CHAPTER 5
“Words can’t express how sorry I am, milord.
” Tyler brushed a nonexistent mote of dust from the coat draped over his arm before holding it up for the earl to slip on.
“I know that I’m responsible for ruining Lady Charlotte’s first appearance as the future Lady Wrexford.
I don’t expect her—or you—to ever forgive me. But be assured that—”
“Oh, do stop sniveling. It doesn’t become you,” snapped Wrexford. “If I wanted an obsequious valet to fawn over me, I would have given you the boot long ago.”
As he had hoped, the rebuke drew a grudging snort.
“You know damn well that Lady Charlotte is profoundly grateful to you for the excuse to be absent from the frivolities of the gala supper,” he added. “As am I.”
Tyler was no longer looking quite so green around the gills. “Be that as it may, milord, I’ve put the two of you in a very awkward position. Not to speak of inadvertently involving Hawk in a bloody murder.”
“Actually, there wasn’t a drop of blood involved.
” Wrexford moved to his dressing table and picked up a small glass vial set by the looking glass.
“If you wish to make amends for your abandoning the boy for hours in the conservatory, set up the microscope in the workroom and prepare all the implements and chemicals we’ll need in order to determine the exact composition of this substance. ”
“Ah.” Curiosity replaced the lingering look of remorse from the valet’s face. “I was hoping you had convinced Henning to give you a sample from the wineglass. His magnifying lenses and testing methods are far more primitive than ours.”
“Precisely.” Wrexford took up the freshly ironed cravat from the back of the chair and began looping it around his upturned shirt points.
Tyler winced. “You may consider me thoroughly punished for my verbal transgressions, milord. To go out in public looking like that is deeply humiliating for a man of my professional sensibilities. My reputation as a valet will be ruined.”
“I don’t employ you for your sartorial expertise.” Wrexford finished yanking a careless knot into place. “By the by, make sure to have plenty of vitriolic acid on hand. We will need it.”
“Hmmm—that must mean you suspect . . .” Tyler tapped a finger to his chin. “A very interesting surmise, milord. I’ll have everything ready by the time you return, and we’ll see whether you are right.”
Even if his guess was correct and the experiments proved that Becton had been killed by a poison more potent than foxglove, that didn’t change the fact that he had been murdered. And it likely wouldn’t offer any clue as to the identity of the scoundrel who had committed the foul act.
Not as of yet, amended Wrexford as he smoothed the tails of his cravat into place.
And then he gave a guilty grimace at his reflection in the looking glass. Griffin and his fellow Runners at Bow Street would have to catch the killer on their own, he reminded himself.
“I’ve sent word to Griffin that you and Hosack will meet him tonight at his favorite tavern. Though given the political ramifications of the case, I daresay he will have to discuss things with his superiors before he begins his inquiries.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’ve left a hefty purse on my desk. He will expect to be fed a very generous supper while he listens to the facts of the case.”
Tyler nodded. The glass vial carefully cupped in his hands, he headed off to the workroom and its adjoining laboratory.
Wrexford quelled the urge to follow. He had a more important obligation to attend to.
“There isn’t a snowflake’s chance in Hell that I’m going to allow a stranger’s death to delay our nuptials,” he muttered, descending the stairs two at a time and hurrying out the front door of his townhouse to the waiting carriage.
The coming week still held a number of social obligations, and for once, he was loath to stir any gossip by failing to appear.
He didn’t give a fig for his own reputation, but he wished to protect Charlotte from the tattle-mongers of the ton, whose silky smiles hid sharklike teeth. At the slightest scent of blood, they would swarm in a vicious frenzy, looking to tear their victim to shreds.
Charlotte wouldn’t care. But he did. She had suffered enough indignities from her own family, cast out for refusing to live her life as a pasteboard cutout, devoid of any color or individuality.
Her courage, her strength, her passions, her sense of right and wrong—all the myriad things that made Charlotte who she was—took his breath away.
“Damnation—I won’t let her be hurt. Not by anyone.”
Though uttered in naught but a whisper, the fierceness of his pledge took him a little by surprise. Wrexford leaned back against the soft leather squabs and took a moment to settle his jumpy nerves. There was no threat, and no reason to imagine that one would rear its ugly head.
With that in mind, he called for the coachman to crack his whip and set the carriage wheels in motion.
* * *
“Dear heaven, another dead body?” Alison’s eyes widened as she looked up from her book.
Charlotte didn’t like the speculative gleam that flashed to life behind the lenses of the dowager’s reading glasses.
Taking a seat in the facing armchair, she quickly gave a bare-bones account of the previous evening’s events, careful to omit certain details that might encourage her elderly great aunt’s curiosity to run amok.
“Murder, eh?” With a fluttery thump, the pages snapped shut. “What are we going to do about it?”
“We are going to do nothing,” she replied. “Wrexford is arranging for Griffin to handle the investigation, and will pass on what little we know of the crime.”
“Griffin is very skilled at what he does,” conceded the dowager. “However—”
“Speaking of skillful friends,” interrupted Charlotte.
“Which of the new gowns from Madame Francoise’s shop do you think I should wear to the scientific soiree at Kensington Palace tomorrow evening—the slate-blue or the sea-green one?
The Royal Duke of Sussex is hosting the party, so I imagine the crème de la crème of society will be in attendance. ”
Appearing momentarily at a loss for words, Alison fixed her with an owlish stare. “I confess, I’m not sure which shocks me more,” she said, once she had regained her voice. “Your concern with fashion or your concern with the guest list.”
“You know very well that I couldn’t care less about either. But Wrexford seems as skittish as a cat on a hot griddle about whether some of the high sticklers will whisper unkind gossip about my past. He’s been acting oddly protective of late, so I’d rather not give him cause for . . .”
“Explosion?” suggested Alison. “Oh, pish, the duke’s parties are usually dreadfully boring. A bit of pyrotechnics would liven up the evening. The earl is delightfully amusing when he loses his temper.”
“Heaven forfend,” murmured Charlotte. “However, it’s not just Wrexford.
I confess that I’m also worried about meeting my brother and his family after all these years.
So I would prefer not to stir any memories of past scandals.
” She sighed. “Or create any new ones. I have enough to explain as it is.”
It was doubtful that her brother knew anything about her late husband’s family tree. But even though Wrexford had created a very official-looking trail of paper, she would rather not have him—or anyone—look too closely at her claim that Raven and Hawk were orphans from Anthony’s side of the family.
The laughter in Alison’s eyes quickly died. “Never fear, my dear. Nothing will upset the upcoming reconciliation. Your brother is as eager as you are to resume cordial relations.”
However, any further talk of family affairs was cut short by the boys, who burst through the drawing-room door in a helter-pelter of good-natured pushing and shoving.
“Aunt Alison’s cook just baked a batch of jam tarts!” exclaimed Hawk. “She let us sample one.”
The sticky raspberry-red smear on his chin made the announcement superfluous.
“One?” The dowager raised a brow.
“Or maybe two.” Unlike his older brother, Hawk had not yet mastered the art of guile. “They’re very good.”
“Well, then, I hope there’s one remaining for my supper.”
Hawk swallowed hard and slanted a guilty look at Raven.
“Oiy.” Raven grinned. “We left a crust.”
Alison laughed, which drew a sigh of relief from Hawk.
“Do you need us to run any more errands?” he went on, turning to Charlotte.
“No, I think you locusts have devoured enough sweets for one day,” she replied dryly. “In any case, I imagine you have lessons to finish for tomorrow’s meeting with Mr. Linsley.”
“Hawk wishes to return home and work on his botanical drawings. But my lessons are finished, so I plan to pass by Grosvenor Square and visit with Lady Cordelia,” responded Raven. “There is a very intriguing mathematical problem in the latest issue of the Ladies’ Diary.”
Charlotte knew that despite its name, the magazine featured a very sophisticated section on mathematics that was read by all the top scholars in the field. Each issue challenged readers to solve a problem, and the competition was quite fierce to be the winner.
Her lips quirked. Submissions were accepted from anyone, and the winner was frequently a woman. Which, of course, drove the professors from Oxford and Cambridge to distraction.
“I have an idea on how to solve it, but I wish to ask her advice,” finished Raven.
Lady Cordelia was a good friend and a brilliant mathematician.
Some months ago, she had been drawn into a highly dangerous enterprise to save her brother from ruin at the hands of a ruthless financial consortium.
Charlotte felt her throat seize as she recalled just how close to disaster they all had come.
If not for . . .