CHAPTER 29
Alas, it quickly became apparent to Charlotte that the celebratory libations would be delayed for some time.
On docking at Nereid and Neptune’s wharf and returning to the company’s office, they found the place crowded with a contingent of Bow Street Runners left by Griffin as reinforcements.
The acting commander had no idea as to where the Head Runner had gone, but there was little time to ponder that conundrum in the frenzy of activity needed to bring the chase for the villains to an end.
Wrexford busied himself with dispatching a note to Daggett at Greenwich explaining all that had transpired. The American and the Royal Navy would need to stand down from the blockade and turn their efforts to retrieving the disabled Baltimore Clipper.
As for the dead bodies . . .
Charlotte shivered, thankful that she had only seen Lyman’s skull shatter from afar.
Wrexford’s grim account of the details had been bad enough.
Griffin’s second-in-command hadn’t been at all pleased that he and the other Runners were tasked with rowing out and searching for three corpses in the river.
But that, she decided, was a skirmish for Griffin to face.
We have fought more than our share of the battle.
At last, the duties were done, and they managed to find hackneys to take them back to Berkeley Square.
Cordelia, who hadn’t let Sheffield out of her sight since his return, insisted on coming with them.
Charlotte suspected part of the reason was because Cordelia wished to be sure that the dangers were truly over.
Given all the investigation’s pernicious twists and unexpected villains, she didn’t blame her.
“Welcome home, milord.” Wrexford’s butler didn’t bat an eye at their little band’s motley appearance. “Mr. Griffin is waiting for you in your workroom.”
“Excellent,” muttered the earl. “I’ll already have a Runner present when I wish to report that a larceny has taken place in my larder.”
Riche maintained a straight face. “He mentioned that he was feeling a bit peckish and that you wouldn’t begrudge him a meal.”
“Never mind the food,” said Tyler, hurrying to open the workroom door. “As long as there’s plenty of whisky.”
“Don’t count on it,” rumbled a voice from one of the armchairs near the hearth. “Wrex’s selection is far superior to my sheep swill,” added Henning.
“Oh, we’ve left them a few wee drops.” Griffin rose and gave a lazy stretch before turning and eyeing them over his glass. “Good Lord, you all look like death warmed over. Dare I ask what happened?”
“Not before I get a drink of my own damn whisky,” growled Wrexford.
“And not before you and Tyler go upstairs and change into dry clothing,” said Charlotte. “Which you will do before I allow any malt to be poured.”
As the earl and his valet hurriedly retreated for the stairs, she looked at the Runner—thankfully, Cordelia had provided her with a change of clothing at the shipping office, so she was no longer wearing her urchin’s rags—and, crossing her arm, fixed him with a scowl.
“Do not make a jest of this, sir! Wrexford and Tyler are lucky to be alive.”
“I didn’t mean to do so, milady.” All trace of ironic humor disappeared from Griffin’s face. “I’ve been in a pucker of worry over His Lordship—and all of you. It’s my duty to see that justice is done, not yours. It pains me deeply that you felt compelled to take such unholy risks.”
Charlotte instantly regretted her sharp words, knowing that the Runner was a man of both honor and courage. “It’s no reflection on your skills, sir, that we got involved. Your hands are tied by the government rules and regulations, while we have leeway—”
“To break whatever laws you choose?” suggested Henning.
“Let us just say, we use our imagination and intuition,” she replied.
Stifling a snort, Sheffield moved to the sideboard and poured four measures of whisky.
Griffin raised a brow, but made no comment as Charlotte, Cordelia, and McClellan each accepted a glass and savored a long swallow.
“While Lord Wrexford and his valet attend to their sartorial needs, might I ask you for a summary of all that has occurred since this morning, when His Lordship left me eating breakfast here in his townhouse, saying he was merely making a short visit to your residence?”
“I . . .” Charlotte took another sip of her whisky and let its heat slide down her throat. “I hardly know where to begin.” The first tranquil hours of the morning seemed so very, very far away.
“I suppose it all started when Wrexford noticed that Tyler had disappeared without any explanation,” she said, knowing she had to tread carefully, as Griffin knew nothing about her wards being part of the earl’s band of urchins.
Thankfully, Raven had been wise enough to hang back and take shelter in one of the shadowed alcoves.
“So, suspecting that he may have gone to do some sleuthing around the docks for the missing specimen, the earl and I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Sheffield at the offices of Nereid and Neptune . . .”
Griffin took a seat and listened without interruption to Charlotte’s narration—helped by an occasional comment from Sheffield—of all the byzantine twists and shocking discoveries that had led them to the final dramatic confrontation with the primary villain.
The Runner then allowed a long moment of silence as he mulled over what he had heard. “Just to be sure my admittedly slow wits have comprehended the facts of what you told me,” he said, “Captain Daggett is an official ally of our government.”
“Correct,” answered Charlotte.
“And the grand villain of all this was an innocuous scholar, aided by the infamous Reginald Lyman and his cousin?”
“Yes.”
“And they are all now dead, and the missing plant has been found?” pressed Griffin.
“Your wits are working quite well,” murmured Sheffield.
“That, too, is correct,” replied Charlotte. “Your second-in-command and his men are out on the river looking to retrieve the bodies. But Wrexford and Tyler witnessed the deaths of all three of them, so they can confirm that the blackguards are dead.”
The Runner nodded thoughtfully. “Just one thing puzzles me. If the other two conspirators were killed by the Prussian, then who shot von Stockhausen?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Griffin,” she answered with a hitch. “What with the fog and commotion—the crew of the ship was rowing away in the other longboats—it was all very confusing.”
“Yes, I can well imagine it was. However—”
“However,” interrupted Wrexford as he and Tyler returned, clad in clean and dry clothing, “we’re all too damnably tired and thirsty to answer any more questions. Come back in the morning and you can pepper me with your queries over breakfast.”
“Fair enough.” Griffin rose and moved toward the door with his usual slow-footed gait. But as he passed Wrexford, he paused to place a hand on the earl’s shoulder. “I trust it goes without saying that I’m very relieved to see you alive, milord.”
“There was no need to worry,” replied Wrexford. “As I said, I’ve bequeathed a meal stipend to you in the event of my demise.”
“Yes, but who else would feed me a steady diet of sarcasm?”
Charlotte smiled as Griffin turned and made a surprisingly polished bow to the rest of them. “Good night, everyone. I’m not capable of fancy speeches, so I shall just say thank you.”
* * *
Wrexford handed Tyler a glass of whisky before pouring one for himself.
The glow of the lamplight accentuated the nasty bruising on the valet’s face.
He had taken a rough beating from his captors, and the earl could see McClellan eyeing him with concern .
. . and what looked like a flicker of remorse for her own blow.
“Slàinte,” said Henning, raising his own drink in salute. “I think the occasion calls for a formal toast of thanksgiving—”
“Wait!” The pounding of the dowager’s cane punctuated her call from the corridor. Hawk darted into the room, several steps ahead of her and Wolcott.
“I sent word to Alison that we were all safe,” said Charlotte, unwinding herself from Hawk’s hug.
“I say . . .” Wolcott cleared his throat. “Has the solving of murders become a regular occurrence in this family? Alison seemed to take the news of your chasing a dangerous killer with remarkable calm.”
“You had better get used to it,” said Wrexford as he uncorked a fresh bottle of malt. “Your sister is no ordinary lady.”
Her brother allowed an uneasy chuckle. “I’ve known that for years.
” He accepted a glass from the earl and gave it a meditative swirl.
“Allow me to add an addendum to the original toast . . .” His gaze moved around the room.
“To unconventional ladies, and their keeping us gentlemen on our toes.” A pause.
“God help you, Wrexford. But clearly you know that.”
Once the laughter died down, the earl motioned for everyone to take a seat.
“Before we all seek some well-deserved sleep, I’d like to fit the last few missing pieces of the puzzle into place, so that the picture is finally complete.
” He looked to Tyler. “And it seems to me that you managed to ferret them out, though at no small cost to your phiz.”
“By the by, is your nose broken?” asked McClellan.
“No—just my chin bone,” retorted the valet in an injured voice. “Why the devil did you hit me?”
“Because your running off half-cocked put the Weasels, along with Lady Charlotte and Lord Wrexford, in terrible danger.” The maid huffed a sigh. “And, if you must know, because it scared me half to death when I heard you were captured.”
“On the other hand, if he hadn’t been so cork-brained, we wouldn’t have learned all the gory details,” pointed out Wrexford. “So without further ado, Tyler . . .”