CHAPTER 4 #2
The clench in her chest slid down and turned into a knot in her gut.
It wasn’t that she was having second thoughts about marriage. Wrexford was . . . Wrexford. An impossibly complex man who had found a home in her heart in ways she couldn’t begin to explain.
A smile touched her lips. He had recently drawn up an elaborate scientific equation, showing a bewildering array of chemical symbols and notations to explain the natural phenomenon of Love.
Thank heaven a sense of humor softened his steel-edged sense of logic.
And yet . . .
Refusing to wallow in self-pity, Charlotte flung off the covers and began her morning ablutions. A splash of cold water helped clear her head. Fear was a natural reaction to change, she told herself.
“Wrexford will likely have a formula to explain that as well,” she murmured, finding the thought lifted her spirits.
Yes, there were concerns about giving up her hard-won independence.
The act of marriage stripped a woman of so many rights.
In the eyes of the law, she became her husband’s chattel, with no more rights than a hound or a horse.
One would have to be a ninnyhammer not to worry over such a momentous loss of freedom.
It all came down to trust.
Charlotte shucked off her night rail and dressed quickly in one of her ink-stained work gowns.
Wrexford had pledged that he would never rattle the legal leg shackle that bound her to his whim.
Indeed, he had insisted the marriage articles include the settlement of money—quite a generous amount of it—in an account under her control.
It would, he had pointed out, give her the freedom to live very comfortably on her own should she ever decide that their life together didn’t suit her.
Freedom. He had taken pains to hand it to her on a platter.
She sighed. Her inner fears had never been about his actions, but rather her own. She knew in her heart he would never ask her to give up the things that mattered most to her. Her passions. . .
Her pen.
Her breath caught in her throat. What if marriage made her shy away from certain issues? In the past, nothing was safe from her sense of justice and fair play. Be damned with the consequences—fear played no part in her decisions.
And now?
Ah, that was the crux of the conundrum. Becton’s murder had raised the unsettling question of moral choices.
It was exactly the type of crime that cried out for A.
J. Quill’s attention. The Royal Society was a well-respected organization, with a reputation for doing good.
But if there was also a dark side to it, someone needed to shine a light on it.
“So, why am I hesitating?” Charlotte whispered, even though she knew the answer.
Wrexford was a member of the Royal Society.
He respected their mission, seeing them as one of the bright lights of scientific progress, and had friends among their leaders.
Poking her pen into their symposium would do damage, even if the crime had nothing to do with the organization.
Choices, choices. What is the right thing to do?
It was a question she always asked herself. But now, she couldn’t deny that how her actions affected Wrexford had crept into her considerations . . .
She took a seat at her dressing table, taking a long, hard stare at herself in the looking glass.
Ha—as if she didn’t know that only one answer would allow her to face that reflection every day.
Dropping her gaze, she quickly took up her brush and made short work of pinning up her hair.
McClellan—who served as both lady’s maid and housekeeper-cum-drillmaster for their eccentric little household—looked up from the wooden box she was packing as Charlotte entered the kitchen.
“Awake from the dead, are we?”
“That’s not overly humorous, Mac.” She had no doubt that over breakfast Hawk had explained about the murder.
“That bad?” The maid was already up and pouring a mug of coffee from the pot set on the hob.
“Actually, as murders go, the victim wasn’t nearly as gruesome as some of the other bodies we’ve tripped over,” responded Charlotte. “Bless you,” she added after taking a swallow of the steaming-hot brew that had been thrust into her hands. “That’s ambrosial.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I . . . I don’t remember.”
McClellan gave a crucial squint. “No wonder you look like hell. Sit. I’ll fix you something to fill your breadbox.”
The thought of poor Becton laid out on Henning’s mortuary slab made Charlotte sure she had no appetite. But the delicious aroma of frying gammon, perfumed by the scent of bread fresh from the oven, quickly made her realize that she was ravenous.
“That will put some color back in your cheeks,” said the maid, watching with approval as Charlotte dug into her meal.
“Where are the Weasels?” she asked through a mouthful of shirred eggs.
“I put them to work in the garden,” answered McClellan, “so that they won’t pester you with ghoulish questions about what happened at Henning’s surgery until you’ve finished your breakfast.”
A clatter at the rear door, followed by the thump of steps in the pantry passageway, signaled that plan had died an early death. Sure enough, Raven rushed into the kitchen, with Hawk right on his heels.
McClellan winced, watching their filthy boots leave a trail of muck across the just-swept floor. “Your orders were to stay outside so milady could dine in peace.”
“Oiy, but a note just came from Aunt Alison.” Raven held up the pristine piece of paper clutched in his grubby hand. “We assumed you would wish to read it right away.”
“Right—because in another few minutes, it wouldn’t be legible,” said McClellan. Her eyes narrowed. “What is that disgusting substance on your fingers?”
The slime, noted Charlotte, was the exact color of horse piss.
“I swear,” grumbled the maid, “if Tyler has given you two another set of noxious chemicals—”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” interrupted Hawk, fixing Charlotte with an expectant look.
The boys were very fond of Alison, who had insisted they call her their aunt, even though they were unrelated by blood.
But then, love was the true bond that tied all of her odd little family together.
Putting down her fork, Charlotte cracked the wax seal and read over the short message. As she expected, Alison was all afire to hear what had kept her and Wrexford from appearing at the gala supper.
The dowager was one of the few people who knew about Charlotte’s secret identity, and how her passion for justice occasionally drew her into danger. Indeed, Alison had been involved in their last murder investigation—and had shown a frightening enthusiasm for puzzling out mysteries.
“Would you like for us to run a message back to her?” pressed Hawk. The dowager’s cook was very generous with sweets.
Charlotte was fairly certain that the death—much less the suspicion that it might be murder—had not yet been made public. Alison would have far too many questions to be satisfied with a mere note.
“I had better go myself.” On hearing a chuff of disappointment, she added, “But I’d be grateful if you would hare along to her townhouse and tell her I’ll come by for tea at four.”
The boys spun around in a flash. But McClellan was just as quick. She reached out and snagged Raven’s collar. “Wash your hands first. A young gentleman doesn’t appear in polite company stinking of . . .”
Hawk began to giggle, only to find his own collar caught in the maid’s clutches. “That goes for you, too.”
“We ain’t gentlemen,” retorted Raven. “We’re Weasels. Which, like ferrets and polecats, are part of the genus Mustela.”
Their tutor had recently been teaching them the classification system for animals and plants created by the legendary Carl Linnaeus.
“Ergo,” he added, “we don’t have to wash our damn paws.”
McClellan gave him a shake. “I don’t care whether you’re a bloody lion from the wilds of Africa, use bad language in this house again and you’ll have soapsuds bubbling over your tongue, as well as your hands.”
Charlotte cleared her throat with a cough, unsure whether to be amused or appalled by the deliberate transgression.
Raven was well aware of the rule against swearing within the walls of their home.
But he was reaching a difficult age—not quite a child, not quite an adolescent—and she feared there would be a great many similar challenges to authority in the days ahead.
“But ergo is Latin!” chirped Hawk, looking a little confused. “It means therefore, so—”
“Mac meant damn,” explained his older brother with a grin.
“Oh.” Hawk made a face. “Right.”
Charlotte watched the boys hurry to the washbasin.
Abandoned at a tender age, they had learned to survive in London’s toughest slum.
Clever and resilient, they had been living as homeless urchins when Charlotte had first met them and taken them under her wing.
Patience and love—along with schooling and lessons in manners—had polished their rough edges.
They now could speak with a plummy accent and charm their way through a Mayfair drawing room.
But a streak of hardscrabble independence would always set them apart from the pampered scions of the aristocracy.
And thank heaven for that, she reflected.
She was of the opinion that adversity sculpted character.
It made an individual strong, and it was to be hoped that it also made an individual compassionate for those who struggled against the odds.
But as she well knew, strength of character was rarely admired in the beau monde.
Raven and Hawk wouldn’t easily fit in . . .
She shook off such worries. All that lay far in the future. As for the present—
“Excellent,” intoned McClellan as she inspected Raven’s scrubbed hands, ignoring his scowl. “Now you may go.” As they scampered off, she called, “And there just might be some ginger biscuits when you return!”
The prospect of Alison’s inquisition did nothing to lighten Charlotte’s mood. Sliding back onto her stool, she looked down at her half-eaten breakfast, suddenly finding her appetite had vanished.
“It’s normal to be nervous when making a change in life,” observed the maid, after she had refilled Charlotte’s mug. “Yes, I know it’s a platitude, which I detest as much as you do. But there’s often a truth to such sayings.
“You’re right, of course,” Charlotte replied, forcing a wry smile. “If it were merely family matters—entering into marriage, facing my estranged brother, worrying about how the Weasels will adapt to a new world—I would not be batting an eyelash. But the prospect of a murder investigation . . .”
“There’s no reason you should be drawn into one,” replied McClellan. “From what Hawk explained of the events, the man’s demise had no connection to you and Wrexford. And as for the boy, he saw nothing other than a momentary glimpse of a tall shadowy figure moving through the gloom.”
“Alas, murder’s tentacles rarely respect reason. I fear . . .” Charlotte couldn’t quite articulate what it was that she feared. And yet, that didn’t make it any less real.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the hissing and crackling of coal within the belly of the stove.
“How did Tyler come to know Dr. Hosack?” Charlotte asked. McClellan was Tyler’s cousin, and like him, she had been part of the earl’s household until a previous murder investigation had led to her taking up residence with Charlotte. “The American appears a good deal older.”
“Aye, he is,” answered the maid. “They met six years ago, when the doctor visited Scotland to give a series of lectures at the University of Edinburgh, where he had studied in the early 1790s. Tyler attended them, and was impressed with his intellect and passion for working with plants to develop medicines for curing the diseases that cut short so many lives.”
“Hosack sounds like a very admirable man,” mused Charlotte. She had been struck by the doctor’s kindly face and his fierce determination to have justice for his murdered friend.
“A compassionate one as well. He lost his first wife and two children to yellow fever, so understands the pain of losing a loved one to illness,” said McClellan.
“He’s devoted his life to championing the creations of botanic gardens in America so that medical men have a resource for research.
Tyler says that Hosack’s Elgin Garden, just outside the city of New York, have garnered great praise here in Europe. ”
The maid paused. “Indeed, that was how the two of them met. After giving his lectures in Edinburgh, Hosack wished to journey north and collect specimen plants from some of the remote areas in the Highlands. As Tyler was familiar with the area, he offered to serve as a guide. They worked several weeks together, and formed a close friendship. Tyler has kept up a regular correspondence since then, and he was very much looking forward to spending time with the doctor here in London.”
“As your beloved Scottish poet Bobby Burns said, The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men . . .” Charlotte pushed back her plate. “That explains how Hosack came to know of Wrexford.” A sigh. “Though I can’t pretend not to wish that Tyler had been a little less loquacious about the earl.”
McClellan nodded, her eyes pooling with concern.
But there is no use in fretting over spilled milk, she thought as McClellan rose and began to clear the table. The task now was to keep the damage from spreading.