CHAPTER 8 #2
“Are you sorry to be moving into Wrexford’s townhouse?” she asked abruptly. “It will likely mean a more regimented life. Being part of a family brings responsibilities and duties.”
Both boys looked thoughtful. And though she saw Hawk dart a sidelong glance at his older brother, she had recently noted that he was beginning to voice his own opinions.
“Like what responsibilities and duties?” asked Raven.
A very logical question. “Like escorting Aunt Alison to an exhibit at the British Museum this afternoon after your lessons,” answered Charlotte.
“She doesn’t wish to go alone, and as I am meeting with Wrexford and can’t accompany her, I would feel more comfortable if a family member goes with her, rather than one of her dowager friends, in case she becomes fatigued and needs a shoulder to lean on. ”
“That’s not a duty, that’s a treat.” Raven grinned. “She’ll take us to Gunter’s after the visit and ply us with sweets.”
“Yes, well, not everything that is asked of you will be sugar and spice.”
“S’all right,” said Hawk softly. “We . . . we like being part of a family.”
Raven’s grin stretched a touch wider. “Oiy, it’s better than a kick in the arse.”
McClellan gave a warning rap with a cooking spoon to the top of Raven’s head. “Bad language from you Weasels won’t be tolerated within the earl’s residence.”
A snicker. “Wrexford says a lot worse words than arse.”
Hawk brushed the crumbs from his chin and slipped down from his stool. “We had better go, or we’ll be late to our lessons with Mr. Linsley.”
“You’ll need to return here and dress in your best clothes before going to meet Aunt Alison.”
Raven rolled his eyes, but didn’t utter a protest. “I was thinking . . .” He, too, rose from his seat. “After we finish doing our duty with Aunt Alison, we could pay a visit to the docklands this evening and ask around for any gossip about the American ships and their passengers.”
Charlotte drew in a troubled breath. The last thing she wanted was to draw the boys further into an investigation involving DeVere. “Why would you think I need any information about the Americans?”
He angled his brows in a frightfully accurate imitation of the earl’s skeptical scowl. “I’m rather good at mathematics, m’lady. I can put two and two together.”
His brother tried to stifle a chortle.
“It was an American who was murdered,” explained Raven, “and his colleague, Dr. Hosack, is friends with Mr. Tyler. Ergo it seems likely that you and Lord Wrexford are going to help solve the crime.”
“You’re being impertinent,” said McClellan.
“No, I ain’t,” he retorted. “I’m being truthful.”
Charlotte put down her mug and crouched down to bring herself eye level with the boy.
She knew it was pointless to forbid them.
Like her, they were impossibly stubborn when it came to loyalty.
But she could demand a compromise. “You must take extreme care to dress as ragged urchins. DeVere has met Hawk, and I don’t doubt he’ll find a way to meet you.
He’s clever and observant, and if he connects street urchins poking around in places they shouldn’t be with this household, he may look a lot closer at all of us. ”
Understanding flickered in Raven’s eyes.
“As I said, being part of a family has responsibilities and ramifications,” she said softly.
“What does ramifications mean?” asked Hawk.
“It’s like when you throw a stone into the water,” answered Raven, though his eyes remained on Charlotte. “The ripples fan out and may do damage in places you weren’t aiming to hit.”
She nodded.
“We’ll be very careful,” he added. “I promise.”
Alas, promises, however solemn, weren’t always enough to ward off harm.
But Charlotte put aside such dark thoughts for now, not wishing to appear too grim.
Iuventuti nil arduum. To the young, nothing is difficult.
The boys had proved their mettle in other dangerous situations.
She would have to trust their innate gift for staying a half step ahead of the Devil’s pitchfork.
“You had better be off,” she replied. “It would be rude to keep Mr. Linsley waiting.”
As the front door slammed shut behind them, McClellan began to tidy up the kitchen. “So, what’s your next move?”
Charlotte had been asking herself that since waking. “I’m not sure. But I’ve arranged to meet Wrexford at Hatchards bookstore later this morning to discuss what steps we intend to take.”
“Which, don’t forget, include walking down a church aisle in the near future.”
Charlotte blinked, feeling a tiny clench of guilt on realizing that thoughts of murder and DeVere’s unwelcome reappearance had nudged marriage from her mind. “As if I could possibly forget that,” she murmured.
The clang of pot against pot muffled the maid’s snort.
Indeed, the thought of Wrexford becoming elementally entwined in her life was a source of joy that defied words.
Which is just as well, she mused wryly. While they were extremely eloquent on any number of subjects, expressions of love still didn’t come easily to their tongues.
We are both careful. Guarded. Wary of allowing anyone to touch our hearts.
Perhaps the intimacy of marriage would change that.
A sudden flush of heat stirred an odd, prickling sensation, as if tiny dagger points were dancing down her spine. Charlotte pressed her palms to her cheeks, sure they were aflame.
Desire. A gossamer-soft flutter tickled against her rib cage, like butterflies coming alive in the first rays of dawn.
“If you are heading to Hatchards, I had better go change into more suitable attire for a lady’s maid and come along, too.” McClellan’s gruff Scottish burr stilled such private thoughts as she wiped her hands on her apron.
In response, Charlotte muttered an unladylike word. Lud, how she resented all the silly strictures that hobbled her freedom.
The maid shrugged. “You’re a mysterious widow engaged to the most notorious bachelor in London. Polite Society is abuzz with curiosity. People will be watching you.”
“And hoping I do something outrageously awful.” She grimaced. “I’m tempted to oblige.”
“Wait until the vows are made. As a married lady—and one with a high-ranking title—you’ll merely be considered eccentric when you break the rules, not scandalous. Think of the Duchess of York.”
“How very reassuring,” said Charlotte dryly. The duchess was known for her menagerie of pets—including a number of exotic animals—which lived in sumptuous splendor at her country estate, as she much preferred them to people. “However, I shall do my best to stay out of the public’s eye.”
“You have an advantage there,” pointed out McClellan, “as you’re the one telling them what to see.”
“Mr. Gillray is just as influential as I am,” replied Charlotte. James Gillray was another of London’s sharp-eyed satirical artists, and his commentary was often more cutting than hers. “And his network of informants is very good. So let us have a care about spitting in the face of Luck.”
McClellan took up a pinch of salt from the dish on the stove and tossed it over her shoulder. “An old Scottish superstition for warding off evil.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to believe in such fiddle-faddle.”
“I may be pragmatic, milady, but I’m not stupid.” The maid wiped her hands on the front of her apron again, then untied the strings. “There is much we don’t understand about the workings of the universe, so it’s best to keep an open mind.”
It was very sage advice. For any number of reasons.
“Well, then, much as the rules of the beau monde make no sense to me, we had better go dress to play our roles of perfect propriety.”
An hour later, the two of them entered Hatchards, McClellan dutifully trailing a discreet distance behind Charlotte.
They were early, and as Wrexford was nowhere to be seen, Charlotte wandered into the section devoted to books on flora and fauna, intent on looking for an illustrated volume that might interest Hawk.
Perhaps an edition of Maria Sibylla Merian’s art—
“Charlotta?” The voice floated out from one of the small nooks created by the shelves.
Marco. She sidestepped a pile of books on the floor and joined him within the secluded space.
“If Lord Wrexford is with you, let us move to a more public place,” he said, darting a quick look over her shoulder. “I’d rather not attend the rest of the symposium sporting a blackened eye.”
“He’ll be arriving shortly, but I promise you there will be no threat of bodily harm,” replied Charlotte. “I owe you an apology. Wrexford is . . . reserved. However, I’ve explained to him that he misunderstood your enthusiasm.”
“Hmmph.” Moretti’s expression betrayed a momentary flicker of injured pride.
Men. In many respects, they were far more sensitive than women.
“The earl strikes me as a fellow who doesn’t like to have his judgment questioned,” added her friend.
His brows drew together. “Forgive me, but as an old friend, I feel beholden to say . . .” He cleared his throat.
“To say that I hope you are not making a mistake. You were never a . . . how do you English say it . . . a wilting violet, so—”
“I assure you, there’s no cause for concern,” she cut in. “Wrexford and I are well matched. Yes, we butt heads on occasion, but I think it does both of us good.”
That drew a ghost of a smile. “Anthony was a trifle too delicate for butting heads. You were always very gentle with him.”
Their eyes met and a flash of understanding passed between them.
“As were you.” Charlotte shifted her stance. “But let us talk about the present, not the past. Are you enjoying the symposium?”
“Very much so. It’s a great privilege to meet members of the Royal Society, who are the leaders in botanical knowledge.” His face came alight. “Last night at Kensington Palace, I was introduced to Sir Joseph Banks!”
Sir Joseph was one of the luminaries of the scientific world.
“And as I mentioned,” he continued, “there is a possibility of a patron for my current work.”
“That’s wonderful,” she replied.
Moretti had always possessed a very sharp mind, as well as the ambition to make a name for himself. A frustrating combination, when one was poor as a church mouse. But unlike her late husband, Moretti had possessed the grit and resilience to pursue his passion, despite all the obstacles.
“Might I inquire—”
“No, no.” Exaggerating a grimace, her friend held up his hands and waved off any further words. “It’s bad luck to say anything more until the agreement is finalized.”
“Very well. But allow me to wish you good luck—and good fortune.”
“Sì, that is acceptable.”
Hearing Wrexford’s voice resonate in one of the outer rooms, Charlotte placed a hand on Moretti’s sleeve. “The earl has arrived. Let us go greet him.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to remain here and continue my search for a certain book,” he replied.
She had forgotten that a prickly pride had been a volatile part of Moretti’s temperament. It had always rubbed him a little raw that the students who possessed wealth and social status, rather than talent, waltzed through doors that were closed to him.
“As you wish.” Perhaps she could convince Wrexford to go out of his way to be pleasant at the next symposium gathering . . .
The sound of footsteps was coming closer.
“Ciao, Marco,” she murmured, and then slipped out of the alcove.