CHAPTER 4
“Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast.” Closing the door behind him, Tyler approached the head of the table. “But I thought you might wish to see this without delay.”
Wrexford eyed the roll of paper and set down his cup. “I take it A. J. Quill’s pen has not been idle.”
“No.” The oily bite of fresh ink cut through the aroma of coffee as the valet spread out the print.
“How the devil . . .” muttered Wrexford.
“How indeed,” responded Tyler. “It would seem that the artist is as all-present as Satan.”
“For him to know that Sheffield was present when the Runner was interrogating me, and that we were looking at Quill’s print of the murder .
. .” The earl pursed his lips. It would seem there were only two possible explanations.
Neither of which were pleasant to contemplate.
“The artist must be bribing the Runner.” He looked up. “Or he is bribing you.”
Tyler met his gaze without twitching a lash. “I shall forget you said that,” he replied. “You never think very clearly before you have your eggs and gammon.”
Wrexford chuffed a grudging laugh. “Not precisely true. I can on occasion exert myself. But point taken.”
“By the by, if I needed money,” added his valet, “I’d simply abscond with the family jewel collection that you keep in the safe of your study.”
“It has an exceedingly complicated German lock.”
A sniff. “Oh, please.”
The earl let out another chuckle. “It’s lucky for you that your arsenal of unusual skills proves useful at times.”
“And for you, milord.”
“True.” A pause. “I’m quite aware that no one else would tolerate my peculiar sense of humor.”
“I shall take that as both an apology and an expression of heartfelt thanks for enduring your irascible moods.”
“Don’t press your luck.” Wrexford refilled his cup and took a sip. “It must be the cursed Runner who’s selling his secrets.”
“I think that unlikely,” replied Tyler. “From what I’ve heard, Griffin is the best of the Bow Street lot. He has a reputation for scrupulous honesty. And dogged determination.”
“Well, in this case, he is barking down the wrong vermin hole.” Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the ornate painted detailing on the Adam ceiling. Twists and twines. “I really do think it’s about time I paid a visit to A. J. Quill. Any news from your Scottish tracker?”
Tyler curled a faint smile. “As a matter of fact, sir, he is waiting downstairs in the kitchen.”
* * *
Rain pelted against the narrow mullioned window, as if the gods were taking perverse pleasure in echoing the faint thump-thump of foreboding inside her head.
No doubt, mused Charlotte, the thought of primitive, pagan forces controlling the universe would be considered blasphemous in civilized London.
“Civilized—ha!” she whispered. A leading churchman savagely slaughtered, orphans and widows left to fend for themselves in the hardscrabble streets, the ravages of war draining the country’s coffers. “The concepts of charity and kindness to all seem to have gone to hell in a handbasket.”
Charlotte put down her pen and stared glumly at the drawing she was trying to finish.
Prinny’s accusing eyes stared back at her, half hidden in the corpulent folds of flesh she had made for his face.
Normally she felt no compunction about skewering the Royals, but a dark mood had taken hold of her this morning, brought on perhaps by seeing the boys head out into the gloom.
Raven had said that he wanted to search for more gossip on the Earl of Wrexford and the ongoing murder investigation.
She hated that they felt compelled to dig up dirt for her.
But dirt sold her satirical prints. And money put food in their mouths.
Ergo unum oportet esse pragmaticam.
“I must be pragmatic,” she repeated aloud, hoping the spoken words might help chase away her malaise.
A gust of wet wind rattled the glass.
So much for incantations and talismans. They were fiddle-faddle for the foolish. Railing at Fate was a waste of breath. If one hoped to shape destiny, one had to do so with one’s own hands.
After sharpening her quill, she resumed her work.
An hour passed, though as she glanced out the window Charlotte realized it might have been two. She often lost track of time when she was working. It was the growling in her stomach that had broken her concentration.
Or perhaps it was the faint rasp of metal on metal.
She froze and cocked an ear.
The sound came again.
The outer entryway had nothing to steal within the bare-bones space. But she always kept the main door locked, and aside from her only Raven had a key.
Snick. Snick. The latch slowly lifted.
Swallowing a spurt of panic, Charlotte grabbed her penknife. A meager weapon, to be sure, but if push came to shove, she’d learned a few nasty tricks over the years to fend off attack.
Steady, steady. She slipped off her chair.
The wall lamp shivered as the door creaked open. A figure stomped through the opening, his skirling overcoat sending a spray of raindrops spattering over the floor. Great gobs of viscous mud clung to his black boots.
They were exquisitely made, noted Charlotte in spite of her fear, the leather buffed to a soft sheen.
A gentleman, not a ruffian from the stews.
She jerked her gaze upward.
Well-tailored wool, burnished ebony buttons. Shoulder capes that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.
She took an involuntary step back.
He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending more drops of water flying through the air.
Wind-whipped hair, dark as coal, tangled around his face.
At first, all Charlotte could make out was a prominent nose, long and with an arrogant flare to its tip.
But as he took another stride closer, the rest of his features snapped into sharper focus.
A sensuous mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes, darkened with an undertone of gunmetal grey.
Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .
“Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”
“You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.
“I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”
“Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”
“By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”
She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”
“How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”
Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”
“Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”
“I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”
For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.
“Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.
“Your husband has captured Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.
“Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.
Think! Think! But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.
“Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”
Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.
“You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .
Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.
Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.
She tried to pull away.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’s you who are A. J. Quill.”
* * *
Before his captive could answer, Wrexford heard a primal cry and a pelter of footsteps. A ripping sound, and in the same instant pain lancing through his leg.
Whipping a knife from his boot, he spun around and snagged the writhing little beastie before it could stab the flashing blade into his flesh a second time.
“Let him go!” screamed Mistress Quill. She had her knife in hand again, and a fear-crazed look on her face that said she would use it.
He drew the boy—he assumed it was a boy and not a wild animal only because he had glimpsed a hand rather than a hairy paw—close to his chest, holding hard to control the wild thrashing.
Curses were falling like rain. A bottle, thrown from somewhere to his rear, glanced off his skull.
And the infernal Mistress Quill had grabbed a cleaver from the stovetop—
“Silence!” he bellowed, brandished his weapon. “Not another word, not another movement or there will be hell to pay.”
Everyone froze. Utter stillness descended upon the room.
A finger of chill air tickled through the rent in the finespun melton wool. Wrexford felt blood snaking down his skin. “Damnation,” he muttered. “These were a pair of new trousers.”
His words broke the fragile peace. The boy in his arms tried to break free. “Did he harm you, m’lady? If he did, I swear, I’ll kill him.”
“I’m quite fine, Raven,” she assured him. “Please do as he says.” Her gaze darted to the doorway. “And you, too, Hawk.”
Pivoting, Wrexford spotted the second boy moving stealthily out of the shadows. Bloody hell, they were like rats spewing out of the moldings.
“Ye big bastard, are ye going to slit our throats with that shiv like ye did to the reverend?” rasped the boy in his arms.
“No one is going to be murdered,” answered Wrexford. Whether that would prove true was by no means certain. “Perhaps if we all agree to cease hostilities and discuss the matter in a civilized fashion . . .” He looked back to Mistress Quill, tossing the gauntlet at her feet.
She hesitated, tucking an errant curl of unremarkable brown hair behind her ear. Her gown was an even drabber shade of the same color. He noted a discreetly mended tear at the cuff. All that dullness made the sapphirine glitter of her blue eyes appear even more arresting.
Their gazes locked for an instant, and as she gave a curt nod, he was suddenly aware of her height—she was tall for a woman, and though slender as a willow sapling, her form radiated a steely strength.
“No more attacks, lads.” To Wrexford, she snapped, “Now put him down, and sheath your knife. You should be ashamed of yourself, frightening children with that monstrous weapon.”
He couldn’t hold back a snort. “Children, you say? My first guess was weasels.”
The smaller boy crept a little closer. “Cor, that’s a bloody big blade. Can I hold it?”
“Absolutely not. Your friend here did enough damage with his pinstick.”
The earl gingerly set down his captive, who responded with a string of obscenities.
“Raven,” chided Mistress Quill. “Mind your manners.”
To his surprise, the boy mumbled an apology as he crouched down to retrieve his weapon. It was, noted Wrexford, a simple scrap of steel, sharpened on one side and tapered to a lethal point. Crude but effective.
“Aye, it may be a pinstick,” added Raven belligerently. “But lay another hand on m’lady and you’ll find it shoved straight through your guts.”
What the wretched little imp lacked in size and bulk, he made up for in courage. Wrexford acknowledged the warning with a solemn nod. “Fair enough, lad.”
As the boy put away his blade, the earl did the same, using the moment to take another look around the room.
There was no evidence of a male presence, only the telltale signs of a household living on the edge of respectability.
The table held only the simple necessities, and the lamps were burning cheap tallow candles—save for a fancy Argent lamp on a large work desk.
As for food, he saw only the remains of a rye loaf on the sideboard.
He straightened, aware that the two boys were watching him, the flickering flames setting off sparks of gold in their fierce little eyes. Their avian monikers were appropriate. They reminded him of baby raptors. All gristle and bone. Wary. Wild. Primed to explode into savage violence.
Wrexford reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his purse.
“I have always found that negotiations go more smoothly over a meal.” He shook two guineas into his palm and held them out to the one called Raven.
“Why don’t you and your companion run out and buy us some meat pasties . . . and whatever else you wish.”
The glittering coins had a mesmerizing effect. Their eyes widened but they didn’t move a muscle.
“Come, take them,” he murmured. “You have my word of honor your m’lady will be safe with me. I simply wish to talk.”
Longing lit in the scrawny face of the one called Hawk. He let out a tiny sigh.
Mistress Quill flicked a subtle signal, a mere tweak of her finger.
Raven’s reaction was swift. He snatched the money and flew for the door, his smaller shadow right behind him.
“Now, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted,” intoned Wrexford, once they were gone, “I came here looking for A. J. Quill, and it appears that I have found my quarry.” He indicated one of the stools. “Do have a seat, m’lady. We have a great many things to discuss.”