Chapter 26
It was still early morning, and the nascent sun hadn’t yet warmed the damp chill from the mist swirling over the rooftop of the Berkeley Square townhouse.
Peregrine poked his head into the protective winter shed that had been built around the dovecote housing Eddy’s messenger pigeons. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“It’s not very comfortable,” said Eddy, not looking up from one of the new winter nests she was fashioning out of straw and wads of cotton wool.
“S’all right,” he said, taking a crossed-legged seat beside her on the blanket. “Maybe I can help.”
She passed over one of the unfinished rounds of straw.
“I—I didn’t mean just with the work,” he said tentatively.
Eddy still didn’t look up.
“Umm …” He thought for a moment and then plunged ahead. “Y’know, I felt like an outsider here for a long time, even though everyone was so kind and welcoming.”
A skeptical sniff was the only reply.
Peregrine smiled. “Really. I wasn’t very good with my fists, which is the reason I met Raven and Hawk.
I was being thrashed by a bigger, stronger boy, and Raven stepped in—not because he knew me, but simply because on principle he doesn’t like bullies.
” His smile grew more pronounced. “In fact, he thought I was a clumsy nitwit.”
“So what did you do to win his regard?” she asked softly.
“Nuffink,” he said, deliberately imitating Hawk’s mispronunciation when he was upset.
“I was used to people thinking I was odd, and not just because of the color of my skin. I liked tinkering with mechanical devices instead of the more rough-and-tumble activities that most boys like. I wasn’t going to try to change myself to please anyone—I had quickly learned at Eton that rarely works.
But it turned out that both Raven and Hawk were curious and began to ask me questions.
And I, in turn, showed an interest in their endeavors.
So our friendship just sort of happened. ”
“You were very skilled at fencing,” she pointed out. “That impressed them.”
“You can ride like the devil,” he responded. “That’s even more impressive.”
“Not to Raven,” she said, blinking back tears. “He resents me. I think he feels that I’ve displaced him in the hierarchy of the house because I’m Wrex’s sister.”
Peregrine shook his head. “This house doesn’t have a hierarchy. It’s not like there is only a finite amount of love to go around.” He inched a little closer, touching his shoulder to hers. “When someone new joins in, it doesn’t take away any love from the others.”
Eddy pondered that for a long moment and looked up a little wistfully. “I understand what you are saying—it’s clear that this family is bound together by love.”
A sigh. “That said, the simple fact is, Raven doesn’t like me.”
“I think he does.” Peregrine’s expression turned inscrutable. “Probably more than you think.”
“Hmmph.”
“He worries about you getting hurt.” A pause. “We all do.”
“But I’m tough,” she said. “I can hold my own.”
“Umm, that’s not the point.” He hesitated. “But I’d likely make a muck of it if I tried to explain why.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just give it some time.”
She nodded and then reached up to brush her fingers against his. “Thank you. Patience isn’t one of my virtues.” A wry grimace. “I don’t think I have many of those. Still, I will do my best to heed your advice.”
Charlotte put the finishing touches on her drawing, and after rolling it up for delivery that night she found herself too restless to stay at her desk and work up some preliminary sketches for a new idea.
Choices, choices. She could visit Alison and check on whether the dowager’s inquiries among her Scottish friends had turned up any holes in Murray’s account of his radical activities. Or she could do some fresh sleuthing of her own …
Intent on keeping some measure of little everyday joys in their family life, despite the demands of the current investigation, Wrexford had decided to take Raven and Eddy out to Hounslow Heath for a session of pistol shooting in outdoor conditions, as he couldn’t visit with McArthur until later that night.
And Hawk had volunteered to help Peregrine work on the mechanical flying horse for Eddy’s birthday while she was out of the house.
So with no competing obligations at the moment, Charlotte quickly made up her mind.
Though there was still a nip in the autumn air, the day had turned quite pleasant as she and McClellan turned down Bond Street for their shopping expedition.
“You go on,” said Charlotte as they approached an elegant emporium with two bowfront display windows filled with an artful array of decorative baubles and furnishings designed to catch the eye of Mayfair’s wealthy residents.
For propriety’s sake, McClellan—playing the role of lady’s maid—had accompanied her, but it was considered perfectly proper for them to split up in order to do their various errands.
The maid consulted the list of sundries on her shopping list. “This won’t occupy much time.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, so let us just rendezvous at Madame Francoise’s workshop.”
McClellan smiled. “Take your time. Fanny makes excellent café au lait and always serves up the latest gossip to go along with it.”
Madame Francoise—nee Fanny Franzenelli, a clever streetwise Italian who had established herself as London’s most exclusive modiste—was one of Charlotte’s long-time informants who kept her au courant on all the scandals and secrets of the beau monde.
“Yes, in fact I have a few questions for Fanny when I’m finished here,” replied Charlotte. After checking her reflection in the window glass and adding a jaunty tilt to her bonnet, she clicked the door latch open and entered the emporium.
The discreet jingle of the brass bells above the portal drew a faultlessly attired attendant from the back room.
“How may I help you, madam?” he intoned after inclining a graceful bow that caused a shimmer of sunlight to wink off his carefully combed blond curls.
“Mrs. Ainsley recommended that I come by and have look at your marvelous selection of watercolors from the Continent.” A pause. “As did Mr. Manchester.” She batted her lashes. “Perchance, is he in?”
“Alas, no, madam. But I am happy to walk you through the collection and answer any questions you may have.”
“Oh, no need for that,” she said with an airy wave. “I prefer to let them speak to me on their own.”
“But of course,” he answered with unflinching politeness.
No doubt, she decided, he would have maintained the same obsequious smile if she had announced that she wished to dance naked in front of the art to see if it sparked a cosmic connection.
Charlotte turned with a swirl of skirts for the archway of the gallery room, then looked back over her shoulder. “Do you know when Mr. Manchester might return?”
“I do not, madam.”
Drat.
Still it was worth lingering for a while to see if she could contrive a chance meeting.
The art made it easy for her to lose herself in its beauty.
The selection of paintings was even finer than Mrs. Ainsley had suggested.
She was particularly enchanted by a series of seaside sketches by Thomas Girtin and some ethereal forest scenes by a new-to-her German artist named Caspar David Friedrich.
But after a lengthy interlude, she finally drew herself back to the present and decided she would have to return another time.
However, as Charlotte retraced her steps to the main showroom, the door bells tinkled, and Manchester hurried into the shop. As she was half-hidden by a massive Renaissance marble urn, he didn’t spot her presence.
“La, Mr. Manchester!”
He turned abruptly, the agitated look on his face quickly smoothing to a forced smile.
“Lady Wrexford! What a pleasure.” He gave a rueful grimace. “Forgive me if I was scowling. I’ve just come from a very disappointing meeting.”
“Please don’t apologize, sir. I took the liberty of stopping by, but—”
“You are welcome here anytime, milady,” he interjected. “Indeed, you have brightened my afternoon.” A sigh. “A collector had promised to sell me his collection of Meissen porcelain but reneged on the deal and sold it to a competitor without allowing me the chance to match the new bid.”
“That sounds awfully unscrupulous,” murmured Charlotte.
“Yes, well, the art and antiquities business is very cutthroat,” he replied and then added a resigned shrug. “But I suppose that can be said for the world of business in general.”
Charlotte maintained a tactful silence.
Manchester suddenly grimaced in contrition. “Good heavens, how rag-mannered of me to sully your ears with such disturbingly cynical statements on human nature.”
Deciding that his unsettled mood might work to her advantage, she dismissed the comment with a wry smile. “Oh, I am not some fragile flower who wilts whenever a shadow threatens to dim the sunlight. I am aware that the world is not perfect.”
After a small pause, she continued, wishing to keep the talk on art before she switched subjects. “Speaking of cutthroat, you have a king’s ransom of priceless art here in your galleries. Do you not fear thieves?”
“Buyers feel more comfortable if my shop looks like one of the fancy mansions of Mayfair,” he replied.
“But each night, a pair of ex-soldiers I’ve hired come and bolt in a grill of iron bars across all the windows.
In addition, I have built a very secure vault for my most valuable things in the cellar area. ”
“How very impressive—and pragmatic—sir. You clearly leave nothing to chance.” Edging past a table holding several ornate Russian samovars, Charlotte joined him in a niche created by a pair of Greek statues.
“To be honest, I didn’t come here solely to see your magnificent collections of watercolors. I am hoping to learn more from you about guilloches,” she confided, “and why they may prove key in creating banknotes that can’t be counterfeited.”
A spasm of surprise flitted over his features.
“You see, Wrexford has been asked by Mr. Ainsley and Mr. Stoneham to help with this sider … sider-something technology—”