CHAPTER 8
“Hell’s bells.” Sheffield took a gulp of wine after Charlotte finished giving an account of her encounter with DeVere, and then blew out his breath.
Wrexford had found his friend with Cordelia, and together with Charlotte, the four of them had moved to a secluded spot in the small portrait gallery off the King’s Drawing Room. Under the guise of admiring the paintings, they were able to have a private conversation.
“That’s bloody awful news,” added Sheffield, after another quick swallow of his drink.
Cordelia nodded in grim agreement, her face creasing in concern as she looked at Charlotte. “I can’t believe he’s returned to London out of sentimental yearning. He’s here for only one reason—to gain something he wants very badly.”
Revenge. That was Wrexford’s immediate thought.
Like Charlotte, he had no illusions as to DeVere’s true character.
The so-called gentleman’s polished veneer—courtly manners, elegant parties, immense wealth, and taste, which he used as a generous patron of the arts and sciences—hid a dark rot that had eaten away at his soul.
There was a certain irony to the evening, decided Wrexford, as he took in the stately surroundings. The graceful melody of the string quartet . . . the sparkle of the bubbling champagne . . . the sonorous tones of conversation . . . the sumptuous art . . . the distinguished guests . . .
And among them was a cunning killer.
However, he wasn’t as quick as Charlotte was to conclude that DeVere was the guilty party.
Granted his expertise in exotic plants and his utter disregard for human life were marks against him.
However, Wrexford was familiar enough with the world of science to be aware of the jealousies, the fierce ambitions, and the fight for accolades and acclaim that swirled within all the high-minded scientific societies.
There were likely a number of possible suspects.
Which made their task all the more difficult.
He released a terse sigh. Charlotte had taken up the challenge. And like a mastiff with a bone clamped between its jaws, she wouldn’t surrender it until justice was done. She was so damnably stubborn, so damnably principled.
He loved her for her passions. But they scared him half to death.
Charlotte fisted her hands in her silken skirts and moved closer to the mullioned window, drawing the earl’s attention back to the moment.
“I think we have a good idea of what he wants,” she murmured, finally responding to Cordelia’s comment.
Charlotte’s revelation had come first, but Wrexford sensed that Cordelia was also anxious to share some news.
“I think we can all guess,” said Sheffield. “But no doubt Wrex will warn us—”
“Not to jump to conclusions,” intoned Cordelia.
“I don’t disagree with him,” said Charlotte. “I’m merely saying, Where there is smoke, there is likely fire.”
“But let us be alert to the fact that several different blazes may be contributing to the haze,” cautioned Cordelia.
Charlotte’s expression sharpened. “You’ve found some other clue?”
“Perhaps.” Cordelia looked around to make sure they were still alone before continuing.
“I had one of our clerks cozy up to a sailor from the American naval frigate. It seems Captain Daggett’s last assignment was conveying several government envoys to Martinique for talks on trade between the French islands and America. ”
Sheffield frowned in thought. “You think the Americans—Daggett, Quincy, and Adderley—may be working together, and that DeVere is merely a chance acquaintance?”
“I’m merely pointing it out as a possibility,” answered Cordelia.
“There are,” mused Wrexford, “a number of dangling threads . . .”
The rustle of silk at the entrance to the portrait gallery warned that their council of war was about to be over.
“But whether any of them tie together remains to be seen.”
* * *
Threads. Was there one that she might grasp and turn into a drawing without giving too much away?
Splashing water on her face, Charlotte contemplated the question as she began her ablutions the next morning.
In many ways, she was caught between a rock and a stone.
DeVere’s perfidy had been kept a strict secret on orders from the highest echelons of the government, as they had feared the scandal would taint both the aristocracy and the august scientific institutions of the country.
As a result, the Royal Society and the Royal Institution had no idea that DeVere’s decision to leave England for an extended period of foreign travel was for any reason other than curiosity.
Or perhaps mourning. The scientific world had all been greatly saddened by the news of his ward’s accidental death during an experiment with electricity in her laboratory.
Much admired for her beauty, grace, and intellect, Lady Julianna Aldrich had been seen as an extraordinarily gifted student of science . . . rather than a murderous monster.
Charlotte expelled a sigh, knowing there would be hell to pay if A. J. Quill ever hinted at the truth. The government would be furious, and the repercussions would fall on Griffin and Wrexford . . . not to speak of herself, who had been seen as another of Lady Julianna’s victims.
She couldn’t afford to stir such scrutiny.
“Damnation, if I want to hint that he’s evil, it must be over something in the present,” she muttered. Which was all the more reason to learn the truth about Becton’s murder.
After stabbing the last hairpins into her coiled topknot, she rose and headed down to the kitchen.
The aromas of breakfast—strong coffee, frying gammon, fresh-baked bread—wafted out from the half-open door, along with the clatter of pans and the cheerful banter between McClellan and the boys.
Her heart gave a lurch at the thought of DeVere’s veiled threat to her family.
“How was the palace?” asked Hawk through a mouthful of shirred eggs. “Mr. Linsley says it’s filled with magnificent paintings.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” chided McClellan as she handed Charlotte a steaming mug of coffee.
“The paintings are splendid,” she replied, taking a seat at the worktable. “It’s a very impressive place.”
“I wouldn’t want to live in a palace,” said Raven, after slathering strawberry jam on a piece of toast and cramming it into his mouth.
The maid winced. “Just as well, as your table manners are more suited to a barn. And that’s maligning the horses, who make far less of a mess chewing their oats.”
The boys both chortled and helped themselves to the sultana muffins she had just brought to the table.
“Hmmph.” The warning sound, however, was softened by a smile.
Charlotte took a swallow of the scalding brew, willing its warmth to loosen the knot in the pit of her stomach.
McClellan, who missed very little, set a fist on her hip. “Is something wrong?”
Both Raven and Hawk stopped chewing.
She had already decided that they all had to be apprised of the danger. Having grown up in the slums, the boys were no strangers to evil. They wouldn’t be frightened.
Though she wished they would be. DeVere was more cunning than most miscreants in that his charm hid the depths of his depravity.
“Yes,” she replied simply. “I discovered a very unsettling thing last night. Mr. DeVere has returned to London.”
The maid let out a sharp hiss.
Placing his elbows on the table, Raven leaned forward and looked up expectantly, waiting for her to go on. Neither of the boys knew exactly what had taken place in the secret laboratory within the DeVere mansion. But they knew that Lady Julianna had not survived.
“He blames Wrexford and me for the death of his ward,” continued Charlotte, making no effort to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. “And I have reason to believe he may seek revenge by harming one of you two.”
“An eye for an eye,” murmured McClellan.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “And so I want you both to be extra vigilant whenever you leave this house.” The boys, she knew, were savvy beyond their years, and had eluded all sorts of mortal perils. But all it took was one lightning-quick strike that they didn’t see coming . . .
“I don’t know if he’s aware of this residence. But he certainly knows the location of Wrexford’s townhouse, and we’ll soon be living there. I don’t wish to alarm you, but there’s a chance he may decide to have people watch your comings and goings.”
Raven made a rude sound. “We’ve already mapped out a way to slip in and out of His Lordship’s back gardens with nobody seeing us. And as for surveillance, our street friends will have any spies spotted in a trice.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but respond with a look of concern. Their closest friends were no longer in London . . .
As if reading her thoughts, Raven quickly explained, “Our network is as strong as ever. Billy Bones and his gang are now sweeping the streets where Skinny and Pudge worked. And Ghillie has taken over Alice the Eel Girl’s work.”
“Oiy—there’s always plenty of urchins to fill in any holes,” piped up Hawk.
The matter-of-fact way he said it tugged at Charlotte’s heart. She and Wrexford had made life better for some of the homeless children roaming the streets. But there were so many more.
She took another swallow of coffee, using the moment to surreptitiously study the boys over the rim of her mug.
When she had first met them, their whole world revolved around two basic needs—staying safe from predators and finding enough scraps of food to survive.
They were now safe, they were loved, they were nurtured.
More than that, they had discovered passions—mathematics and science for Raven, art and botany for Hawk—that gave them entrée into a whole new realm of possibilities.
Their lives certainly seemed to be better. But were they happy? Truly happy? Raven was fiercely independent and chafed against the strictures of rules. Perhaps he regretted the loss of his unfettered freedom.