CHAPTER 14
Hawk darted away from the parlor window. “They’re here, they’re here!” he called, skidding into the corridor, where Raven was helping McClellan with the hampers of food.
Charlotte gathered her shawl, and eyed both boys, checking that no noxious substances had managed to rub off on their best clothing in the short time since dressing.
“Straighten your collar, Raven,” she murmured after fishing out a small satchel from behind the boot box. “And, Hawk, don’t forget your sketchbook and pencils.”
Hawk rushed over to take the bag.
“Just a moment.” Smiling, Charlotte wet her finger and rubbed away a small smudge from his cheek. How dirt managed to adhere to the boys within moments of their being scrubbed was a sorcery no rational law of science could explain.
A knock rapped on the door. One of the dowager’s footmen had accompanied the coachman in order to assist with the picnic things. As McClellan began barking orders to bustle everything out to the boot of the barouche, Hawk hesitated, fixing Charlotte with a look of uncertainty.
Crouching down, she asked, “What’s wrong, sweeting?”
“W-What if your bruvver doesn’t like us?” he asked in a small voice.
Her heart gave a little lurch. Hawk only mangled his speech when he was very, very nervous. Drawing him into a hug, she held him tightly, achingly aware of all the bony juts and angles of his body.
“My bruvver,” she whispered, “will adore you. He’s very happy that our family has reunited.”
Hawk didn’t appear entirely sure. “B-But when he finds out that we’re really just guttersnipes—”
“As I’ve told you before, sweeting, family isn’t defined solely by blood. An even more elemental bond is love.” She smiled as she smoothed a hand over his unruly curls. “And Aunt Alison will crack him over the head with her cane if he dares to say otherwise.”
His quivering lips slowly curled upward. “Wrexford says she’s an unholy battle-axe when her blood is roused.” He blinked. “But I would never repeat that to her in case it hurt her feelings.”
“Actually, it would probably make her laugh, but it’s a very gentlemanly sentiment.” She gave him another quick squeeze. “Now, come, let us not keep everyone waiting.”
* * *
“Are you busy?” Wrexford poked his head into Sheffield’s office. “Or do you have a moment for a few questions?”
“Thank heaven!” His friend dropped a thick sheaf of shipping manifests onto his blotter, and heaved a theatrical sigh.
“Fire away—and feel free to ask more than a few. I’ve been drowning in the minutia of Kashmir wool and calico bolts—and to which mill each needs to be shipped. So you’ve just thrown me a lifeline.”
“Miss Whitney won’t thank me for providing too much of a distraction,” responded Wrexford. After clearing a set of ledgers from a chair, he took a seat. “Do you, perchance, still have the manifests from the unloading of Quincy’s merchant ship?”
In answer, Sheffield opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a folder.
“I’m impressed, Kit.”
“A tidy mind is necessary for tidy profits.” His friend sorted through the papers. “Have you something specific in mind?”
“I’ve been thinking . . .” Wrexford moved to the windows and gazed out over the wharves, where the spiderweb of masts and rigging seemed to mirror the tangled threads of the damnable conundrum.
“You said the plant specimens being gifted to the Royal Society had a manifest detailing what was in the crates,” he answered.
“I’m wondering whether the delivery marked for DeVere did as well. ”
Papers rustled as Sheffield skimmed through them. “As a matter of fact, yes.” More rustling, then he passed over a handful of sheets.
Wrexford paged through them and let out a grunt of satisfaction. “Might I keep these for a bit?”
“On one condition.”
He lifted a brow in question.
“You include me in whatever you have planned.”
“As I said, I’m merely thinking,” answered Wrexford. Yes, an idea had come to mind. But there were dangers involved that might have ramifications that rippled out—
“Granted, I’m not as skilled in clandestine forays as you—or the Weasels,” added his friend. “But you have to admit, I’m getting better at it.”
He sat back and tapped his fingertips together.
“Besides, if you’re going to break into DeVere’s conservatory, you could use a sentry to keep watch while you’re fiddle-faddling among the plants.
As we both have reason to know, that godforsaken place is a jungle of greenery, making it easy for an adversary to sneak up on you. ”
“Who says I’m planning on breaking into DeVere’s conservatory?”
Sheffield responded with a very rude word.
The earl folded the papers and tucked them into his coat pocket.
Maintaining a stoic silence, his friend waited.
Choices, choices.
“Wear soft-soled shoes, and bring a black toque to hide that flaming-gold hair,” Wrexford finally muttered. “We’ll meet in the mews behind my townhouse a half hour before midnight.”
“For what are you looking?”
“I’m not precisely sure.” A pause. “But I’m hoping that Hosack—who’s the leading expert in American botanical specimens—might be able to spot something that’s out of place.”
* * *
“By Jove.” Wolcott let out a low whistle as he descended from the barouche and looked around at the sprawling gardens, whose endless array of colors, shapes, and textures seemed to stretch out in all directions as far as the eye could see. “It’s absolutely magnificent.”
“There is a grove of evergreen specimens just past the Temple of Aeolus, Lord Wolcott,” said Hawk. “Would you like for us to take you there?”
“That would be splendid, Master Alexander,” replied Charlotte’s brother. “I should very much like to see it.”
Raven offered the dowager his arm. “The grass is still a little slippery with dew, Aunt Alison.”
“That’s very gentlemanly of you, Master Thomas,” murmured Wolcott—which caused an odd little sound to rumble in Raven’s throat.
Charlotte recognized it as a swallowed snigger. “Actually, Hartley, the boys prefer being called by their avian nicknames.”
“Avian?” He shot her a quizzical look. “I thought you called them Weasels. Which are in the same phylum as birds, but a different class.”
Raven and Hawk started to chortle.
She eyed them sternly. “Don’t be impertinent. Please explain yourselves to Lord Wolcott.”
“On all the fancy official papers, my name is given as Thomas Ravenwood Sloane,” said Raven. “But I’ve always been called Raven.”
“And mine is given as Alexander Hawksley,” chirped his younger brother. “But—”
“But let me guess,” said Wolcott. “You are called Hawk.”
The boy grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s a very fine pair of names.” A smile rippled through his eyes as he set Charlotte’s hand on his sleeve. “Shall we all flap our wings and head to the evergreens?”
Flanked by both boys, the dowager set off at a brisk walk, while Charlotte and her brother followed at a more leisurely pace, with McClellan and the footman bringing up the rear with the picnic hampers.
“They are very fine lads,” remarked Hartley. “I look forward to them meeting their cousins.” A smile curled the corner of his mouth. “It will be nice for Geoffrey to have such well-behaved older boys setting a good example of gentlemanly deportment.”
“You may revise your thinking,” drawled Charlotte, “when they show him how to make stinkbombs.”
A peal of laughter. “I’m glad to hear they aren’t too perfect.” Hartley made a wry face. “Come, come—the smell can’t be so bad. It’s not as if they have access to—”
“Oh, trust me—the stink is far worse than you can imagine,” she interjected. “Remember, Wrexford is a chemist.” A pause. “And he has a very peculiar sense of humor.”
Another chuckle. “Ah. Thank you for the warning.” A pause. “I take it Wrexford and the boys rub along well together?”
“Exceedingly well,” answered Charlotte. “The bonds may not be forged by blood, but they are no less elemental.”
“Alison clearly dotes on them as well,” he observed.
“And they adore her.”
“With good reason. She’s always understood that individuals have different temperaments and different dreams. And that no amount of raging or punishment will change that.
” Hartley tucked her hand a little more firmly into the crook of his arm.
“It makes me so profoundly happy that we have all managed to reunite as a family.”
Family.
Charlotte watched a lone hawk circling high overhead, a solitary black speck against the vast expanse of the cloud-dotted sky.
The reckless flight to Rome . . . the death of my husband . . . the daunting challenge of finding a way to survive on my own . . .
Never in her wildest dreams had she allowed herself to think the terrible rift with those she had left behind could ever be repaired.
“I am fortunate beyond words.” Halting abruptly, she turned and wrapped him in a quick, impulsive hug. “You are the very best of brothers, Hart. I love you dearly.”
“Well, er . . .” A flush colored his face as he stuttered for words, tongue-tied between delight and embarrassment. “By Jove, Charlie, I love you dearly, too.” A cough. “Always have.”
Charlotte took his arm once again, and they resumed walking, a companionable silence settling over them as Wolcott allowed his gaze to wander admiringly over the surrounding plantings. A hail from Hawk soon drew them off the main walkway and into the glade of evergreen specimens.
“Would you like for me to show you the Pinus armandii from Cathay, Lord Wolcott?” he added as he darted around a thickly needled bush.
“I should like that very much.” Relinquishing his hold on Charlotte, he gave a cheery wave. “Lead the way!”
Charlotte found Alison settled on a bench in the shade of a fragrant Norway spruce and took a seat beside her as Raven flew off to join Wolcott and Hawk.
“Thank you for ignoring my sniveling fears and pressing me to do this,” she murmured.
“I should know by now in my life that cowardice is always the wrong choice.”