CHAPTER 32
Sunlight had warmed the early morning mist from the air. Birdsong twined through the plantings, the only sounds stirring through the townhouse gardens as no breeze had yet begun to stir the foliage from slumber.
“You should be sleeping.” Wrexford came up behind Charlotte and touched her shoulder as she stood with her palms pressed against the windowpanes, gazing out at the oasis of tranquility.
“So should you.” She turned and drew him close.
The scent of her—verbena edged with some earthier fragrance that he could only describe as essence of Charlotte—teased at his nostrils, making his pulse quicken.
“I feel more rested than I have in ages,” he replied, curling a strand of her hair around his fingers.
“It is truly over?” she asked.
“It is, my love,” answered Wrexford. “The devils are no longer a threat to us or our loved ones.”
Charlotte smiled, but a question seemed to ripple in the depths of her gaze. “As to that—”
But before she could continue, a burst of exuberant laughter, punctuated by the rattle of china, echoed through the corridor.
“It seems that the Weasels and Peregrine are bringing Alison a cup of hot chocolate to begin the day,” she said after hearing the door to one of the guest bedchambers bang open and shut.
The boys had heartily approved of the decision that Alison should spend the night at Berkeley Square to ensure that she had recovered from her grueling ordeal.
“It’s very sweet how protective they have been. They have barely let Alison out of their sight.” Charlotte made a wry face. “Though I daresay that they are hoping to distract us from asking some uncomfortable questions about the sword cane.”
“Indeed, all four of them have answering to do,” said Wrexford.
Hearing McClellan call a warning that the hour set for the gala breakfast was fast approaching, he added, “We had better dress and proceed downstairs.” There were a number of explanations to be made in order to bring closure to an evil whose tentacles had proved frighteningly long. “The others will be arriving shortly.”
* * *
“Hmmph . . .” Alison leaned back in her chair as McClellan and Charlotte brought over more savory selections from the chafing dishes on the breakfast-room sideboard and placed them in front of her. “Perhaps I should consider getting abducted more often.”
“Heaven forfend,” replied Charlotte, thinking of all the other dangers that had nearly ensnared them in a lethal web of lies and deceptions. “We were prodigiously lucky to have come through this investigation unscathed.”
She looked around the table at their close-knit circle of family and friends—alas, Horatio’s naval duties had prevented him from being present—who were finally all assembled in one place .
. . and felt the prickle of tears. The previous day and evening had passed in a frenzy of activity.
Dealing with the authorities, taking on the somber task of seeing to the mortal remains of Taviot and his sister. ...
And most of all, ensuring that the dowager and all their loved ones were truly safe.
“But Lady Luck is notoriously fickle,” she added, her voice tight with emotion.
“Auch, this is the time for a toast, not tears, lassie,” said Henning, breaking the serious moment with a rusty chuckle.
“It is not pretty at times, but somehow we get the job done.” He raised his glass—filled with Scottish malt despite the early hour—and gave it a swirl, setting off flickers of golden sparks.
“To Good always kicking Evil in the arse.”
“A rather crass way of phrasing it,” drawled Wrexford. “But I think we all agree with the sentiment.”
The clink of crystal punctuated his words.
“And besides, it is my understanding that there is further cause for celebration.” He eyed Sheffield. “As I recall, you and Cordelia made a recent promise . . . so I believe you have an announcement to make to Alison.”
The dowager put down her fork and regarded their friend with an owlish stare.
“Er . . . umm . . .” Sheffield cleared his throat. “Yes, well, seeing as everyone is gathered here, Cordelia and I thought we would add to the festivities by informing all of you that we have set a date for our nuptials.”
As he named the day, a pretty shade of pink colored Cordelia’s cheeks.
“In addition, I’m happy to announce that we now possess a country estate, allowing us to begin setting down real roots.”
Seeing Charlotte’s surprise, Sheffield smiled.
“Last night I went to inform my father of the wedding. You all know how fraught our relationship has been, so when he started questioning me about how I was going to support a wife, I was so damnably tired of being treated like a wastrel that I revealed what Cordelia and I really do.”
A shrug. “Not only that, I gave him a lecture about the absurdity of not allowing members of the aristocracy to run a business and proceeded to explain in excruciating detail how the future will belong to those who have the freedom to become entrepreneurs.”
Sheffield’s expression turned to one of bemusement. “I assumed he was going to toss me out on my arse, as usual—but to my astonishment, he responded by saying how impressed he was by my pluck and ingenuity.”
His smile stretched wider. “And then he promptly gifted me with one of his minor estates near Bristol, the port which handles much of our shipping to America.” He shook his head. “Who would have guessed?”
Fathers and sons, thought Charlotte wryly, slanting a sidelong glance at Wrexford. Families were indeed complicated.
“Hmmph,” said Alison after all the clapping and cries of congratulations had died away. “That date doesn’t leave me much time to organize the wedding.” She tapped her fingertips together as she pondered the challenge. “But with a bit more luck and the help of the Weasels, I think it can be done.”
“And help from Harper,” added Hawk. “It’s now a family tradition that he leads the procession down the aisle.”
The hound, who was lying beneath the sideboard in case anyone dropped any bits of ham, opened one eye and thumped his tail before falling back to sleep.
Once the laughter died away, Charlotte decided to address the less happy topic that was weighing on her mind before the hilarity got out of hand.
“It’s all very well to shrug off the horrors of this investigation now that everything has ended well,” she began. “But I fear we are in danger of taking luck for granted.”
Her gaze moved to Alison.
The dowager crumbled a piece of the sultana muffin between her fingers. “I expect you are now about to ring a peal over my head.”
“I am,” confirmed Charlotte. “What madness made you take the horribly dangerous risk of attempting to cross steel with a desperate villain? You could have been . . .” A sudden sob welled up in her throat, forcing her to pause.
A spark of remorse glimmered behind the lenses of Alison’s spectacles. “It actually wasn’t quite as mad as you think. I had been practicing—”
“Practicing?” interjected Wrexford.
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw the three boys exchange guilty glances.
Sheffield coughed, trying to smother a laugh. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I know it’s not remotely funny. But dash it all, you have to admit, it was quite a sight to see Alison wielding her blade with the consummate skill of a Death’s Head Hussar.”
“Indeed.” Wrexford raised a brow at the boys. “One wonders precisely how she came to hone such skills.”
“Don’t blame the Weasels and Peregrine,” said the dowager. “It occurred to me that it might be useful if I knew how to defend myself—”
“Useful for what?” interrupted Charlotte.
“Sleuthing,” answered Alison without batting an eye. “You have to admit that we seem to be making a habit of it.”
Honesty compelled her to remain silent.
“My late husband possessed a very handsome sword cane, and when I broached the idea to the boys about learning a few basic tricks to fend off an attack—”
“We thought it an excellent idea,” finished Raven. “So we taught Aunt Alison a few fencing moves.” He lifted his chin. “Haven’t you often said that a lady ought to know how to defend herself?”
Charlotte heaved an inward sigh, ruing the boy’s batlike hearing.
“Aunt Alison is stronger and more agile than you might think,” added Hawk.
“Indeed, we all think of Alison as invincible, sweeting,” replied Charlotte. She looked around, letting the words assume a certain gravitas. “But had her captor been Jarvis, rather than Taviot, things might have turned out differently.”
“I am aware of that,” said the dowager softly. She let out a sigh as she looked down at her hands, as if realizing how frail they looked upon the smoke-blue silk. “Charlotte is right to remind all of us that hubris is dangerous.”
“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” intoned Henning.
“Ye gods, Baz, since when have you started spouting proverbs from the Bible?” drawled Wrexford.
Rather than respond with his usual sarcasm, the surgeon looked thoughtful.
“As nearly all the seven deadly sins were involved in this investigation, it seemed appropriate. Pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony for power—the three Taviot siblings lie dead because of them. As for Jarvis, his wickedness was of truly biblical proportions.”
He took a swallow of whisky. “As Charlotte said, we were lucky.”
It was Alison who broke the ensuing pensive silence with a muffled tap-tap of her cane—one that didn’t contain a lethal weapon. “Now that we have all been cautioned about avoiding the danger of hubris, I say we put aside talk of darkness for brighter thoughts.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte rose and hurried to ring the silver bell on the sideboard. “Let us count our blessings, for we have much to celebrate.”