“But don’t worry, no amount of well-tailored finery will constrict my ability to beat the miscreants at their evil game. ”
He took a seat on the side of the bed and studied her face. “A blow to the head is not to be taken lightly. How are you feeling?”
Like hell, thought Charlotte. But she wasn’t about to admit it.
“It’s an irrelevant question,” she answered. “Surely you don’t really think I would consent to stay in bed while Alison is in mortal danger.”
A sigh. “It was worth a try,” he said. “I was hoping against hope that the cudgel might have knocked some sense into you.”
Softening his words with another sigh, he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss to her fingers. “Just promise me you won’t attempt any heroics that are beyond your current capabilities. That could put you—and all of our loved ones—at risk.”
Charlotte conceded the wisdom of his words with a reluctant smile. “I may be bullheaded at times, but I’m not a reckless idiot. In this particular situation, my heart will listen to my head.” A tiny wince. “Which in all candor is feeling a trifle sore.”
Before he could respond—or change his mind about the coming confrontation—Charlotte threw back the bedcovers and sat up. And felt a wave of dizziness. Taking a moment to steady herself, she gingerly swung her legs over the side.
Wrexford didn’t miss her tiny grimace, but refrained from comment.
“I had better begin dressing,” she said, the thought of McClellan’s strong coffee a strong incentive to shake off her lethargy. The question was, what persona to assume?
The earl was apparently thinking the same thing. “It seems to me that you have two choices—assuming the role of the Countess of Wrexford or that of a street urchin.” He smoothed the tails of his cravat into place. “In this particular situation, neither is ideal.”
“I’m aware of that.” Charlotte considered the dilemma. “If I accompany you as your wife, it corsets both of us in too many conventional rules of Polite Society.”
“It would be a distraction,” he agreed. “The Royal Navy would think me mad.”
“And I would find silk skirts a cursed encumbrance if called upon to chase after the villains.” She frowned. “However, I’m not quite sure that your having several street urchins tagging at your heels doesn’t create just as many problems for you.”
“Yes, I have been thinking about that, and I have an idea,” answered Wrexford. “Dress as an urchin.” He plucked up his coat from the back of the dressing-table chair. “I’ll explain when you come down to the breakfast room.”
Charlotte hurriedly donned a set of her well-worn rags—thank heaven there was no need to make herself presentable to appear in Polite Society—and smeared her face with a special soot-and-grease concoction that McClellan had created for her.
She stared at the grimy face reflected in the looking glass and added a few more smudges under her eyes.
“Like Tyler,” she said to herself, “Mac is required to perform a number of awfully unconventional duties in this household.”
After lacing up her boots and grabbing up her floppy hat, Charlotte made her way down to the breakfast room, where their inner circle was already assembled and partaking of a hearty breakfast.
Wrexford called for order as soon as she had filled her plate from the chafing dishes and taken a seat at the table. The first dappling of dawn was just beginning to tinge the horizon.
Light overpowering dark. Charlotte hoped it was a metaphor for the coming day.
“You had better have a plan,” called Henning through a mouthful of shirred eggs. “Otherwise, I shall not be pleased about being roused at this godawful hour, despite the excellent breakfast.”
“Hold your water, Baz,” growled the earl, which set the four boys to giggling among themselves. However, his basilisk stare quickly silenced their hilarity.
The clink of cutlery also ceased.
“It seems that we finally hold the advantage over the villains,” said Wrexford, “and we must make full use of it to strike before they take to the river and try to make their escape.”
“What if . . .” began Sheffield, only to let the question trail off without finishing.
“Then we’ll improvise,” answered the earl. “Three carriages are waiting outside. We shall divide our forces . . .”
As Charlotte listened to him explain his strategy, the knot in her chest loosened. In the darkest depth of her heart, she had secretly admitted to herself that the chances of rescuing the dowager were not good. Jarvis was a cold-blooded killer . . .
But the Eel—Horatio had told them that Jarvis was called Eel by one of his henchmen—was now up against Wrexford.
And as the earl continued speaking, the odds suddenly seemed to be shifting in their favor.
* * *
Wrexford turned in a slow circle, surveying the cobbled courtyard and wharves of the King’s Dockyard, where naught but the night sentries were on duty, waiting in yawning impatience for the change of the watch to happen and the daily activities to begin.
He had sent Horatio to change into his uniform before seeking to wake Samuel Tilden, the head of the research laboratory, and explain about Jarvis’s treachery. The midshipman would gain them access to Tilden without delay. Then it was up to him to be convincing.
The earl’s gaze drifted to the river, where pale skeins of mist were floating up from the swirling waters. He tried not to let doubts cloud his mind. The plan wasn’t ideal, but they had been forced to move quickly. With luck, all the pieces would fall into place.
Luck. Wrexford much preferred to trust logic. But there had not been a choice. Drawing a deep breath, he made himself review his decisions, looking for any flaw.
Tyler had been dispatched to find Griffin in order to inform him about Jarvis and pass on Wrexford’s request that the Runner bring a band of his cohorts to Isle of Dogs as soon as possible.
Once there, they would join forces with Sheffield and his gang of urchins—which numbered four with Charlotte and Peregrine added to the Weasels.
Thank heaven Griffin had experienced how useful a band of ragged guttersnipes could be in keeping an enemy under surveillance, reflected the earl. The Runner wouldn’t question their presence.
McClellan and Henning were waiting in the carriage just outside the walls of the King’s Dockyard in case Alison required any medical attention after her ordeal as a hostage.
As for his own part—
The sudden clatter of hooves on the cobbles echoed like gunfire off the surrounding stone building. Thrusting a hand into his coat pocket, Wrexford gripped his pistol and whirled around.
“Lord Wrexford!” A rider, his wind-snarled garments coated with dust from a hard gallop, slid down from the saddle of his lathered stallion. “Danke Gott.” He tilted back his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I feared that I might arrive too late.”
The earl kept his weapon hidden but quietly thumbed back the hammer. “Too late for what, Herr von Münch?”
“To warn you about Colonel Jarvis!”
“Indeed?” Wrexford narrowed his eyes. “And what nefarious news have you miraculously discovered about him?”
For an instant, the librarian looked completely confused by the earl’s sarcasm, and then his expression segued into one of shock. “Gott in Himmel, you think . . .”
He paused to wipe the dirt from his spectacles and place them back on the bridge of his nose. “You think me in league with the blackguards?”
“You have an ungodly knack of being the one to find the key information that my wife and I are searching for, and at just the opportune moment,” he replied. “Why do you think that is?”
“Because the skills required to be a good scholar and historian make me an excellent sleuth,” answered von Münch, his usual mild manner edged with a touch of fire.
“Part of my work involves searching for clues in old documents in order to piece together a true and accurate story of some event in the past. I’m patient and meticulous, milord.
I’ve learned to look at things and see connections that others might miss. ”
Wrexford felt his jaw tighten. As a man of science, he knew it was unwise to jump to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence.
And yet . . .
“You had mentioned that you were looking into the military officers who served in the same regiment as Greeley and your brother but so far had uncovered no connection. That got me to thinking,” continued von Münch.
“Your reasoning was sound, so I decided to dig a little deeper. It occurred to me that as Taviot was part of a diplomatic mission to the Peninsula, the delegation might also have included an army officer to represent the military’s interests in any negotiations.
So I did some research, and as my connection to King Frederick—and therefore to the British royal family—allowed me access to the necessary records, I discovered that Colonel Jarvis was indeed part of Taviot’s delegation. ”
The explanation forced Wrexford to concede that he had been guilty of assuming that librarians were naught but musty scholars who lived in an abstract world of ideas and spent all their time with their noses buried in books.