CHAPTER 2 #3
Charlotte could see there was a promising bulge in it. An unexpected addition to her nest egg—any extra was most welcome.
“I heard talk in the shop that Bow Street sent a Runner to quiz the earl,” volunteered Hawk.
He was smaller and just as skinny as his older brother.
But everything about him had less of an edge.
Every angle and plane of his narrow face was softer, and his hair was several shades lighter. “Ye think he’ll swing for it?”
“It’s not for me to say,” she replied absently, unknotting the strings and shaking the money into her palm. “Thank you for bringing it, Raven. Allow me to give you something for your efforts.”
Charlotte slid a halfpenny across the scarred tabletop. The boy looked at it for a moment, then took a bite of his bread. “Naw, you keep it. I was comin’ in this direction anyway.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she chided. “It’s very ungentlemanly.”
Both brothers grinned.
“Aye, proper little gents we is,” chortled Raven, setting Hawk to giggling.
“Well, you never know when you might be invited to take tea with the Prince Regent.” It was a standing jest between them, but her efforts were having some effect. They no longer ate like wild little wolves.
Now, if only she could convince them to run a washrag over their grubby faces and hands more often....
“I’ve an idea,” she went on. “How about I use your coin to purchase a bit of beef and I’ll make stew for supper to celebrate our good fortune.” She usually limited meat to a few nights a week, but the boys were looking painfully thin.
Hawk’s eyes widened in delight. “Hooray!”
“I’ll wager if the fancy toff swings fer the murder, your print of it might earn an even bigger token of appreciation,” mused Raven. “Maybe even a bagful of guineas.”
Hawk sucked in his breath. “Guineas.”
Guineas, thought Charlotte. Lud, wouldn’t a bagful of them be a godsend. But a clench of guilt swiftly silenced the speculation. Yes, she made her living poking fun at the foibles and miseries of her betters. However, death was another matter entirely.
“Let us not speculate on profiting from the hangman’s noose,” she said softly. “We don’t know if the authorities have any suspects for the crime.”
Hawk sat up a little straighter. “While Raven was nabbering with Mr. Fores, a Runner came into the shop. He asked the clerk questions about yer print. Said he had just come from speaking with Lord What’s His Name.”
Charlotte snapped to attention, all thoughts of where to find the best bargain on beef gone in a flash. “What did this Runner look like, Hawk?” If the Earl of Wrexford was really a suspect, she could feast off the scandal for months, regardless of whether or not he hanged for the crime.
Both boys were very observant. Hawk was able to describe the man in great detail.
“That’s very helpful.” After jotting down a few lines in her notebook, she took a fresh sheet of paper from her desk drawer and dashed off a quick letter.
“Would you kindly deliver this right away?” She gave them the address. “You know the procedure.” She tried not to pester her childhood friend too often. But given that he moved in the highest circles of Society, his information in this case could be enormously helpful.
“Shall we wait for an answer?” asked Hawk hopefully. Her friend’s cook was apparently very generous with sweets.
“Yes, if there’s a chance for one. Otherwise, you can return for it in the morning.”
“I was just thinking, m’lady. Whiskers, the streetsweep who works the corner near Bow Street, might have heard some tittle-tattle about His Nibs. We could stop on our way back and have a jaw with him, if you’d like.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Charlotte had learned long ago that every bit of gossip was useful. Stitching together all the scraps of thread was how one embroidered the plain cloth of a scandal. A. J. Quill was the most popular satirist in Town because of the colorful details. “Thank you.”
Raven tucked the folded missive inside his grubby shirt. “C’mon, Hawk, let’s fly.”
* * *
Wrexford paused in his pacing around the room to pull a book down from the shelf above his worktable. Something about the cursed print was niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
The colors depicted by A. J. Quill could be meaningless, a simple artistic artifice to convey the gruesome look of burned flesh.
But in his experience—which had become far too personal of late—Quill’s pen was uncannily accurate in showing all the little details.
Once again he wondered how.
He resumed walking, this time his boots beating a steady tattoo back and forth in front of the blazing hearth as he thumbed through the pages.
The logs crackled, punctuated by the muffled thump, thump of leather on the polished parquet.
“Damnation.” Wrexford had no sooner uttered the oath when his fingers stilled. He read over the section several times before turning to where he had tacked the print up on the wall.
He was still standing there, lost in thought, when his valet let himself into the workroom.
“Have you discovered something?” asked Tyler, noting the open book and gleam in the earl’s eyes.
“Perhaps.” Wrexford handed him the leather-bound volume. “Read that section.”
Tyler skimmed over the pages. “Hmm, yes. I daresay that’s possible.”
“I’m going to the workroom. I want to experiment with a few things. . . .” The earl’s voice trailed off as he was already making mental note of some chemical combinations.
“We could try different percentages of the acids and test the effects.” His valet quirked what might have been a smile. “That is, if you care to sacrifice your cheeks.”
“It’s more than acids,” mused Wrexford. “As to empirical observation, let me remind you that I pay you very well for your services.”
“Not well enough to be disfigured for life. But you—think of it this way, better your face than your neck.”
“Your feeble attempt at humor falls far short of the mark.” Wrexford crossed his arms. “I trust you did better with Mr. Fores.”
“Alas, no. The man refused to divulge anything about the artist’s identity or where he lives. Claimed he didn’t know, and added that even if he did, A. J. Quill was worth more to him in the long run than your gold.”
“Bloody hell! You, of all people, I expected to show more ingenuity—”
Tyler waved him to silence. “Do permit me to finish, milord.”
The earl pressed his lips together, though the corners were quivering with ire.
“As I said, Fores was unhelpful, but when he left me to help another customer, I strolled to the side room and the clerk there was decidedly more friendly.”
“Get to the point. My patience is wearing thin.”
Tyler heaved a martyred sigh. “I purchased several copies of the infamous print, adding a generous tip. In return, I learned that A. J. Quill’s drawings are delivered to the print shop by a ragged little guttersnipe—or sometimes two of them.
They usually arrive in the late afternoon, which gives the engravers time to make the printing plate and run off an edition in time for the following morning.
But in a sensational case, like Holworthy’s murder, the timing can run closer to midnight. ”
“How—”
“If you were about to ask how many drawings Quill does every week, the answer is at least three, and sometimes four, especially when a scandal is on the tip of every tongue.”
“Which means one may arrive tonight,” mused Wrexford.
“Yes.” The valet’s expression turned somewhat smug.
“And before you ring a peal over me for not being hidden in some damp, dirty, malodorous crevasse keeping the shop under surveillance, allow me to add that I took the liberty of hiring a Scottish compatriot to stand sentinel and follow the urchins back to their lair. Quiggs is very good—he can stalk a Highland deer through gorse and over sheer granite.”
Wrexford exhaled a pent-up breath. “It appears that for once you’ve earned your weekly salary.”
“I’ll take that as a thank-you.” Tyler turned to go. “Oh, just one more thing.” He paused, his hand on the ornate door latch.
“I think I know where the chemicals that burned Holworthy’s face came from.”