CHAPTER 8
“Don’t be daft, Griffin,” snapped Wrexford. “Your cockloft can’t be that empty. If I had murdered the man, I would hardly be so stupid as to send for help and then linger to fight the fire.”
“So it would seem at first blush,” replied the Runner. “And yet, it might also be interpreted as the diabolically clever actions of a cunning killer.” A pause. “Especially when a suspect just happens to be looming over the corpse with the victim’s blood dripping from his hands.”
Tyler wordlessly handed Wrexford a small towel from one of the overturned drawers.
His temper flared, but the earl quickly tamped down the spark. A shouting match would serve no good purpose save to spew more smoke and vitriol into the room.
“A closer look at the empirical evidence will show that I can’t be guilty of the crime.
The watchman will testify that no more than eight or nine minutes passed between our entering the building and my valet’s rushing to raise the alarm.
” Wrexford gestured at the ransacked room.
“Look at the mayhem and the advanced state of the fires—not to speak of the dead man. I may be the Devil Incarnate, but even Lucifer himself could not have created all this in such a short space of time.”
“As for the murder weapon, I did not exit the building, so it’s either in here or somewhere in the corridor,” pointed out Tyler.
“Hmmph.” Griffin entered the laboratory and made a slow circle through the work space, stopping every few steps to examine the damage.
“As you see,” murmured Wrexford once the Runner had returned to the doorway, “there is no weapon. Which proves I didn’t kill him.”
“What’s to say you—or your lackey—don’t have it on your person?” countered the Runner.
The earl stripped off his coat and tossed it on the counter. Tyler quickly followed suit. “You are welcome to search us.”
Griffin cracked his meaty knuckles. “Which I shall do, milord.”
And the fellow made quite a thorough—and rough-handed—job of it, thought the earl, though he managed to remain impassive throughout the process. In the cat-and-mouse game of nerves, he was not going to be the one to flinch.
“Now that you are done,” he said with deliberate politeness after the Runner had finished pawing over Tyler, “I assume we are free to have a closer look around.” He made a show of dusting his coat before putting it back on. “Just in case we see something you miss.”
“Nay,” replied the Runner. “I’ll not have the two of you mucking things up before I have a chance to study the scene.”
“But—”
“Lord Wrexford, the only reason I’m not arresting you is because there’s no weapon. But you can be sure I’ll be looking very closely at the rest of the evidence.”
“Do,” said Wrexford calmly, though he couldn’t help adding, “However, what you’ve seen so far does not inspire me to have much confidence in your ability to find the real culprit.”
“Get out,” snarled Griffin. “Milord.”
A tactical mistake, conceded the earl. He had wanted to make a more thorough examination of the half-burned papers. A clatter in the corridor announced that the watchman and his bucket brigade were about to arrive, and once they set to work, the details were likely to be destroyed.
“Just one last thing,” murmured Wrexford. “Might I inquire how you happened to arrive here so quickly?”
“As it happens, I was coming to speak with Drummond about your argument with Lord Canaday.”
Wrexford must have betrayed a spasm of surprise for the Runner curled a slow smirk. “Have you not seen A. J. Quill’s latest print?”
* * *
Tugging her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, Charlotte edged forward on the bench and darted a nervous glance up and down the graveled walkway.
The modest park in Red Lion Square was far enough away from the opulent environs of Mayfair to pose no threat of discovery.
Still, a meeting with Jeremy always made her insides twist in knots.
It was why she avoided arranging them unless absolutely necessary.
And much as she had tried to convince herself she was overreacting, she couldn’t deny the moral obligation.
A conscience was a cursedly inconvenient encumbrance.
Charlotte shifted again, feeling chilled despite the sunlight and the cheerful chatter of the rustling leaves.
“Good morning, Charley.”
She jumped, so lost in brooding that she had missed her friend’s approach.
Jeremy sat down beside her, a pinch of concern shadowing his smile. “It’s a lovely morning for a picnic. I brought some pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop.”
Her stomach lurched. “How thoughtful.”
“But you are in no mood for spun-sugar treats.”
A reluctant laugh slipped from her lips. “Alas, you know me too well.”
“Well enough to know you wouldn’t ask for a meeting unless it was important,” he replied softly.
“It is important,” she confessed. Jeremy was one of the very few people who knew about her secret identity.
Their bond of friendship, and their sharing of secrets, went back a long way—to childhood, before a twist of fate had made him heir to a barony.
The change in his life hadn’t altered their closeness.
And though she knew he questioned her choices at times, he had always been willing to answer her questions about the beau monde, no matter how odd.
She hoped this time would be no exception.
“How can I help?” he whispered.
Charlotte checked that no one was nearby before asking, “I believe you are acquainted with Lord Robert Canaday?”
He nodded.
“Is he a religious man?”
Jeremy made a wry face. “No more than most gentlemen of the ton.”
Which was to say, he worshipped his own pleasures more than the Word of God. A sardonic thought, admitted Charlotte, but no less true for being so.
“Then he had not struck up a friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy in the last few years?”
Her friend frowned in thought. In profile, his fine-boned features and tousled honey-gold hair made him look like a brooding Renaissance prince in a Botticelli painting.
“It’s possible,” he conceded. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it, I believe I had heard mention that they belonged to the same club. ”
“What sort of club?” pressed Charlotte.
“A small and rather exclusive one, so I don’t know much about it, save for the fact that its members have an interest in literature and the arts.”
“Given the late reverend’s sermons castigating worldly indulgences, that seems strange.” She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “D-do you perchance know the name of this club?”
“I believe it’s called The Ancients,” answered Jeremy.
All at once Charlotte felt the acid burn of bile rise up in her throat. She swallowed hard, willing her voice to remain normal. “Which I suppose means their focus centers on classical Greece and Rome?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about them,” he apologized. “They tend to be rather secretive.”
She wished that she were blessed with the same ignorance. But now, there was no more pretending that she could remain silent about certain things.
“Thank you. This has been a great help.” The trill of children’s laughter floated up from the far end of the little park. Closer by, hidden in leaves of a linden tree, a lark was twittering, each note like the chime of a tiny golden bell.
Birdsong? How could this moment be filled with sweetness and light? The sound ought to be the snarly rasp of a black-as-Hades bat. . . . Did bats rasp? Or was that simply a figment of her own febrile imagination?
“Just one more question,” said Charlotte. “Is Lord Canaday prone to violence?”
Jeremy fixed her with a searching stare. “Ye god, Charley, why on earth would you ask that?”
She drew in a breath, and then simply let it leak out of her lungs.
“Surely you don’t think . . .”
“Please don’t ask me to explain,” she said quickly. “I’m simply trying to get a sense of the man. You know that in my line of work it’s important to understand the strengths and weaknesses of the people I draw.”
“What’s Canaday done to draw your attention?”
“Apparently he had quite a quarrel with Lord Wrexford at White’s last night.”
Jeremy let out a low whistle. “How do you—” A rueful grimace. “Right, right, how silly of me to ask.”
“It is better that you don’t,” she agreed.
He looked upset—Lord, she hated doing this to him.
“Come, let me help you leave the past behind and start afresh,” he urged. “A new life, an easier life. Enough time has passed. Mistakes can be forgiven.”
She shook her head. “Most people aren’t nearly as generous spirited as you are, Jem. We both know it’s best that some secrets remain hidden.”
“True.” He blinked, the tiny muscles of his jaw tightening. “But darkness begets darkness. You deal in misery and scandal, and I worry that it’s slowly eating away at your soul.”
Charlotte looked away.
“You don’t need to do this anymore, Charley.”
Oh, but I do.
Jeremy waited. The lark fell silent. “But I see that I’m not going to get you to change your mind.”
“I’m sorry.” How to explain when she couldn’t make any sense of it herself.
“So am I.”
Hoping to dispel the tension, Charlotte quickly switched to a less provocative topic. “I do have one more question, if you’re willing. It’s not one that asks you to betray any private peccadilloes.”
He nodded, though a flicker of unhappiness lingered in his eyes.
She hated to disappoint him. But that did not stop her from asking, “Might you tell me a little about Mr. Christopher Sheffield? I understand from my sources that he and Lord Wrexford are close friends, but I don’t recall having heard his name before.”
“That surprises me.” Jeremy made a rueful face. “For Kit always seems to be treading on the razor’s edge of scandal.”
“A dissolute rake?” she asked. Gifted at birth with a pedigree of privilege, and no sense of morality to go with it. Like so many of the young blades who called themselves gentlemen.