“Thank you, I am very glad to know all this,” she assured the two boys.
“Are ye gonna do a drawing of Lord Wrexford breathing fire and smoke?” asked Hawk.
A good question. Charlotte realized that she and the earl had not discussed the subject of her future drawings. Perhaps he had simply made the lordly assumption that he was no longer fair game for her pen.
Droit de seigneur. For men like Wrexford, a sense of entitlement was woven into the very fabric of their being.
She thought about the purse, and whether or not she had sold her soul.
“Did George mention any other details?” asked Charlotte. “Was anyone else present in the room?
Raven looked uncertain. It was Hawk who spoke up. “Didn’t he say Lord Wrexford’s friend Sheff . . . Sheffield was there?”
“Yeah, he did,” agreed his brother with a rueful grimace. “There are times when having you glued te my bum is useful.”
Hawk sniggered. “Don’t say ‘bum.’ It ain’t gentlemanly.”
“You both did very well,” interjected Charlotte. She dug a coin out of her pocket. “Why don’t we celebrate with meat pasties and an apple tart for our supper. That is, if you don’t mind braving the rain again.”
Raven crowed in delight. “No matter—we’re already wet as eels.”
She was hoping they would say as much. Her call of “Take a piece of oilcloth to cover the food!” was lost in the noisy clatter of footsteps and slamming doors.
As soon as they were gone, Charlotte quickly moved to her desk and drew out a slim leather-bound volume from the row of books lined up against the back wall. Opening the back cover, she slid a fingernail under the loosened endpaper and jiggled. A small brass key fell to the blotter.
Drawing in a ragged breath, she opened the lower desk drawer. Beneath the sheaf of cheap writing paper was a secure compartment disguised as a false bottom. The key released the lock with a softsnick. She removed a packet of letters tied in brown twine, along with a scrap of paper bearing a few markings in black and red ink, and, repressing a twinge of trepidation, turned up the wick of her lamp.
The niggling feeling about the name Canaday had been growing stronger with each passing moment. The answer, she thought, lay in these old letters. So, too, did sleeping demons.
For an instant she was tempted not to wake them.
But if she was right, the truth could not be ignored.
Another deep breath. Paper crackled. Her fingers, she noted, were trembling. Odd—she prided herself on her steady nerves. Knowing the boys would soon return, Charlotte forced herself to hurry. One by one, she opened the travel-stained letters and skimmed over the neat copperplate script. In places, the ink was blurred.
By rain or by tears? At this point it didn’t really matter. As she read, she summoned a sense of detachment. The words became just words. They couldn’t hurt her.
It was there, in one of the long letters she had received in Rome. Her mind had not been playing tricks on her. Smoothing out the sheet, Charlotte stared at the sketch of a symbol and the accompanying text.
The house is quite grand, and Edward’s friend Canaday is a gracious host. There is riding and shooting each day for the gentlemen, but I occasionally demur and choose to spend the day in the baron’s magnificent library. His grandfather was a noted collector, and there are all sorts of arcane treasures tucked away in the endless nooks and crannies of the cavernous space. You would be delighted by the clever design of the bookmark—an ornate “T” flanked by two tiny wolfhounds.
Here her correspondent had penned a detailed sketch.
The design is printed on a small strip of paper, which is placed inside the front cover of every book. Numerals and letters are handwritten below it, indicating its exact place on the shelves. It’s an ingenious system....
Dear God in Heaven.Charlotte looked up and pinched at the bridge of her nose, suddenly seeing the connection. Drawing a shaky breath, she carefully unfolded the scrap of paper she had plucked from the murdered reverend’s shirt cuff.
There could be no doubt. Jeremy was an excellent artist. The two drawings matched.
“Damnation,” whispered Charlotte, wishing it were not so. She stared a moment longer before returning all the papers to their hiding place and relocking the compartment.
Cry “Havoc” and let slip the dogs of war?She was now caught in the jaws of a moral dilemma. Should she keep a leash on her tongue and guard her own peace? Telling Wrexford about what she knew could put her own secrets in jeopardy. The earl, for all his faults, struck her as a man who could fight his own battles.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Closing her eyes, Charlotte pressed her palms to her brow. Perhaps come morning, the answer would be clearer.
* * *
Tyler followed Wrexford up the steps to the Royal Institution. “Remind me again of why it was necessary to roust me from my bed at the crack of dawn.”
