Crouching down, Wrexford leaned in nose to nose with him. “You don’t move.”
Charlotte didn’t hear a response. She wondered if the earl remembered just how defiantly stubborn boys could be.
Wrexford seemed, however, to have taken that into consideration. He held out his hand, the upturned palm a flicker of pale silver in the mizzling moonlight. “Give me your pledge of honor that you’ll do as I say.”
Raven hesitated, then slowly sealed the promise with a touch of his own hand.
“Excellent. I should have disliked hanging you by your toes from that butcher’s sign overhead. But I would have done so.”
Charlotte didn’t doubt it.
Raven grinned. “I wudda found a way te wriggle free.”
“I think not, Weasel. But we shall leave testing each other’s mettle for another time.” He rose, and Charlotte felt the brush of his clothing against hers as he edged toward the opening. “I’ll leave you two here, Mrs. Sloane, and will count on you using your good sense to take your appointed place.”
He was gone before she had a chance to wish him good luck.
Perhaps that was for the best.
“Come,” she murmured to Raven. “Let us hurry.”
* * *
The knife blade found the brass catch. A slight jiggle released it, allowing the window casing to ease open.
Wrexford held himself still, listening for any sounds from inside before pulling himself up to the ledge and slipping inside. The long room was still cluttered with art supplies. Perhaps Canaday and his coconspirators had harbored illusions of reviving their swindles. The trouble was, men of artistic genius were far rarer than those who counted greed and an utter lack of morality as their primary talents.
Like had found like, he thought, as he quickly searched the space for any sign of Hawk. Lowell’s evil had proved even more powerful than that of The Ancients. His clever manipulations had destroyed their schemes.
As I shall destroy his.
The central corridor was unlit. Feeling his way along the rough, plastered wall, Wrexford cursed the fact that Sheffield had convinced him to trade his supple, well-fitting boots for the Petticoat Lane pair. The loose leather and frayed stitching around the thick sole was making it hard to move quietly. He slowed a half step, hoping the deference to disguise wouldn’t turn out to be a grave miscalculation.
There were two other rooms abutting the art storage area. A quick look in each showed them to be empty. The large space across the corridor was also devoid of furnishings, save for a few old writing desks and a three-legged chair sitting forlornly in the dusting of light allowed in by the barred windows.
Wrexford had expected no less. The basement and cellars were Lowell’s lair, and when vermin were being hunted, they always went to ground.
He drew the door closed and headed for the stairwell leading down to the bowels of the building. As he approached the double doors, he paused to slip his knife back into his boot and readjust the weight of the pistol in his pocket. His coat, a plain-cut garment thankfully unembellished by the shoulder capes and fancy lapels favored by a gentleman, buttoned up snugly to the throat, hiding the white of his linen. The hat he dropped as an unnecessary encumbrance.
Drawing a measured breath, he pressed an ear to one of the portals and listened for sounds of activity behind the age-dark oak.
Nothing, save for an oppressive silence.
Was the boy still alive? A pawn was often played for just one move, then carelessly sacrificed in order to move the game along. Wrexford forced himself to forget such thoughts. Distractions were dangerous.
The latch yielded to the pressure of his palm, allowing him to slip into the stairwell. An odor of acid, sour and slightly metallic, hung heavy in the damp air. He could feel that the stairs were made of stone. How many there were was impossible to make out. The darkness was as viscous as India ink. Placing a guiding hand on the rock and mortar wall, he started downward, step by tentative step.
He counted twelve treads before coming to a small landing. There the stairs reversed direction and continued to descend.
A thin line of light was visible below. The fumes were growing stronger. Raven had said the laboratory was at the base of the stairs, and as Wrexford came closer, the faint glow from under the door showed a fancy lock fabricated from steel and brass, just as the boy had described.
Pulling his pistol from his pocket, he noiselessly drew back the hammer and continued on to within a pace of the door.
There were rustling sounds from the other side, punctuated by the muted click of glassware. But no voices.
Which meant it was damnably impossible to know whether Hawk was being held prisoner there or in some other part of the basement.
Reluctantly turning away, Wrexford began to retrace his steps, exploring along the wall for another access into the basement. Just before reaching the landing he found a small horizontal door, barely wide enough and tall enough for a man to shimmy through. The hinges swung smoothly in response to a testing tug. A hint of light danced deep within the narrow crawlspace. After a tiny hesitation, he once again pocketed the pistol and slipped inside.
