She itched to slap him for being right.
“You ought to snatch a few hours of sleep,” he advised. “It will take some time for the urchins to come back with their reports. And I wish to wait for dusk to provide some measure of cover for the final confrontation.”
Sleep?Exhaustion was not nearly as terrifying as the prospect of dreams.
Raven called to the earl, impatient to be off. “What do you think our chances are, sir?” she whispered.
“Come, Mrs. Sloane, at heart you are as much a clear-eyed cynic as I am.” Wrexford patted at his coat, and on finding the pouch of bullets quickly shifted it from one pocket to another. “You know damnably well what the answer is.”
CHAPTER 25
Early evening was giving way to dusk.
“When do you think the first urchin will return?” Sheffield had salvaged a broken crate from the adjoining alley and was sitting with his shoulders slouched against the soot-dark wall in the narrow cul-de-sac.
“When she finishes with the task she’s been given,” growled Wrexford. Charlotte and Henning had found perches on a low stone ledge. He had chosen to stand, though the muck slowly seeping through a gash in his boot was making him reconsider his options.
“Alice is a great gun,” piped up Raven, who had found footholds in the crumbling mortar of the corner building and climbed high enough to peer into the street. He had been angry at the earl’s refusal to let him be part of the surveillance, but had grudgingly accepted the explanation that Lowell or his spies might recognize him. “She ain’t gonna muck up.”
All of the urchins had been impressive, mused the earl. Their ragged clothes and rough language hadn’t disguised the glint of sharp intelligence in their eyes. They had listened carefully and asked savvy questions. If the plan failed, it would not be because of any mistake on their part.
“They’ve been told to go in at different intervals, and by different routes so as not to raise suspicion,” added Wrexford in further explanation to his friend.
He turned and took several steps. Had he failed to think of something? The thought was gnawing at him. One slip on his part and a young boy would pay for it with his life.
Whinging at the unfairness of life had always struck him as a self-indulgent exercise. Now, however, he was tempted to hurl a litany of curses at the gods. Punish a man for his hubris, but do not strike at him obliquely through an innocent child.
“You’re squelching,” said Sheffield, making a pained face. The sucking sound of his boots sinking in the foul-smelling mud was not a pleasant one.
“And you’re stinking,” he shot back. Sheffield was dressed in grubby, ill-fitting clothes that reeked of garlic.
“Beggars can’t be choosy,” replied his friend airily. “I thought it was quite a stroke of genius that I thought to return to Mrs. Sloane’s house by way of Petticoat Lane.” The outdoor used clothing market was one of the largest in London. “You ought to be grateful that I thought to purchase you a suitable set of togs. Your Mayfair finery would have stuck out like a squealing pig in this neighborhood.”
“Next time, kindly check the footwear for knife holes.”
“Point taken,” replied Sheffield. “By the by, you owe me two pounds, tuppence for the rags.”
“That’s bloody highway robbery,” muttered the earl.
An evil grin. “That’s only fitting, seeing as the previous owner of your coat was hanged at Tyburn last Saturday for robbing a Royal Mail coach on Houndslow Heath.”
Henning let out a snort of laughter.
Charlotte attempted a smile, but the lines of worry at the corners of her mouth quickly pinched it off. She appeared distracted.
Wrexford gave himself a mental kick for stating the obvious. He couldn’t begin to plumb the depth of her feelings at this moment. Unlike him, she had the capacity to care—more passionately than was good for her. For him, this was mere logic. The supreme satisfaction of taking on an intellectual challenge and seeing that no untidy elements marred the elegance of his solution. He still did not know for sure the motive behind the murders, and that bothered him.
And yet, that did not quite explain why he felt jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle.
“I see Alice,” announced Raven, and dropped down to the ground.
“Amat victoria curam,” Wrexford murmured.Victory loves preparation.
Charlotte looked up sharply. Her lips moved—a silent prayer?
He stepped closer, just in time to catch the last of her whisper before it was tugged away by the breeze.
“. . . and let us hope you are correct, sir.”
