CHAPTER 27
Henning grabbed Charlotte’s arm to hold her back. “You promised you wouldn’t interfere, lassie.”
“The building just exploded into flames!” she shot back. “So I daresay that means the earl is either dead or in need of assistance in escaping the fire. I think that good reason to amend the original agreement.”
“The code of honor governing promises is rather rigid—it doesn’t bend to individual interpretation.”
“To the Devil with gentlemanly strictures!” responded Charlotte.
She shielded her eyes to the flare of blindingly bright light that exploded through one of the windows.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I tend to make my own rules.
Wrexford may chastise me for it if he wishes, but it would be like the pot calling the kettle black. ”
Expelling a bemused grunt, he let his hand fall away. “I’ll come with you. I’m not very good at obeying orders either.”
“No! I need you to stay here with the lads.” She darted a glance back at the stairwell, where Hawk had fallen asleep in his brother’s arms. The noise of the fire had not yet roused them, but she feared they would both fly into danger as soon as they awoke.
“Please,” she added.
Henning hesitated. “Auch, you’re putting me on the horns of a hellish decision—”
Charlotte darted away, making the choice for him.
The earl had risked his life for one of her dear little weasels.
She wasn’t going to leave him to fend for himself when all hell was erupting within the warehouse.
Her racing steps cut through the thin skirling of smoke in the passageway between the buildings.
Hawk had described his escape route, but as she rounded the corner, she saw that a blaze of flames made the window impossible to enter.
Unwilling to accept defeat, she retraced her steps and headed for the front door, hoping against hope to find it unlocked.
Damnation! The latch, already hot to the touch, wouldn’t budge. In frustration, she slammed her shoulder against the paneled oak—and felt it give a little. Heat was buckling the molding. Charlotte hit it again and heard a crack. Stepping back, she threw herself forward at a dead run.
The bolt popped free.
“Wrexford!” she screamed, as she stumbled into the fiery maelstrom. All sense of sound and space was distorted. The whoosh and crackling seemed to swallow her words.
Was that an answer? Or merely wishful thinking?
Wincing from the heat slapping at her cheeks, Charlotte called again.
This time the voice sounded more real.
Drawing a sooty breath, she moved into the corridor and saw a flare of red-gold flames licking out from a room on the right. She rushed for the half-cracked door and kicked it all the way open. A blast of heat drove her back, but hunching low, she called again.
“Wrexford!”
A dark shape materialized within the swirls of pewter smoke.
Charlotte stumbled forward and grabbed the earl’s coat. Her eyes were stinging, her throat was burning. Holding on for dear life, she yanked as hard as she could.
Both of them fell into the corridor. Scrabbling up, she hauled him to his knees. “Move!” she cried into his ear. “We have to move!”
Somehow, she managed to get him upright and stumbling for the exit.
“What in blazes are you doing here?” he croaked.
“Gathering all the details for my next drawing, what else?” she replied, dodging a piece of falling plaster. “You know what a stickler I am for accuracy.”
Wrexford turned his head, the firelight igniting a flash of blue in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered. But the stern line of his mouth gave way to a quicksilver smile.
She smiled back at him. “By now that shouldn’t astonish you.”
“You never . . .” He ducked away from more crumbling plaster. “You never cease to surprise me, Mrs. Sloane.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to interpret the reply. Quite likely it meant nothing—the earl was facile with clever quips. Instead of responding, she reached up and touched his temple. Her fingers came away smeared with blood. “You’re hurt.”
He winced. “It’s just a scratch. The lad—”
“Is safe and sound, thanks to you.” She hurried him through the doorway and out into the street, where they both stood for several moments, drawing in deep gulps of air.
“Where’s Lowell?” she asked, reaching out to bat away the glowing red sparks clinging to his coat sleeve.
Wrexford coughed to clear his lungs. But before he could answer, a shout from the head of the street drew his attention.
Sheffield started running toward them. Right at his heels was the Bow Street Runner, and behind him was another group of a half dozen men.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl as his friend skidded to a halt.
“Sorry, Wrex.” Sheffield gave a grimace of apology.
“Allow me to explain.” He glanced back at Griffin and lifted his shoulders.
“Alas, but with all the mental stimulation of late, my brainbox seems to have decided to be more active. You may choose to ring a peal over my head, but I took the liberty of giving Alice the Eel Girl a message for Bow Street before she darted off. I thought it made sense for Griffin to be here to take part in Lowell’s capture, and to witness for himself the man’s perfidy. ”
“Thinking is not your strength, Kit,” muttered Wrexford.
Charlotte thought that rather harsh. The earl’s friend struck her as a very clever fellow. However, Sheffield did not look the least offended.
“But thank you. I may have to revise my opinion,” added the earl—which only confirmed to her that the bond between men could take peculiar forms.
However, at this moment the confrontation between Wrexford and the Runner was the only one that mattered. She shifted deeper into the shadows, intent on remaining inconspicuous.
Griffin eyed the burning building and signaled to one of his cohorts, who had come to a halt a short distance away. “Alert the fire brigade, Putney. The rest of you, block the street and keep onlookers away.”
The Runner then turned to the earl. “Where’s Lowell?” he demanded, echoing her own question.
“I would be happy to turn him over to the authorities, but alas, he’s already frying in hell,” answered Wrexford.
“Which, by the by, saves the government the expense of a trial and the length of rope for the gibbet.” He curled a mocking smile.
“You will just have to take my word about his guilt. Or are you still intent on arresting me? It would be a mistake—you’d only end up looking like a fool. ”
Griffin narrowed his eyes. Charlotte expected a war of words to erupt, if not outright fisticuffs, given the accounts she had heard of the previous meetings.
But the Runner looked more unhappy than outraged.
“I had already come to the same conclusion. If you had deigned to return to your residence this morning, milord, instead of taking justice into your own hands, we could have talked.” A baleful blink as another window shattered from the raging flames. “And avoided setting London ablaze.”
“Forgive my skepticism concerning your intentions,” replied Wrexford tartly. “Trust hasn’t exactly been thick on the ground between us.”
Sheffield fixed the Runner with a curious look. “What changed your mind about Wrexford’s guilt?”
“The accusatory letter Lowell gave me didn’t look quite right.
I had a sample of Drummond’s handwriting, and in making a careful comparison between the two, I became convinced it was a forgery,” replied Griffin.
“Its discovery also seemed a little too convenient. So I began to do some digging into Mr. Lowell’s background and discovered that he had told me a bald-faced lie when he said he had no interest in science.
It seems he was involved in a deadly laboratory accident while a student, which his family covered up.
He then spent a year in Scotland studying advanced chemistry.
Which certainly shed a whole new light on Holworthy’s murder. ”
“Going on facts rather than conjecture?” Wrexford arched a brow. “Have a care, Griffin. I might come to think of you as a man ruled by reason, not blind prejudice.”
“I am more of a cart horse than one of your fancy racing stallions, milord,” responded the Runner.
“I plod along slowly, but I keep my ears and eyes open, perhaps more than you think.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders.
“Yes, I pushed you hard, to see if you would buckle. But I was also meticulous in following up every other possible clue. And they led me to the conclusion that Lowell might be involved in the murders—though I couldn’t figure out the how and why.
That is what I wished to discuss with you this morning. But . . .”
The two men locked gazes. The silence held for several heartbeats and then Wrexford expelled a wry sigh.
“But I daresay you would have carted me off to Bedlam had I tried to explain the whole story.” He ran a hand through his wind-snarled hair. “Most of it is best left buried with Lowell beneath the rubble. Let us just say that all’s well that ends well.”
“That’s assuming we don’t burn down half of London.” Griffin blew out his cheeks. “Mother of God, what sort of explosion ignited that fierce of a blaze?”
“We’ll likely never know,” murmured Wrexford.
Charlotte ventured a quick glance back at the building. She had been so preoccupied with Wrexford she hadn’t yet taken a moment to commit the details of the scene to memory.
The movement must have caught his eye, for Griffin suddenly seemed to take notice of her. “Who’s the brat?”
“A Good Samaritan,” answered the earl without hesitation. “Luckily for me, the lad just happened to be passing by and came to my aid.”
The Runner fixed her with a flinty stare.
Charlotte quickly dropped her head. Her informants were all of the opinion that he was a hard man to fool. She had no intention of putting his abilities to the test.