CHAPTER 17
“Dratted woman,” muttered Wrexford. He kicked a clump of rotting cabbage out of his path, and took savage satisfaction in hearing it explode against the grimy brick of the narrow alleyway.
The day had already taken an unpleasant turn.
At breakfast, his exasperation over the Runner’s misguided investigation had quickly given way to a more visceral emotion on having Charlotte’s newly published satirical print delivered along with his eggs and muffins.
A grim-faced Tyler had come home from his daily trip to Fores’s shop and wordlessly unrolled the offending art on the dining table.
Dropping his plans to march over to Bow Street and confront Griffin, Wrexford had instead grabbed his coat and set off at a brisk pace for another part of Town.
He had to admit, she had a reckless courage. He would have applauded it—had he not instead wanted to wrap his hands around her bloody neck and shake some sense into her.
“Willful . . . Stubborn . . . Unreasonable.” The ricochet of a stone punctuated each growl. He would have moved on to epithets had he not grudgingly admitted that there was a degree of ironic humor in the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.
No wonder his friends—what few he had—found him so aggravating to deal with.
A sardonic smile touched his lips, but quickly tightened to a frown.
However brave, Charlotte had put herself at grave risk by poking a stick into this particular nest of vipers.
He was fairly certain that at least one of them was a murderer, one who already had shown no compunction about eliminating anyone who might be a threat to exposing his identity.
Multiply the danger by at least two other unscrupulous dastards, or maybe three.... He didn’t peg Canaday for the murderer—the man lacked the nerve. Was it Stoughton or St. Aubin? Or someone who as yet had been too clever to show his colors?
Whatever the number, only rudimentary math skills were needed to calculate that she was dancing on a razor’s edge.
The earl was several streets away from Charlotte’s house when he spotted Raven and Hawk in the entrance to an alleyway, taking turns pitching rocks at a half-broken bottle.
“You there—weasels!” he called. “Come here.”
The younger boy laughed and trotted over to him. Raven was slower to respond, and crossed the muddy lane with deliberately slow steps. “Whatcha wont?” he demanded, lifting his chin to a pugnacious tilt.
The earl fixed him with his most imperious stare. “Let’s try again, shall we? I’m sure Mrs. Sloane would prefer something more along the lines of ‘Good morning, Lord Wrexford. Did you wish to speak with me?’ ”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, but after a heartbeat of hesitation, he reluctantly repeated the greeting—in perfectly enunciated King’s English.
“That’s better,” he murmured. “And yes, I do wish to speak with you weasels.” The narrow lane looked to be deserted, but in this part of Town, there was always someone watching. “Come, step over here.”
The doorway to the brick warehouse was tucked within the shadows of a sagging overhang. He motioned the boys to step under it and crouched down to put himself at eye level with them.
Scowling, Raven shifted from foot to foot.
Wrexford pulled two pocketknives from inside his coat. The handles were made of dark textured stag horn, trimmed in nickel silver. He held one up and pressed a hidden lever, which, with a whisper-soft snick, released a wicked-looking blade.
“Cor!” Hawk’s eyes were suddenly wide as tea saucers.
“If you two are intent on protecting Mrs. Sloane,” he said, “I’d prefer you do it with a proper weapon, rather than some primitive shank of half-sharpened steel.”
Raven’s gaze moved slowly over the shiny lethal curves to the razored point.
The earl held the knife still a moment longer, then snapped the blade shut and held it out to the boy.
For an instant, their hands touched as Raven carefully closed his fingers around the horn handle.
“Keep these hidden away. They are not toys. They are only to be used in an emergency,” counseled Wrexham as he passed the second one to Hawk. “It’s for your own safety. There are men in the stews who would hurt you to take possession of them. Do you understand?”
Hawk nodded solemnly, looking too overwhelmed for words. Raven quickly slipped the weapon into his boot, and helped his younger brother do the same.
A low “Aye” was all he said. But Wrexford was satisfied.
“May we tell m’lady?” asked Hawk.
“I think it best we keep them a secret—a secret between us men.” He held out his palm faceup. “Give me your pledge.”
Raven laid Hawk’s hand on the earl’s, then covered it with his own.
“Remember,” said Wrexford, “be discreet.”
“Wot’s discreet?” whispered Hawk.
“Very, very careful,” he answered.
A ghost of a grin flitted over Raven’s narrow face. “Yes, milord,” he said in the plummy tones of a London aristocrat. “Weasels know how te be discreet. It’s how they stay alive.”
“Discreet,” repeated Hawk, testing the word on his tongue. “Ye have my word on it, sir.”
“Excellent.” Wrexford ruffled the boy’s hair and then stood up. “I am counting on you two to keep a close watch on the neighborhood. Any suspicious people loitering around, you send word to me immediately.” He gave them his address on Berkeley Square.
“Aye, we know where you live. We keep our peepers open.” Raven met his gaze with an unblinking stare. “You expect trouble, m’lord?”
“Yes,” he answered frankly. “And when it comes, let us try to be ready for it.”
Like the restless alleyway shadows, the boys flitted away into the gloom. They would be sharp-eyed sentinels, but the earl was under no illusions as to the cunning of their adversary.
He was gratified to find Charlotte’s front door securely locked, and that she was careful to challenge his knock before sliding back the bolts.
“You’re a damnable fool,” he uttered, after making sure the door was secured.
“And good morning to you, too, sir,” she replied. “I would offer you coffee if I had any, for clearly my inferior brand of tea isn’t strong enough to awaken a more cheerful mood.”
“This is no jesting matter, Mrs. Sloane.”
“I assure you, I have never been more deadly serious.”
“How fitting,” he retorted. “Because you have certainly put yourself in deadly peril with that devil-cursed print.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Perhaps you didn’t look closely enough at Holworthy’s mutilated corpse.” Wrexford was deliberately harsh. “It was not a pretty ending.”
Charlotte didn’t blanche. “You forget, sir, that I watched my husband suffer through days of physical agony and half-mad delusions. So spare me the lectures on not understanding what I am up against. Not only is it patronizing, but it’s also insulting. Whatever you think of me, I am not a fool.”
Damnation. In his righteous anger, he had forgotten about that. “You’re right, it was,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged off the apology. “We’ve more important things to talk about. I’ve made a very important discovery—”
“So have I,” he interjected. “However, as a gentleman, I shall allow ladies to go first.”
“I’m not a lady, which, as you well know, is a distinction reserved for members of your upper class. I’m merely an ordinary woman.”
“Artistic license. Surely I may be granted the same bending of the rules as you are,” he replied. “Besides, the boys call you m’lady, so I am simply following precedent.”
“Let us not waste time in idle chatter,” chided Charlotte. She looked more agitated than the momentary banter merited. But then, he reminded himself, there was good reason for her nerves to be on edge.
He took a seat. “I’m listening.”
“I think I’ve figured out what the sketch on Drummond’s hand means.
” Charlotte moved to her desk and scooped up several books, which she carried back to the table.
“I spent hours looking at the various engravings and reading the explanations of the iconography, and slowly began to understand the meaning of the visual representations.”
She paused to open up one of the books and spin it around to face him. “See this one here?”
“The dragon?” asked Wrexford.
“Yes.” Charlotte had bookmarks in the other volumes and flipped to the pages. “Now look at these illustrations. What do you notice?”
He studied them carefully. “There are certain similarities in detail despite the different drawing styles. The tail is always curled in the same design, the wings slant at the same angle, the tongue has three points. . . .”
“Precisely!” Paper cracked as she smoothed out the page from Henning’s mortuary notebook. “Now, look again at the mark you copied from Drummond’s palm.”
It took some imagination, but Wrexford saw why she sounded excited. “By Jove, you have a falcon’s eye.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Now, if only we knew what it meant.”
A smile curled on her lips. “In alchemy, dragon is a code word for mercury.”
The impact of the revelation took a moment to sink in. “Well done, Mrs. Sloane. A brilliant bit of sleuthing,” he murmured. “It would seem that art can indeed be a powerful tool in science.”
Was that a faint blush stealing to her cheeks? Or merely a reflection of light off the cover of the oxblood-colored leather binding.
“Now it’s your turn, milord,” she said, closing the books and arranging them into a neat stack. “What discovery have you made?”
* * *
Charlotte watched Wrexford recross his legs, a habit she had noted meant he was about to say something he considered important.
“Actually, I’ve made a number of them. I’ll start with books, too.
My trip to Canaday’s estate in Kent proved useful in several regards.
I obtained access to the library and learned what book matched the catalogue number you found in Holworthy’s hand.
” He went on to explain about his search, the Newton manuscript, and the revelation of the three other missing books.