CHAPTER 15
“I say, milord . . .” Hosack took a nervous look around and then made a turtle-like withdrawal into the upturned collar of his overcoat. It was well past midnight and the air was taking on a knife-edge chill. “Is this, er, legal?”
“Not in the least,” answered Wrexford, shifting a little to his left to allow the moonlight to flitter over the door’s lock. After studying the keyhole for a moment, he drew a steel probe from the hidden sleeve in his boot.
“But doesn’t that mean—”
“Ssssshhhhh,” warned Sheffield. “Hold your questions for later—that is, unless you wish to spend the foreseeable future as His Majesty’s guest in Newgate Prison.”
The hide-and-seek glow showed the doctor’s face had gone unnaturally pale.
“I did make it clear that this foray was bending the letter of the law,” murmured the earl.
“Don’t worry,” added Sheffield. “Wrex has never yet been caught at this.”
“Ye gods—bite your tongue.” Silent as a stalking panther, Tyler materialized from the swirls of mist. “One never voices such hubris in the middle of a mission.” To Wrexford, he added, “There are no lights lit in the adjoining section of the house. The only signs of life are in the east wing.”
The lock released with a soft snick. “So far, so good,” said Wrexford. “Let us hope our luck holds.”
Easing open the door, he motioned for the others to enter Justinian DeVere’s grand conservatory.
Tyler went first, in order to move ahead and reconnoiter the darkened specimen galleries. Sheffield followed, taking care to tread lightly over the flagged walkway. Hosack, however, stumbled in the gloom and hit up against a cart of terra-cotta pots, setting off a brittle chink.
“Try to relax.” Wrexford placed a steadying hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “As I told you, we’re merely here to look around.”
Earlier in the day, the earl had sought out Hosack to explain his suspicions, and how the doctor’s expertise was critical in confirming whether or not there was any incriminating evidence to link DeVere to Becton’s murder.
He had, of course, warned of the risks if they were caught.
However, to his credit, Hosack hadn’t hesitated in agreeing to be part of the covert excursion.
But theory was one thing, and reality quite another when push came to shove.
“Sorry. I-I’ve never done anything criminal before.” Hosack drew a deep breath, which seemed to calm his nerves, and managed a brave smile. “But my friend deserves justice, so I’m ready to do whatever I have to.”
“I don’t expect any trouble,” assured Wrexford. That DeVere had tried to kill him the last time he had entered the sprawling mansion was a fact he refrained from mentioning. The circumstances had been different.
“Come, the sooner we find the crates from the Quincy’s merchant ship and have a look at them, the sooner we can be on our way.
As you seem quite certain that Becton’s miracle plant was from the tropical forests of Spanish America, you need only look at the specimens and confirm that they are only ones native to the United States. ”
“I can do that, milord. If DeVere and Quincy have stolen my friend’s specimen and hidden it among North American species, I shall spot it.”
“Excellent. Now let’s keep moving.”
The glass-paneled walls and roof of the conservatory admitted enough light from the cloudless night sky to allow them to navigate the winding paths through the raised beds of specimens planting.
Dotting the way were groupings of potted trees and bushes, their foliage swaying gently as they brushed past the shadowy branches.
Tyler and Sheffield were waiting at the entrance to another section of the building. “The rooms ahead look to be storage areas and study rooms,” said the valet. “Which seems the likely place to begin searching for the recent shipment from Quincy’s ship.”
Wrexford nodded his agreement. Though he truly didn’t expect trouble, he eased his pistol out of his coat pocket before signaling Tyler to continue on.
Once they passed through the doorway, the air turned chillier, and the floral scents less pronounced. In fact, as the earl ventured deeper into the space, passing stacks of folded canvas and shelves of glass bottles, an oddly metallic tang tickled at his nostrils.
Tyler must have noticed it as well, for he, too, stopped short and drew his weapon.
Turning, Wrexford motioned for Sheffield to stop.
“You and Hosack take cover behind those burlap sacks of earth,” he whispered, indicating the amorphous shapes half hidden in the gloom.
“Do it quickly, Kit, and stay with him until I signal that it’s safe to come out,” he added before his friend could argue.
Up ahead, the valet had inched forward and positioned himself to one side of an archway leading into another room. Wrexford hurried to join him.
“There looks to be a candle lit at the far end,” said Tyler.
The earl ventured a peek into the space. But the fitful light from above was playing tricks with the eye, turning the shadows into a helter-pelter tangle of shifting shapes.
The silence was deafening.
“I’ll go first,” said Wrexford. “Stay behind me and several paces to the right.” Tyler possessed a cool head and steady hand.
“Do be careful. Lady Charlotte will have my head on a platter if you have to march down the aisle with a bloody bandage around your brow.”
He checked his priming. “Yes, but think what a juicy drawing she could make of the event.” Clouds were beginning to scud in. As one drifted over the moon, he darted forward.
On reaching a barrow filled with tools, he ducked low and cocked an ear.
Nothing.
Another quick traverse brought him closer to the candlelight. Just a few more steps would bring him to the corner of the stacked crates and give the right angle to see what lay within the alcove.
“Hell and damnation.” The oath slipped through his gritted teeth as he ventured a look.
Tyler was at his shoulder in a flash. His eyes widened in shock. “Lord Almighty.”
* * *
Charlotte added a bit of cross-hatching and then leaned back to assess the effect. It was a strong drawing, she decided, and sharp enough to raise more queries about the questionable shipping practices of Quincy Enterprises.
After opening her box of watercolors, she picked up a brush and began mixing a range of hues.
It had been awfully tempting to add names to the text of her satire—oh, how she longed to strip away DeVere’s cloak of respectability with a few razored words!
But even though poking a stick into the nest of vipers would make them writhe, and perhaps commit a fatal mistake, it was still too early to risk putting them on guard.
Wrexford had urged caution. And he had given his word to Griffin that past crimes would remain secret.
Charlotte released an unhappy sigh. “And so I must tread a damnably fine line.” Adding a last splash of water to her palette, she wet her brush and set to work.
“It’s late.” The patter of bare feet paused in the corridor right outside her doorway. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Charlotte didn’t look up. “So are you.”
“We woke up . . .” Crunch-crunch. “And went to fetch a glass of milk from the kitchen,” said Hawk through a mouthful of crumbs.
“To go with all the biscuits you purloined from the picnic?” she asked with a smile.
“Technically, we didn’t purloin them,” shot back Raven. “McClellan made them, and as she’s part of our family, they would have come back here. And as we’re welcome to help ourselves from the jar in the kitchen, putting them in our pockets was merely a . . . convenience, not a theft.”
At that, Charlotte set down her pen. “Perhaps you should consider becoming a barrister.”
“What’s a barrister?” asked Hawk.
“A man who makes his living talking round and round in circles until everyone listening is tied into knots,” quipped Charlotte.
Hawk nodded sagely. “Raven would make a very good barrister.”
His brother made a rude sound. “A barrister is someone who argues cases in a court of law.” A pause. “The law is boring.”
“It’s not the least boring when you break it,” she replied.
“That’s assuming you get caught.”
The casual comment stirred a frisson of alarm. The fact that they were wearing their nightclothes was somewhat reassuring, but still . . .
Narrowing her eyes, Charlotte demanded, “Just what are you Weasels planning?”
“Nothing!” responded Hawk.
She relaxed slightly, as he hadn’t mangled his consonants.
Raven held up a mug of milk to emphasize their innocence. After handing it to his brother, he came around to study her drawing. “We ought to do a little more looking around the West India docks, where Quincy’s ship is docked. I figure there’s a lot more scuttlebutt to be learned if we ask around.”
The thought of icy-looking Captain Daggett and the ruthless men with whom he was consorting made her blood run cold. “This is a very complicated investigation. We mustn’t run off half-cocked. If Wrexford wishes our help, he will ask for it.”
Eyes still glued on her drawing, Raven considered her words. “Very well,” he finally conceded. “Unless we’re asked, we won’t hare off on our own.”
“Thank you.” Repressing a yawn, Charlotte flexed her tight shoulders and rinsed out her brush. “And now, I think it’s time for all of us to seek our beds.”
* * *
Careful to avoid the puddles of blood on the stone flagging, Wrexford approached the nearest of the two bodies sprawled on the floor.
The corpse—for no man could possibly be alive with a large chunk of his skull blown to Kingdom Come—was lying facedown.
Aside from the bullet wound to the head, there was no sign of violence to the well-tailored clothing.
The victim didn’t appear to have fought for his life.
Tyler cleared his throat. “Is it . . .”
“Yes,” said the earl as he crouched down for a look at the lifeless profile. “It’s definitely Justinian DeVere.”
“So the devil has finally gotten his due,” muttered the valet. He, too, could summon no real sympathy for the fellow, who, in his judgment, was utterly lacking in basic humanity.
But does anyone deserve to die in such a horrible way?
“Let us leave morality aside for the moment.” Wrexford moved to examine the second body. There was even more blood—Tobias Quincy’s throat had been slashed. And by the cuts on his fingers, it appeared he had tried to ward off his attacker.
“Hmmph.” He rose and absently wiped his hands on the lapels of his coat, earning a pained wince from his valet. “It would appear that the two men were taken by surprise. I would guess that DeVere was killed first with a shot, and then Quincy was attacked.”
“There may have been two assailants,” said Tyler, already moving slowly around the room, looking for any clues.
Wrexford, however, remained standing where he was, trying to make sense of these grisly murders. And yet, they seemed to defy all logic.
Damnation—what am I missing? Had hubris led him to force the pieces of the puzzle together in order to fit the pattern he wished to see?
A grunt from Tyler drew him back to the moment. “There’s a drop of blood here—it’s still damp.” He looked around. “And there’s another.”
Following the trail brought him to an archway leading to a different section of the conservatory.
“Redraw your pistol,” murmured Wrexford as he joined the valet, “and let’s see where it leads. The murderer may still be here.”
Easing into the murky darkness, he moved over the flagging as silently as he could. He was back in a specimen gallery, this one filled with potted palms in a variety of shapes and sizes.
The fluttery, knifelike greenery was thick and drooping . . .
Covering a multitude of sins?
Holding his breath, Wrexford stopped to listen.
A small rustling caught his ear, just a little louder than the whispers stirred by the drafts snaking in through the mullioned glass.
He crept closer to the alcove, where a half-dozen squat date palms were arranged in a circle, the lush, fan-shaped fronds curtaining the interior space. For a long moment, all was still.
Then the rustling came again.
Kicking over one of the trees—it toppled with a crackling thud—the earl lunged into the tangle of branches. A scream shattered the silence. A fist smacked flesh. Another tree went flying.
Tyler raced closer, pistol ready as he danced around the thrashing greenery, trying to discern friend from foe.
The sound of running steps pounded over the walkway as Sheffield shot through the archway, Hosack right at his heels.
The struggling suddenly ceased as Wrexford landed a hard right cross that stunned his adversary. The man went limp, allowing the earl to haul him free of the trees and slam him up against one of the interior walls. A bruise was purpling the blackguard’s cheek and blood was trickling from his nose.
Wrexford shook him again, like a mastiff toying with a bone. “You bloody, two-faced monster!” Rage bubbled up inside him, hot as acid, on recalling the man’s charming little flirtations with Charlotte. His murderous hands had dared to touch her—
“Wrex!” Sheffield grabbed his arm before he could slam his fist into his captive’s bleeding nose. “Enough, Wrex! Enough.”
The blackguard’s eyelids flew open, fear dilating his pupils.
His friend’s words cleared the haze of fury from the earl’s head.
Lowering his clenched hand, he drew a measured breath.
“Count yourself lucky. Unlike your victims, you’re still alive.
But I shall take great pleasure in watching you dance the hangman’s jig, once we turn you over to the authorities for the murder of Josiah Becton, as well as the two just now . . .”
Wrexford couldn’t refrain from giving the man another teeth-rattling shake.
“So, tell me, how did you learn about Becton’s discovery, and when did you begin plotting this diabolical crime, Mr. Moretti?”