CHAPTER 9 #2
The glade momentarily darkened as a cloud scudded over the sun.
Wrexford chuffed a grunt. “You have a very devious mind.”
“Oh, come, we both do.” A hint of humor shaded her voice. “How else would we be so good at solving crimes?”
“I prefer to call our minds imaginative.” Deciding that they ought not linger any longer within the trees, he took her arm and resumed walking. “We are willing to think outside the usual constraints.”
“Griffin should be grateful that each of us has a conscience, as well as a brain,” she quipped.
“I think it’s my purse for which he is most grateful,” replied Wrexford. “He can’t eat abstract ideals.”
A chuckle twined with the flapping of her bonnet’s ribbons. “Let us put aside the Runner and his prodigious appetite for now and get back to Becton’s murder.”
He loved the look of fierce concentration that took hold of her features when she was contemplating a conundrum.
“Can we agree that for now we’ll assume Hosack is innocent of any wrongdoing?” continued Charlotte.
“Yes. I agree it’s a reasonable conjecture.”
“And given the search of Hosack’s rooms, can we also agree that it means the murderer hasn’t yet acquired the formula and specimens?”
“Yes.” Logic certainly pointed to that conclusion.
“Well, then . . .” Charlotte came to an abrupt halt and fixed him with a searching stare. “Where the devil are they?”
Where, indeed? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been asking himself the same question.
“My imagination,” answered Wrexford, “hasn’t quite caught up to that question. However, I have an idea that I want to pursue.” He nudged her into motion. “Let us keep moving, so the drawing rooms don’t flood with gossip about us having a quarrel in the middle of Green Park.”
As the footpath had brought them back to one of the main walkways, the earl spotted a pair of gentlemen coming toward them, walking in the direction of St. James’s Palace.
“Lady Charlotte, Lord Wrexford—a lovely day for a stroll in the park, is it not?” Sir Robert paused to incline a friendly bow. “Forgive us if we’re interrupting your discussion of wedding details.”
Sir Robert’s companion, one of Wrexford’s fellow members of the Royal Institution, flashed a smile and added, “My advice is to leave all decisions to Her Ladyship.” A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes. “Trust me, Wrex, our opinions don’t matter.”
“On the contrary, I’m always happy to hear Wrexford’s advice,” replied Charlotte. “That doesn’t mean I always follow it.”
The gentlemen laughed appreciatively, and after another quick salute, they continued on their way.
“Dear heaven,” muttered Charlotte, once they were out of earshot. “I think I’ve forgotten to speak with your cook about the wedding breakfast. She—”
“She will have it well in hand,” he cut in. “Indeed, I wouldn’t have the nerve to question her choices. Tyler informs me that she’s sworn the kitchen maids to secrecy over the menu.”
“She’s quite welcome to keep firm hold of the cooking spoon.” Charlotte let out a sigh of relief. “I’ve enough other things on my mind.”
They had skirted around the milking sheds and arrived back at Piccadilly Street, where the carriage was waiting.
“I’ll leave you and McClellan here.” Wrexford seemed equally relieved to drop the matter of wedding details.
“I want to head on to Albemarle Street and make some inquiries at the Royal Institution. And then this evening, I’m attending one of the symposium lectures with Dr. Hosack.
So perhaps by tomorrow, I’ll have some facts, rather than mere speculation to pass on. ”
* * *
“Hmmph.” Pursing her lips, McClellan leaned back against the squabs after Charlotte finished recounting her conversation with Wrexford. “So much for the two of you having an interlude of peace and quiet in which to settle into connubial bliss.”
“From the very beginning, our relationship has hardly been a traditional one,” observed Charlotte. “I suppose there’s no reason to start now.”
“Actually, I can think of a number of them,” replied the maid. “However, I shall remain tactfully silent.”
That was probably for the best. Once they started to make a list . . .
The carriage wheels hit a rut in the cobblestones, and all at once, the scenery outside the windowpanes began to blur.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Charlotte sought to steady her nerves.
It was only now, after repeating it to McClellan, that she realized the conversation with Wrexford had left her badly shaken.
Had she really misjudged Hosack’s character, as well as the threat from fellow satirical artist James Gillray? Was it because of overweening hubris?
Or am I simply losing my edge?
The question seemed to unleash all her pent-up fears. Unable to stop them from tangling her thoughts, Charlotte couldn’t seem to muster any answers. Focus, focus. She stared down at her lap, only to realize she was twisting the fringe of her shawl into knots.
The seat leather creaked as McClellan leaned forward, her thick, work-roughened fingers gently taking hold of Charlotte’s clenched hand and easing it open. The simple gesture—a touch that told her she wasn’t alone—was enough to bring the steel back to her spine.
“Diabolical challenges are nothing new for us,” murmured the maid, releasing Charlotte’s hand in order to unravel the silky strands of the fringe and smooth them back into place. “We shall solve them.” A gruff chuckle. “We always do.”
“Thank you, Mac.” Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Forgive my momentary show of weakness. My doubts are only about myself, not any of you.”
“Doubts aren’t a sign of weakness. Only a bloody fool doesn’t worry over the pitfalls of a dangerous task.”
“I confess, my fears about this one . . .”
“Are no worse than the ones that have come before,” counseled McClellan. “They just seem so at this moment.”
Strangely enough, the nugget of practical wisdom made her feel better. Or perhaps it was simply that the act of sharing fears took some of the weight off her shoulders.
The maid shifted again, and reached up to rap a signal to the coachman. “Let us leave off thinking about the murder—it can wait until this evening. In the meantime, I suggest we go meet Lady Peake and the boys at the museum, and join them for ices at Gunter’s.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure Raven and Hawk would assure us that fear and danger are much easier to stomach when one is stuffed with sweets.”
“Sometimes out of the mouths of babes—”
“Good heavens, don’t voice that sentiment in their presence,” she replied. “They are . . .” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “They are growing up so very fast.”
McClellan gave a sympathetic nod. “Aye. But not as fast as they think. There are still some years to go before they are fully-fledged. And they’ll never fly too far from the nest.”
The maid’s words further loosened the grip of uncertainty. Even the clatter of the iron-shod hooves striking the cobblestones took on a more cheerful ring. The murderer was clever and cunning. Which made him, and any henchmen, a formidable opponent.
But so are we.
In short order, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Montagu House.
“They will be in either the exhibit of the South Seas specimens and artifacts brought back by Captain Cook’s expedition”—Charlotte spoke as they climbed down and started up the broad walkway leading to the museum’s entrance—“or the galleries holding the collection of Greek antiquities donated by Sir William Hamilton. Alison is fond of classical sculpture, and I believe some of Lord Elgin’s marbles are currently on display there, too. ”
Following the porter’s directions, they made their way to the South Seas galleries, where the items on display included specimens of brightly-colored stuffed birds, pressed flowers, and exotic shells.
“Hawk will be clamoring to return here with his sketchbook,” said Charlotte, gazing around to make sure the boy wasn’t lingering in one of the corners, entranced by the wondrous objects within the cases.
“Indeed.” McClellan cleared her throat with a cough at the sight of a spotted sea snake coiled in a large glass cylinder filled with preserving fluid. “Thank heaven these, er, rare and valuable things must remain in a museum.”
“The classical antiquities have more aesthetic appeal,” said Charlotte. Up ahead was a well-lit corridor. “This way.”
Several turns took them to the display alcove of the famous Rosetta Stone, which the king had donated to the museum. Charlotte paused for a moment, intrigued by its intellectual puzzle.
“Raven will likely be anxious to come again and try his hand at deciphering the Stone. Lady Cordelia has told him that solving codes is based on mathematical principles.” Wrexford, too, found the challenge fascinating . . .
A cough from the maid drew her back from such musings.
“According to the porter, we need to turn left here, and then right . . .”
The corridor brought them to an arched entranceway flanked by fluted marble columns, their creamy white contours accentuated by the sherry-colored hue of the paneled wood doors. One was standing half open, and Charlotte led the way through it.
A massive classical statue of Hercules at battle with a lion was positioned at the head of the long and narrow gallery space.
As Charlotte moved closer, she found herself cloaked by the long shadow cast by the sconces set high on the walls.
From close by, the murmur of voices rose above the whisper of the dancing flames.
Pausing by the stone rump of the snarling beast, she set a hand on the marble and ventured a look into the room.
“What a pleasant surprise to encounter you here, Lady Peake.”
Charlotte froze.
“Are you and your escorts aficionados of antiquities?” continued the sinuous-as-a-snake voice.
What in the name of Hades is DeVere doing here? she wondered. She didn’t imagine he indulged in idle sightseeing.
“My two nephews are explaining all the lessons they are learning from their tutor about Greek mythology,” replied Alison. “And how the gods punish mere mortals for becoming too puffed up with hubris.”
“There are many ways to interpret the Greek myths,” answered DeVere. “That’s what makes them so interesting.”
“And yet,” said Alison, her voice clear as ice, “I’ve always found the difference between Good and Evil to need no interpretation.”
Ignoring the comment, DeVere turned his gaze to Hawk.
“I see you’re accompanied by your great-niece’s charming ward.
” To the boy, he added, “I do hope you are keeping up with your drawing, Master Sloane. With the right guidance, you have the potential to be a very fine artist. I’m well connected with the art world here in London, and would be happy to offer my counsel on how to develop your skills. ”
Afraid that Raven might retort with an impudent comment, Charlotte quickly stepped out from behind the statue.
“A generous offer, but it won’t be necessary, sir,” she said. “As I told you, Wrexford is overseeing the education of the boys.”
DeVere’s smile held a hint of mockery. “Then they will, of course, acquire all the necessary poise and polish to fit in with Polite Society.”
“I think they will learn a great many more important lessons from Wrexford than how to assume a superficial glitter in Society,” replied Charlotte.
“After all, one can cut delicate facets into a piece of glass, buff it to a radiant sparkle, and try to pass it off as a diamond. But it’s still just a piece of glass. ”
Is that a flicker of annoyance beneath his well-schooled features? If so, it was gone in an instant.
Flicking a speck of dust from his cuff, DeVere turned to Raven. “Are you interested in botany, too?”
“Come along, boys,” cut in Charlotte before Raven could answer. “Kindly finish telling Aunt Alison about the Greek myths without further dawdling. I’m very much looking forward to our visit to Gunter’s Tea Shop.”
Hawk dutifully offered Alison his hand. “Shall we go see Lord Elgin’s marbles? Mr. Linsley says they depict the mythical battle between the Lapiths and the centaurs . . .”
Raven, however, hesitated for a moment, fixing DeVere with an unblinking stare before turning to follow his brother and the dowager.
McClellan, who had been standing between two pedestals holding busts of Homer and Sophocles, trailed after him. No doubt intent on making sure he didn’t have any second thoughts about staying out of trouble.
“I do hope you’re encouraging your younger ward to pursue his art,” murmured DeVere as the others made their way to the far end of the gallery. “It would be a pity to see such prodigious talent nipped in the bud.”
Is that another veiled threat?
Charlotte told herself not to read evil intent into his every word. “As I said, you needn’t worry about his education. Wrexford and I are aware of his gift for art and have engaged a very well-regarded drawing master.”
“Excellent,” replied DeVere. “All advanced knowledge, no matter in what subject, is vitally important, as it contributes to the higher good.”
No matter the cost? Tempting as it was to ask the question, she held her tongue. Needling him might bring a childish satisfaction for a moment or two, but taunting a devil could ignite dangerous consequences.
She acknowledged the statement with a small nod. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. DeVere . . .”
“Of course.” His flawless manners fitting him like a second skin, he executed a graceful bow. “By the by, I highly recommend the strawberry ices at Gunter’s.”
Gathering her skirts, Charlotte started to turn away, only to have a dark-on-dark flutter within the shadow of Hercules catch her eye. A gentleman’s silhouette—and while she couldn’t make out his face, she knew him instantly by the way he moved.
Damnation.
It seemed that yet another sticky strand was weaving its ugly way into the web of intrigue.