“We gotta flee!” called Raven. He blew out the lamp.
“Now!”
Her fingers plucked the paper free, just as Raven grabbed her sleeve and yanked her to her feet.
Half stumbling, half running, Charlotte let herself be led. The boy was nimble as an alley cat and seemed to be able to see in the dark.
Thuds, shouts, and the clatter of boots echoed behind her. Up ahead, a sliver of starlight glimmered in the arched entryway.
“Hurry, hurry,” urged Hawk in a frantic whisper as he pushed the door a touch wider.
Raven bolted through the opening, dragging Charlotte with him. She thought her lungs might burst, but somehow the boys hurried her to an even faster pace over the clotted earth and loose stones of the graveyard. Finally, after they were two streets away from the church, Raven allowed her to slow to a walk.
Pulse pounding in her ears, heart thumping hard enough to crack a rib, Charlotte bent over and braced her hands on her knees. “That,” she gasped, “was close.”
And then she began to laugh.
“You’re mad, m’lady,” wheezed Raven. “Mad as a Bedlamite.”
“Yes, no doubt I am.”
* * *
Wrexford took a seat at the gaming table to the chant of “Satan, Satan,” from the other five men engaged in play.
While the others punctuated the words with a rhythmic pounding of their palms against the green felt, Fitzwilliam, a portly baron with a bald pate and ginger sidewhiskers, waggled a hand at one of the serving girls. “Bring us a bowl of syllabub!” he trilled. “Served hot as the devil’s pitchfork.”
“Stubble the attempt at humor, Fitz,” growled the earl as the others laughed uproariously. “You have more hair than wit.”
“Is it true that this morning’s cartoon showed the Divine Diana as your latest paramour?” asked Pierpont, once the hilarity had died away.
“Aye, she was shown curled in a crucible under his chair— and wearing naught but a fancy sapphire necklace from Rundell and Bridge,” piped up Sachem. “A price tag was attached to the clasp. If you looked closely with a quizzing glass you could make out the amount—fifteen hundred guineas.” He looked at the earl. “True?”
“True,” confirmed Wrexford.
“I didn’t know you had seduced her away from Radley,” went Pierpont. “When did that happen?”
The earl shrugged off the question.
“I heard it was only three days ago,” offered Fitzwilliam.
“How the devil does A. J. Quill know these intimate details?” queried Sachem sourly. “The information he had on Greeley’s affair with the countess were of a very private nature.”
A good question, thought Wrexford.
“Hell’s teeth, the dratted scribbler must have spies everywhere. Perhaps Wellington should consider giving the fellow a general’s commission and assigning him to combat Bonaparte,” suggested Fitzwilliam. “The war would likely be over in a month.”
“Speaking of war,” said Pierpont, “things are getting awfully bellicose between you and Holworthy. If I were you, I would be tempted to march up to the pulpit and bloody his beak for mouthing such scurrilous slanders.”
“There are other ways of silencing him,” growled Wrexford. “But I’d rather not exert myself. What a pity A. J. Quill can’t dig up some prurient scandal concerning the holier-than-thou reverend—”
“Well, I don’t know about the scandals,” interrupted a familiar voice. “But apparently Heaven has heard your prayer about silencing the pompous windbag.”
Wrexford looked around.Excellent—if anyone could tease him out of a sullen mood it was Kit.
Christopher Sheffield, the earl’s closest friend since their Oxford days, sauntered up to the table and slouched against the back of Wrexford’s chair, a sardonic smile on his unshaven face.
“Or perhaps I should rather say hell has caught wind of your incantation.” Sheffield had a flair for theatrics. He picked at a thread dangling from his cuff, deliberately drawing out the moment of suspense.
