* * *
Charlotte set down her packages on the table and hung her cloak on the wall peg. The rain was growing heavier, the chill drops taking on an extra sting in the gusting wind. A gunpowder greyness shrouded the streets, muddling with the mists blowing in from the river.
The boys had not returned to the house the previous evening after taking her finished drawing to the print shop. That wasn’t unusual, but she found herself feeling more and more unsettled at the idea of them roaming the stews on their own.Were they dry? . . . Were they hungry? . . . Were they safe? . . .
She forced herself to stop fretting. Worry would only beget worry, and she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted.
Love was a two-edged sword. A force of light and dark. Of joy and pain. For now, she was taking care to stay just beyond reach of its flashing blade.
Turning to her work desk, Charlotte began to straighten up the jars of powdered pigments and check that her brushes were properly cleaned and pointed. No new gossip on Holworthy’s murder had come in from her regular sources. She would need to come up with yet another jab at the king’s profligate sons. The public never tired of seeing the Royals skewered by her pen.
The Duke of Cumberland would make an easy target. He was said to have—
“Oiy! M’lady!” Raven’s shout rose above the patter of running steps.
“Slow down,” she chided, as the boys skidded through the doorway. “Wipe your feet and make a proper greeting.”
Raven chuffed in frustration but knew arguing was a waste of breath. House rules were one of the few things Charlotte could control in her world. Short of Gideon’s trumpet sounding the call to Judgment, they were inviolate.
“Good day, m’lady,” went on Raven in a rush as he bobbed a quick bow. Hawk nearly tripped over his own feet imitating his brother.
“Nowcan I spill the beans,” he demanded.
“Now youmay,” she answered.
“George—y’know George, the ostler at the King’s Crown?”
Charlotte nodded. With all its comings and goings, the coaching inn and its taproom were an excellent font of information.
“Well, last night he was guzzling a tankard of ale with his brother, the one what works at that fancy gentleman’s club on St. James’s Street.” Raven hitched in a breath. “White’s—that was the name.”
The most exclusive establishment in Mayfair.Raven now had her full attention.
“And the brother said one of the porters caught wind of an argument in one of the private rooms.” The boy’s voice rose in excitement. “Between Lord Wrexford and some other toff—”
“Did he perchance know this other toff’s name?” asked Charlotte quickly.
“Aye, it was Canaday,” replied Raven.
The name provoked a sudden tingling sensation at the back of her neck.
“And His Lordship was badgering him wiv questions about the dead reverend, which made Canaday cross as crabs.”
“Said he didn’t know nuffink,” piped up Hawk.
“Nothing, not nuffink,” corrected Charlotte without thinking. Her mind was still tangling with the name of Canaday.
Why is it striking a chord?Some memory from the past seemed to stir, but as yet it was too deep in shadow to discern.
“George’s brother said the porter didn’t hear the rest of the quarrel,” continued Raven, drawing her attention back to his story. “Other than that His Nibs said a man named Drummond had fingered Canaday fer bringing the reverend to the . . .”
“The Royal Institution,” piped up Hawk.
“Right—and that Canaday said it was a bald-faced lie.”
Charlotte frowned in thought.
“It sounded important, so Hawk and me—that is, I—rushed back here te tell you,” added Raven.
