CHAPTER 17
After breakfast, Charlotte had rolled her latest drawing in a protective covering and sent the boys off to deliver it to Mr. Fores. Now she was determined to set aside all thoughts of murder and deal with the normal little everyday tasks of ordering their household.
“As if,” she huffed while gathering up a pair of Raven’s mud-encrusted boots from the entrance foyer, “my life bears any resemblance to normal.”
A chuckle rumbled behind her. “You would be bored to flinders by a normal life,” said McClellan. She was carrying a jar of beeswax and a polishing cloth into the parlor. “As would I.”
“True,” Charlotte conceded. “But if only we could stop tripping over dead bodies.”
“Alas . . .” The boys had left the front door ajar, and Wrexford poked his head in through the gap. “Then you’re not going to like hearing what I’ve come to tell you.”
She felt her blood turn to ice. “Who?”
“Should I pour a glass of brandy for m’lady?” asked the maid.
His hesitation stirred another frisson of fear.
“Perhaps you ought to make it whisky, Mac.”
“Hartley—”
Wrexford caught her sleeve and drew her close. “No, no—it’s no one dear to us.”
The scent of his shaving soap and the steady beat of his heart calmed her nerves.
“Quite the opposite, in fact,” he added.
Charlotte let him lead her into the parlor, and dutifully obeyed his command to sit on the sofa, before demanding, “Explain yourself, Wrexford.”
“As soon as Mac arrives with the spirits,” he replied grimly.
The maid quickly reappeared, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea—and the bottle of malt. The earl added a healthy splash of it to Charlotte’s brew before passing it over.
The warmth of it made her realize that her hands had gone cold.
“Go on,” she said after a quick sip.
“I decided to follow a hunch I had, based on several things Kit had discovered. So he and I—along with Tyler and Hosack—decided to have a look around DeVere’s conservatory last night.”
The mention of that terrible place, where she had very nearly lost her life, sent a shiver down her spine.
Wrexford’s eyes clouded with concern, but after a tiny hesitation, he continued. “We were looking for Becton’s specimen. But instead, what we found was an unexpected shock.”
She listened in stunned silence as he recounted the gruesome discovery and the presence of Moretti.
“Dear heavens—Marco isn’t a murderer!” she exclaimed. “I would wager my life on it.”
“I’ve come to the same conclusion,” admitted the earl. “Reluctantly, I admit, as I don’t like the fellow.”
“He’s been nothing but a good and loyal friend to me when I needed one,” replied Charlotte.
His mouth twitched. “Perhaps that’s what bothers me.”
She made a face.
“Still, I did take pity on the fellow. It must have been quite a shock to stumble upon the bodies.” A note of grudging sympathy had crept into his voice.
“Even I, who am no stranger to violence, admit that the murder scene was not for the faint of heart,” continued the earl.
“Kit and Hosack took him back to his rooms at the Albany Hotel. The doctor promised to stay with him through the night, and first thing this morning, I made arrangements for both of them to stay for the time being with an acquaintance from my military days whose estate is not far from the Royal Botanic Gardens.”
“Thank you, Wrexford.” That her old friend was alone in a strange country and likely terrified tugged at her heart. “I must go see him.”
“For now, I think it best that you don’t,” said the earl.
“There’s a chance that the killer saw Moretti enter the conservatory, which might put his life in danger.
The man behind all this is both clever and ruthless, and as he was present at the Royal Society’s gala supper on the night of Becton’s murder, he might have observed that you and Moretti know each other. ”
Charlotte paled. “Was there no clue as to who might have killed DeVere and Quincy?”
“I haven’t quite finished my account of the evening.” Wrexford’s expression darkened. “Tyler and I took a look around, in case there were any clues near the door that was left unlocked,” he said, and went on to explain about spotting the American slipping out of the conservatory.
“Captain Daggett?” She immediately grasped the ramifications.
“One has to wonder whether he has betrayed his oath to his country by becoming involved in some sordid scheme for personal profit. Or whether he’s carrying out some clandestine plan for his government.
Though what that might be . . .” Frowning in thought, she let her words trail off.
“Some reasonable speculations come to mind,” said the earl.
“Illness is always a very pressing worry for the military. It can be a ruthless enemy, incapacitating an army far more quickly and efficiently than any force of opposing soldiers. So a country that possesses a miracle cure for a dangerous illness has a great advantage on the battlefield.”
That made great sense, she realized. “Have you informed Griffin yet about Daggett’s presence at the murder scene? Surely, he—”
“He can likely do nothing,” replied Wrexford.
“Our government is in a devilishly difficult position. Daggett is here under a special invitation. To arrest him without irrefutable evidence of wrongdoing would provoke an international scandal. One doesn’t break the code of honor between nations lightly. ”
“But you saw him—” began Charlotte.
He cut her off with a curt laugh. “Ha—a momentary glimpse in the dead of night? That won’t fadge with the authorities.
Perhaps if we had caught him bloody-handed, with four of us as witnesses.
But the truth is, he still might get away with murder if the Foreign Office deems it in the country’s self-interest to turn a blind eye on the crime.
” He made a face. “At least officially.”
“But . . .” But Wrexford is right.
“My guess is that the newspapers will announce it as an unfortunate robbery. After all, DeVere’s wealth is well known,” he continued.
“Then it all depends on whether the government can be convinced that Daggett might have stolen an important medical discovery. And I’m not terribly sanguine about that— too few of our officials understand that science is not merely a hobby for rich dilettantes. ”
Again, Charlotte knew he was right.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t confront the miscreant and have a private word with him,” said Wrexford. “I happen to know he’s staying at the Sun and Sextant Club, a place favored by mariners from around the world.”
The statement punched the breath from her lungs. “No—that’s too dangerous!” Much as she loathed DeVere, the news of his violent demise, and the horrific stabbing of Quincy, had shaken her to the core. “If Daggett is a cold-blooded murderer, he won’t hesitate to strike again.”
“Forewarned is forearmed.” The earl’s gaze hardened. “He won’t find me quite so easy a victim.”
“Is that supposed to quell my fears?” she snapped. “The fact that he won’t find it easy to kill you?”
Wrexford took her hand and pressed her palm to his cheek. “I promise you, sweeting, there’s not a chance in the world that I will miss my wedding night.”
Tears prickled against her lids. “Don’t jest about the risk. I don’t find it remotely funny.”
His expression turned very serious. “Then let me make another promise—I shall take precautions and won’t do anything rash.
Though he has no authority to arrest the captain, I’ll have Griffin accompany me, and I shall take care to confront Daggett within the club, where he won’t be expecting any trouble. ”
It didn’t allay all her fears, but it was at least something, and Charlotte sensed that she would wring no further concessions from him.
Leaning closer, she brushed a kiss to his lips.
“Be careful. If you allow anything to happen to yourself, not even Lucifer will keep me from finding you in the netherworld and ringing a peal over your head.”
“That, my love, would almost be worth witnessing.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t find it amusing.”
He shifted slightly, setting off a faint crackle of paper. “Oh, by the by, here is the sketch that Moretti gave me. Hosack didn’t recognize it, but perhaps your brother will.”
“If the doctor wasn’t able to identify it, I doubt Hartley will do any better. He cheerfully admits that he’s not a botanical expert,” she answered, giving it a cursory look. “Nor am I.”
“Still, it can’t hurt to ask him before he departs for the north.” Wrexford rose and drew her into his arms. “I must be off and find Griffin. He’s likely just learning about the murders, so the quicker I can explain to him the circumstances, the better.”
She traced a fingertip along the line of his jaw. “Be careful,” she repeated. A lame expression, but no words could possibly capture the depth and breadth of her emotions.
“Don’t fret, my love. I won’t come to any grief.”
Charlotte watched him go, doing her best to suppress the sense of dread creeping into her consciousness. He was right—a gentlemen’s club in London gave Daggett little room to arrange some vile attack.
And yet, she was finding it hard to breathe. The fast-approaching wedding had made her all the more aware of how she couldn’t imagine her world without Wrexford. That they would soon be sharing a life together . . . that she would wake up every morning to find him close . . .
The idea that he might . . .
“No.” Charlotte forced herself to quell the sudden flutter of panic.
DeVere. DeVere was dead. Perhaps that was why her emotions were so tangled in knots.
A part of her rejoiced that a man utterly lacking in morality had suffered the same fate as his own victims. Vives in gladio, in gladio mori.
Live by the sword, die by the sword. Five people were dead because of his obsession with fame and glory.
And yet, her conscience rebelled against taking pleasure in any violent death.
All men and women, no matter how evil, deserved a fair trial to determine how they must answer for their sins.
She fisted her hands in her lap. Still, it was a relief to know that DeVere couldn’t threaten the boys. If that was wrong, so be it.
I have never claimed to be a saint.
“Might I ask you to come help me shift the side table in the foyer?” asked McClellan, passing by the doorway with a bucket and broom in hand. “I swear, there’s more mud beneath it than in a barnyard. How two skinny little Weasels manage to track in more than their weight in muck is a mystery.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte shook off her brooding and hurried to offer assistance. “Good Lord,” she murmured on approaching the table. “You’re right. We could start a garden under there.”
“I shudder to think what might grow.”
The maid was already on her hands and knees, scooping up the unknown substances and dumping them in the bucket. Charlotte took up a rag and began cleaning the wooden top. They worked in companionable silence, scraping and scrubbing.
Slowly the tightness in her chest subsided. “Thank you, Mac,” she murmured.
“For what?” McClellan gave a grunt as she hefted the bucket. “Getting your gown spattered with dirty soapsuds?”
“Idle hands make for idle thoughts,” she replied. “And mine were heading in a very depressing direction.”
“Don’t worry about His Lordship,” counseled the maid. “He has a very good reason—indeed, several good reasons—to tread lightly and stack the odds in his favor.”
Yes, but even the best of gamblers lose an occasional hand.
Shoving the dark whisper out of her head, Charlotte forced a smile. “Quite right. Luck wouldn’t dare spit in his eye.”
McClellan gathered up the cleaning supplies, and then set a hand on her hip as the latch rattled and the front door flung open. “A word of warning. The Weasels had better not dare spit—or track in unmentionable substances—onto my pristine floor.”
Hawk paused in midstep and crinkled his nose. “Fawwgh, what’s that unpleasant odor?”
“Strong soap and vinegar. They may be foreign fragrances to you little beasts. But add the stench of rotten cabbage to them, and there will be no ginger biscuits for a month.”
Eyes widening in horror, he bent down and promptly slipped off his muck-encrusted boots.
“Where’s your brother?” asked Charlotte. Concern for Wrexford still hung heavy over her thoughts.
“He stopped off at Wrexford’s townhouse to see if Mr. Tyler needed any assistance with his chemical experiments,” answered Hawk.
That the boys were up to no mischief was one less worry weighing on her mind. She hadn’t yet told them about DeVere’s murder, and decided to hold off until suppertime, when Raven would also be present.
“Give me those, and I’ll brush them off in the garden,” she replied, holding out her hands for the boots.
Deciding that more mundane tasks would help keep her demons at bay, she added, “Then perhaps Mac will give you some milk and biscuits while I make a trip to Mr. Mattison’s art emporium. I need to purchase several new sable watercolor brushes.”
“Biscuits will be forthcoming if a certain Weasel washes his hands and combs his hair,” announced McClellan. “Oh, and by the by, m’lady, if you’re going out, might you make another stop . . .”
As she and McClellan compiled a list of items to purchase for the pantry, Hawk hurried for the stairs.
It wasn’t until a little later, after Charlotte had left on her errands and the biscuits had been served, that Hawk went into the parlor to fetch his sketchbook.
And spotted the sketch that Moretti had received from Becton lying on the tea table.