CHAPTER 21
“Tyler!” barked the earl.
The valet was already opening a drawer of one of the storage chests. Charlotte watched him lift out a large brass-banded ebony box and set it on the counter.
“They were cleaned just yesterday, milord.” Tyler offered Wrexford a pair of long-barreled dueling pistols.
He took them and handed one to Sheffield.
“And you may also pass me that pocket pistol you hid in your waistcoat, Mr. Tyler,” demanded Charlotte.
“Who’s this raggle-taggle bantling?” asked the earl’s friend, darting a curious glance at her. “If you are asking for charity, lad, hare off to the kitchen. You look like you need a slice of beefsteak and bread, not a weapon.”
She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Mr. Tyler, we have no time for shilly-shallying.”
The valet looked to Wrexford, whose expression boded no good.
Seeing the earl was about to speak, she added, “And don’t you dare tell me I’m not permitted to come along unless you wish to be wearing your guts for garters.”
“Holy hell,” Sheffield angled a look beneath the brim of her floppy cap. His gaze then slowly slid down over her baggy jacket and loose moleskin pants.
Perhaps they were not quite loose enough, for he cleared his throat with a cough. “It’s a woman.”
“How very astute of you, sir,” she snapped, in no mood to deal with the usual horrified huffs on how females should know their proper place. “Let us hope you are also smart enough to stubble any insulting platitudes about women being the weaker sex.”
Tyler swallowed a laugh. “I see that her tongue is as sharp as her quill.”
“Give her the weapon,” said Wrexford tightly.
“Wrex, I really don’t think that’s a wise idea,” murmured his friend.
“Nor do I,” answered the earl. “You are welcome to try reason, but I’ll not waste my breath. She is an unholy force of Nature unto herself.”
Sheffield stared at her warily, as if she had suddenly sprouted horns and cloven hooves.
“We ought not waste time either.” She shoved the pistol into her pocket. “You said we must hurry.”
“I should come with you, milord,” said Tyler. “This could turn ugly.”
“No, I need you to stay here and run an analysis on the explosive,” replied Wrexford, and gave a terse explanation of what he wanted done.
“Damnation, Wrex,” muttered his friend. “We can’t put a female in danger. It’s . . . ungentlemanly.”
“Calm your conscience, Mr. Sheffield. As you can see, I’m no lady.”
“How do you know who I am—”
“Because she’s A. J. Quill, Sheff,” snapped Wrexford. “Which ought to explain a great deal.”
Sheffield’s brows shot up in surprise, but he kept silent.
Charlotte was already at the open window. She had made it her business to know exactly where The Ancients had their lair. “I suggest we go out this way, milord. I know a shortcut through the alleyways that will bring us to the clubhouse quicker than any hackney.”
“Do lead on, m’lady,” he said with exaggerated politeness.
He hadn’t used that moniker in ages—which proved he was no more happy with her than she was with him. Trust. Whatever fragile one had developed between them, God only knew whether tonight had shattered it beyond repair.
The breeze rippled through the draperies as she swung a leg over the sill.
Silvered by the moonlight, the mist-swirled garden had an enchanted aura to it.
A sense of peace and calm that no devil or demon could penetrate.
But beyond the high walls, the looming stretch of midnight blackness warned that no spell, however sublime, could promise to keep evil at bay.
“This way,” whispered Charlotte pointing to one of the footpaths once the earl and his friend had dropped down to the damp grass beside her. “Stay close to me. It’s easy to get lost in the maze of passageways.”
Her thoughts were quickly caught up in the coming confrontation.
Was there redemption in revenge? Catharsis through tragedy?
That her enemies were members of The Ancients had a certain twisted irony.
The Greeks and Romans explored the conflicting complexities of human nature in their myths and drama.
There were few happy endings. Even victory rarely came without a price.
Slipping, sliding through the rutted mud, Charlotte quickened her steps. The darkness squeezed tighter around her, splintered boards and jagged brick clawing at her coat.
The chorus of inner voices grew louder, chanting Anthony’s anguished cries.
The gods punished hubris. They did not like mortals who challenged the order of the universe.
As she well knew.
But what more could they do to her? They had already exacted their pound of flesh.
Charlotte skidded to a stop, lungs burning, heart pounding with the force to burst through bone and skin. She blinked, willing the haze to clear from her head.
“We’re here,” she whispered, inching closer to the opening of the passageway. Directly across the deserted cobbled street was an elegant Italianate town house. No light peeked out through the windows. Like its neighbors, it appeared to be deep in peaceful slumber.
Wrexford drew close—so close she could hear the hammering of his heart. Gripping her shoulders, he gave her a swift shake. “This is far more than personal now. I must have your promise that from here on, you will obey my orders. A misstep and many people may die.”
The voice of cold, calculated reason. He was right, of course.
Charlotte nodded, her throat too tight for words.
He hesitated, and though the gloom hid his eyes, she could feel his gaze searching her face for a lie.
Her lips moved, silently mouthing her pledge.
Seemingly satisfied, the earl turned to survey the surroundings for a moment. “We’ll approach from the rear and find the tradesmen’s entrance. Follow me.”
* * *
The lock yielded with no resistance to the earl’s metal probe, allowing them to slip into a darkened foyer. Easing the pistol from his pocket, Wrexford noiselessly drew back the hammer.
Sheffield did the same. Despite his reputation as an indolent fribble, his friend always showed his hidden steel when trouble threatened. As for Charlotte . . .
She was shrouded in shadows. He could only guess at the emotions roiling inside her. But it was too late to question his decision.
Spotting the servant stairway, Wrexford eased the door open and then led the way up to the main floor.
The front of the house was pitch dark, but a glance to the rear showed a weak pool of light seeping out beneath a set of double doors at the end of the carpeted corridor. Within moments he had them in position, Sheffield on one side of the fluted moldings, he and Charlotte on the other.
Had she drawn her weapon? Her hands were fisted, making it impossible to tell.
Pressing a palm to one of the dark wood portals, he tested whether the latch was engaged. It swung open a touch, and the muffled voice within became clearer.
“I tell you, I won’t swing for your stupidity!” It was Stoughton’s voice, wound tighter than a watch spring. “Our plan for the art forgeries was ingenious—and promised to be highly profitable with no risk! I knew nothing of your other endeavor.”
Wrexford ventured a peek into the room. Stoughton was leaning heavily on one of the leather armchairs, his face looking leached of all color in the oily lamplight. In front of him St. Aubin was standing by the unlit marble hearth, hands clasped behind his back.
“Come, there is no need to panic,” said St. Aubin.
“No need to panic?” repeated Stoughton shakily. “Bloody hell, there have been two grisly murders, and now that devil-cursed artist is pointing his infernal pen at us! And once he starts poking around, no secrets ever seem to stay safe.”
“I tell you, there’s nothing to tie us to Holworthy’s murder. All I did was steal a few moldy old books from the cathedral at Canterbury for him, that’s all.”
“Bloody hell—why!”
St. Aubin’s expression twisted to a sneer. “Because through my older brother I could gain access to a private archive, and was paid very well to do so.”
“Well enough to ruin a far more lucrative plan?” retorted Stoughton. “Damnation, everything was going so smoothly. But then you and Canaday had to get greedy and spook Sloane.”
“The fellow was mentally unstable. It wasn’t our fault he cracked and fell to pieces.”
Wrexford felt Charlotte’s body tense, but she remained still as a statue.
“If it ever comes to light—”
“It won’t,” said St. Aubin. He moved to the sideboard, his lanky body casting an elongated shadow over the decanters, and poured a glass of brandy. “Here, calm your nerves,” he soothed, offering Stoughton the drink.
Uttering an oath, Stoughton lashed out an arm, knocking the glass away.
It flew through the air and hit the hearth, exploding into a shower of crystalline shards.
“How can I be calm when that damnable Wrexford is asking too many questions, and is getting too close to the truth. He put the fear of God into Canaday. What if he comes for me next? I tell you again, I won’t be blamed for whatever you and Holworthy were scheming. ”
St. Aubin stepped back and watched the rivulets of amber liquid meander down the polished stone. The angle gave the earl a clear view of the man’s hand slowly dipping into his coat pocket.
Charlotte saw it too. “Wrexford!” she whispered.
He nodded. The miscreants were welcome to savage each other later. Right now, it was imperative to keep them both alive.
Catching Sheffield’s eye, he indicated that he wanted to take their quarry by surprise. His friend signaled his understanding. Weapons raised, they banged open the doors and stepped into the room. Like a wraith-like shadow, Charlotte followed right on their heels.
“As you see, I have come,” announced Wrexford.
Stoughton spun around, his face spasming in shock. Emitting a low groan, he sagged back against the chair.
The earl shifted his aim to St. Aubin. “Drop whatever weapon you have hidden in your pocket.”
St. Aubin hesitated.
The rasp of metal against metal sounded as Sheffield drew back the hammer of his pistol. “Now.”