CHAPTER 2
Her blood was still thumping against her temples as Charlotte slid into her chair and began to sharpen her quill.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Although her lungs were once again functioning normally, she couldn’t seem to flush the ghastly metallic smell of death from her nostrils. That and the putrid stench of chemicals and scorched skin.
Like Raven, she had been a mere hairsbreadth away from puking at the horrible sight of Holworthy’s ravaged face, though she had taken great pains to appear unmoved.
Life in London’s rougher areas was a hardscrabble existence.
The boys needed a touchstone of steadiness and strength to set an example that poverty did not need to rob a person of hope or humanity.
So, too, had her late husband, reflected Charlotte, carefully working the penknife over the delicate tip of the goose feather. An uncharitable thought, perhaps. But no less true.
Anthony had often behaved more like a child than the two homeless urchins who had taken to sleeping in the entrance hall of her rented house.
His resilience had slowly been worn away by the constant grind of survival, his optimism giving way to bitter complaints about the unfairness of life.
While the young brothers showed a stoicism and resourcefulness beyond their tender years.
The oil lamp on her desk flickered weakly.
Charlotte paused to turn up the wick, her gaze straying for an unwilling moment around the shadow-shrouded room.
This was not how she had imagined her life either—mistress of naught but cramped quarters furnished with humble necessities.
Squeezed cheek by jowl into a row of other similar structures, the razor-thin building was crumbling around her ears.
The stove gave off a weak heat in winter, while the tiny windows did nothing to relieve the stifling heat of summer. In hindsight—
But looking back was a waste of time. All that mattered was the future and how she was going to create a more stable life for herself. Yes, her prints were becoming more and more popular, and earning more each week. Yes, she could afford better than this.
And yet Charlotte knew how fickle Fate could be.
Just as she knew how poverty threatened to grind away one’s hopes and dreams. After slowly paying off Anthony’s debts, she had resolved to live frugally for the time being and save most of her earnings to build up a buffer against ever having to suffer through such hardships again. Perhaps there would come a time....
Be that as it may, for now she must focus on the present.
She shifted, and suddenly remembered the small scrap of paper she had plucked from the shirt cuff of Holworthy’s lifeless hand.
A whispery crackle stirred the air as she pulled it from her pocket and took a peek.
It was nothing more than a scribble and for a brief moment she was tempted to get rid of the tangible proof that she had fiddled with the evidence.
What’s done was done—she couldn’t very well turn it into the authorities without risking her own neck.
But Charlotte hesitated. She had learned that having information no one else possessed, however insignificant it seemed, was a key to survival.
Life and death—one must fight tooth and claw.
... Repressing a niggling sense of guilt, she quickly unlocked the hidden compartment in her desk, the place where she kept her most precious secrets, and hid it away.
Taking up the penknife, Charlotte finished making the last few cuts to the quill, then dipped her pen into the inkwell and set to work.
* * *
“Coffee, Thomas—and quickly.” Wrexford squinted at the sunlight pouring in through the high arched windows of the breakfast room and shaded his eyes. “Do make sure it’s strong and scalding hot.”
“Yes, milord.” The footman hurried off, taking extra care to move noiselessly over the Aubusson carpet.
The staff, observed the earl, had likely been warned that his temper was not to be trifled with this morning. They were a well-trained lot, working with oiled efficiency no matter his moods. He reminded himself to have Tyler send a bottle of brandy to the servants’ table tonight.
As for himself . . . Wincing, Wrexford pressed his palms to his brow. In penance for the previous night, he ought to have naught but bread and water.
Thomas returned with the coffee, and then discreetly disappeared.
To hell with his sins. Wrexford poured a cup and closed his eyes, savoring the rich burn of the brew as he took a long swallow.
“You’re up early.” The door banged open, allowing Sheffield to saunter in uninvited.
“It’s nearly noon,” replied Wrexford. “Which begs the question of why you aren’t sleeping off your revelries and allowing me to enjoy my breakfast in peace.”
“Normally I would be dead to the world at this hour.” Pulling out one of the Chippendale chairs, Sheffield sunk into a sinuous slouch and ran a hand through his unruly shock of wheat-gold hair.
He was nearly as tall as the earl, but less broad in the shoulders, which accentuated the whippet-like grace of his movements.
“However, I expect you’ll have a visit from the magistrate this morning and I wouldn’t miss such theatre for all the tea in China. ”
“Thank you for the moral support.
“Besides, I’m famished,” added his friend. “And my pockets are temporarily empty. I lost heavily at the tables last night.” He plucked a muffin from the basket of fresh pastries. “Luck really is a duplicitous bitch.”
“You abuse her goodwill,” pointed out Wrexford. Though that, he admitted, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“True.” Sheffield exhaled a penitent sigh. “I should reform, I know. But I haven’t your mental discipline.” He rose, just long enough to help himself to a heaping plate of shirred eggs and gammon from the chafing dishes on the sideboard.
Wrexford watched his friend wolf down a bite. “Remind me to inform Riche that you are to be barred entrance here until your table manners improve.”
“Ha, ha, not a chance. He likes me more than he does you,” retorted Sheffield. “I don’t bite his head off half a dozen times a day.”
The earl let out a grudging laugh.
“Now, will you kindly ring for more coffee.”
As a footman entered with a fresh pot, the earl’s butler followed behind him, frowning apologetically through the trailing plume of steam. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal, sir. But a Runner—Mr. Griffin by name—is here from Bow Street demanding to speak with you.”
“Right on cue,” quipped Sheffield. He rubbed his hands together with an ill-concealed grin of glee. “This should be highly diverting.”
“You have always found farces amusing,” growled Wrexford.
“It’s only natural, seeing as my own life veers to the absurd.”
The earl made a pained face. “Show him in, Riche.”
The butler reluctantly escorted in a tall, stocky fellow wearing a heavy overcoat and a fierce scowl. His red vest was garishly bright in contrast to the dull coloring of his other garments.
Wrexford winced. “Would you be so good as to step out of the sunlight. You are hurting my eyes.”
If the Runner was intimidated by the ornate surroundings, he didn’t show it.
Ignoring the request, he pulled a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and set to work.
“Lord Wrexford, the magistrate at Bow Street has sent me here to ask you a few questions concerning the bad blood between you and the Reverend Josiah Holworthy. He was murdered last night.”
“I have heard the news.”
“I wish to enquire about—”
“About my whereabouts?”
“Precisely, milord.” Griffin waited expectantly.
Wrexford took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee, sirrah?” asked Sheffield. “It’s black and scalding as the Devil’s arse.”
“I prefer not to accept His Lordship’s hospitality,” came the curt reply. “Especially when it concerns anything liquid.”
Wrexford felt his lips twitch. At least the fellow possessed a sardonic sense of humor to balance his wretched taste in fashion. But then, a red waistcoat was required for the job, so perhaps it wasn’t his fault.
“Now, as to your whereabouts, sir. Aside from a gaming hell on St. James’s Street.”
He put down his fork. The man, as befitting his sleuthhound job, had already begun sniffing around. “I was out walking.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” confirmed the earl. “I find exercise stimulates the mind, and there were a number of things I wished to ponder.”
The Runner didn’t inquire as to what things. Instead he said, “You are said to have an interest in chemistry. Might I ask why?”
“Because I am curious. The workings of the natural world interest me. They have much to teach us.”
“Curious,” repeated Griffin with a sniff, as if he had smelled something rotten. “You mean to say, your dabblings have no purpose except to satisfy your curiosity?”
Wrexford held his temper in check. “Knowledge is a purpose unto itself.”
The Runner’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He turned a page in his notebook. “Getting back to last night, milord, did your walk take you anywhere near St. Stephens Church on Black Swan Lane?”
“I have no idea. As I told you, I am usually lost in thought.”
More scribbling. The scratch-scratch sound made him grit his teeth.
Griffin finally looked up from his notebook. “Tell me, sir, what were your thoughts when you heard that the reverend had been murdered?”
“That the sanctimonious windbag deserved to have his throat cut,” snapped Wrexford. “London’s air is bad enough without having it further befouled with buffle-headed superstitions and ignorant lies.”
Sheffield sat up a little straighter. “Careful, Wrex,” he murmured. “Not everyone appreciates your peculiar sense of humor.”
“And just how do you know the reverend had his throat cut?” the Runner quickly demanded.
The earl let out an impatient sigh. “Because the Honorable Mr. Sheffield here kindly informed me of that fact last night—”