CHAPTER 6 #2
“Auch, laddie, they couldn’t do worse than us at running the world.” The surgeon tucked his pipe into his pocket. “I better get back to work. I have to run a clinic for wounded war veterans later this afternoon, and I need to have that slab o’ meat inside ready for the mortuary wagon before then.”
Making a mental note to send a generous donation to the surgery, Wrexford cocked a quick salute and turned for the gate leading out to the alleyway.
“Wait!”
He looked around.
“I just remembered an odd bit of news I heard from my local apothecary last week,” called Henning. “Apparently there have been a rash of robberies at apothecary shops over the last fortnight. The only thing taken was mercury. Quite a lot by the sound of how many shops were struck.”
Mercury was a prime ingredient in a number of common medicines, but Wrexford didn’t see how that would make it a valuable commodity for a thief.
“Any idea as to why?” he asked.
“Not a bloody clue,” answered the surgeon cheerfully. “You’re the curious cat looking to sniff out answers.”
* * *
“Owwff.” Hawk rolled onto his back and looked longingly at what remained of the buttery chunk of cheese in his hand. “It’s so good, but I can’t eat another bite.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Charlotte. “You and Raven already finished off two kidney pies and an eel pasty.”
“And a wedge of apple tart,” volunteered Raven. He, too, was lying on the rag rug by the stove, peeling an orange.
Oh, the tart, thick with creamy custard, had been gloriously good.
Charlotte couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in such a luxury.
“We can save the cheese, along with the rest of the food, for tomorrow.” She rose and gently pried it from Hawk’s sticky fingers.
He was already half asleep, and though his face was liberally caked with crumbs, she didn’t have the heart to wake him and insist that he wash himself.
Stepping over Raven’s outstretched legs, she watched him pop several slices of the fruit into his mouth. “I vow, we’ve enough food left over te feed a regiment.”
He grinned. “His Lordship was daft enough to give me that much blunt for vittles, so I figgered there was no harm in spending it.” He fished out some coins from his jacket. “We tried, but we couldn’t gobble it all up.” A sigh. “Do we have to give it back?”
“I don’t think Lord Wrexford expects it. You keep it, so that you and Hawk may purchase pasties when you are hungry.”
“Naw, you keep it. Mebbe next week we can have another feast.”
“An excellent suggestion.” Charlotte carefully selected two shillings from the remaining coins and handed them back. “Still, I would rest easier knowing you have these in your pocket.”
The boy didn’t argue. After inching closer to the warmth of the stove, he laced his hands behind his head. “Is His Lordship going te make trouble fer you, m’lady?”
“No.” She hoped that was the truth.
“What did he want? A fancy toff like him don’t come to this part of Town fer no reason.”
Damnation—Raven was too sharp by half. She had hoped he wouldn’t ask.
Deciding it was best to tell him about the arrangement she had made with the earl—or a simplified version of it—Charlotte answered, “He wanted information about the reverend’s murder.
We came to an agreement about sharing what I know. ”
A frown pinched at his narrow face. “How did he cobble that you’re A. J. Quill? You’ve always told us that it be very dangerous for anyone te know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “Lord Wrexford has agreed to keep my secret safe in return for my cooperation. And I believe he’ll keep his end of the bargain.”
As long as I keep mine.
Thankfully Raven seemed satisfied with the explanation. He let out a yawn and rolled onto his side. In another moment, his soft, snuffing breathing indicated he was, like his brother, fast asleep.
Her belly full, Charlotte was feeling pleasantly drowsy, too. And yet a niggling sense of foreboding kept her awake. Had she made a grave mistake? The first steps on the road to perdition were always taken with the best of intentions.
Choices, choices.
“Aye, but I chose my path long ago,” she whispered, “and now I must follow it, come what may.”
The earl’s money would allow her to splurge and purchase some much-needed clothing on Petticoat Lane for the boys.
And perhaps weekly lessons from the young curate of the parish church.
A new oil lamp for the dining table, extra blankets, caulking to fix the loose windowpanes .
. . Compiling a list of long-delayed necessities helped ease her misgivings.
If she had made a deal with the devil, at least he was a wealthy one.
Charlotte ignored the pricking of her conscience as she recalled the small scrap of paper tucked in a safe hiding place, along with the earl’s bulging purse. Yes, she had held it back. But life in this part of London had taught that a bargaining chip was always a valuable commodity.
Thoughts of money slowly stirred her to pick up her pen. Lord Wrexford’s payments wouldn’t last forever. Survival hinged on keeping her own skills razor sharp.
Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing comes nothing. Time to get back to work.
She pulled a fresh sheet of drawing paper from her desk drawer and started to sketch.
* * *
Mercury. In Roman mythology, Mercury was the god of financial gain, mused Wrexford. He was also the god of trickery and thieves.
The irony was not lost on him.
Some perverse power seemed at play here. The more he learned, the less all the facts fit together into any coherent pattern. And as a man who respected scientific principles, that annoyed him.
Most everything had a logical explanation. One just had to see it—
“Ah, there you are!” drawled Sheffield as Wrexford entered his study. “I was wondering when the devil you would return. I’ve been waiting here for hours.”
“It does not look as though you have been enduring any great suffering in my absence.”
A bottle of prime Madeira was open on the side table, and a plate of sliced roast beef, bread, and pickle was resting in his friend’s lap.
“Riche thought I looked a little peaked. So he offered refreshments,” replied Sheffield. “Alas, he refused to hand over the humidor containing your special spiced Indian cheroots.”
“He knows I would have had his head as well as yours on a platter,” growled the earl.
“Tut, tut, let us not speak of severed necks. It rather ruins a fellow’s appetite.”
Wrexford poured himself a glass of wine and sat down in the facing armchair. He was tired and out of sorts. “Be so good as to swallow your witticisms along with your food and then be on your way. I need some peace and quiet in which to think.”
“About what?” inquired Sheffield.
“About how to keep my neck from being stretched several more inches,” he snapped back.
“Pffft.” His friend waved off the comment. “Unless Griffin has found new evidence at the church, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that you will swing for the murder.” He took a large bite of bread topped with beef and chewed thoughtfully. “He hasn’t, has he?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Wrexford sunk deeper into the leather cushions. Suspect or not, the crime was now like a thorn rubbing against raw skin. “But I thank you for your overwhelming concern.”
“No need to be sarcastic,” responded Sheffield. “I haven’t been frittering away the hours in idle pleasure.” Setting aside his plate, he rose and sauntered to the sideboard to refill his glass. “It turns out you were right to be curious about Lord Robert Canaday.”