“Cut wind, Sheffield,” growled Pierpont as he gathered up the cards for a new hand. “If you’ve something to say, spit it out. We’re in the midst of serious play here and are in no mood for interruption.”
“Ah, but another far more interesting game is afoot,” replied Sheffield, shifting his stance just enough to catch Wrexford’s eye. “I’ve just come from White’s, which is all abuzz with the news that the Reverend Josiah Holworthy has just been found dead in St. Stephen’s Church on Black Swan Lane, his face burned by a noxious chemical, his throat cut from ear to ear.”
The shuffling ceased.
“And wagers are already filling the betting book that you, my dear Wrex, are the odds-on favorite to be taken up for the murder.”
CHAPTER 2
Her blood was still thumping against her temples as Charlotte slid into her chair and began to sharpen her quill.
Breathe, she reminded herself. Although her lungs were once again functioning normally, she couldn’t seem to flush the ghastly metallic smell of death from her nostrils. That and the putrid stench of chemicals and scorched skin.
Like Raven, she had been a mere hairsbreadth away from puking at the horrible sight of Holworthy’s ravaged face, though she had taken great pains to appear unmoved. Life in London’s rougher areas was a hardscrabble existence. The boys needed a touchstone of steadiness and strength to set an example that poverty did not need to rob a person of hope or humanity.
So, too, had her late husband, reflected Charlotte, carefully working the penknife over the delicate tip of the goose feather. An uncharitable thought, perhaps. But no less true.
Anthony had often behaved more like a child than the two homeless urchins who had taken to sleeping in the entrance hall of her rented house. His resilience had slowly been worn away by the constant grind of survival, his optimism giving way to bitter complaints about the unfairness of life. While the young brothers showed a stoicism and resourcefulness beyond their tender years.
The oil lamp on her desk flickered weakly. Charlotte paused to turn up the wick, her gaze straying for an unwilling moment around the shadow-shrouded room. This was not how she had imagined her life either—mistress of naught but cramped quarters furnished with humble necessities. Squeezed cheek by jowl into a row of other similar structures, the razor-thin building was crumbling around her ears. The stove gave off a weak heat in winter, while the tiny windows did nothing to relieve the stifling heat of summer. In hindsight—
But looking back was a waste of time. All that mattered was the future and how she was going to create a more stable life for herself. Yes, her prints were becoming more and more popular, and earning more each week. Yes, she could afford better than this.
And yet Charlotte knew how fickle Fate could be. Just as she knew how poverty threatened to grind away one’s hopes and dreams. After slowly paying off Anthony’s debts, she had resolved to live frugally for the time being and save most of her earnings to build up a buffer against ever having to suffer through such hardships again. Perhaps there would come a time....
Be that as it may, for now she must focus on the present.
She shifted, and suddenly remembered the small scrap of paper she had plucked from the shirt cuff of Holworthy’s lifeless hand. A whispery crackle stirred the air as she pulled it from her pocket and took a peek. It was nothing more than a scribble and for a brief moment she was tempted to get rid of the tangible proof that she had fiddled with the evidence.
What’s done was done—she couldn’t very well turn it into the authorities without risking her own neck.
But Charlotte hesitated. She had learned that having information no one else possessed, however insignificant it seemed, was a key to survival.Life and death—one must fight tooth and claw.... Repressing a niggling sense of guilt, she quickly unlocked the hidden compartment in her desk, the place where she kept her most precious secrets, and hid it away.
Taking up the penknife, Charlotte finished making the last few cuts to the quill, then dipped her pen into the inkwell and set to work.
* * *
“Coffee, Thomas—and quickly.” Wrexford squinted at the sunlight pouring in through the high arched windows of the breakfast room and shaded his eyes. “Do make sure it’s strong and scalding hot.”
“Yes, milord.” The footman hurried off, taking extra care to move noiselessly over the Aubusson carpet.
The staff, observed the earl, had likely been warned that his temper was not to be trifled with this morning. They were a well-trained lot, working with oiled efficiency no matter his moods. He reminded himself to have Tyler send a bottle of brandy to the servants’ table tonight.
As for himself . . . Wincing, Wrexford pressed his palms to his brow. In penance for the previous night, he ought to have naught but bread and water.
Thomas returned with the coffee, and then discreetly disappeared.
To hell with his sins.Wrexford poured a cup and closed his eyes, savoring the rich burn of the brew as he took a long swallow.
“You’re up early.” The door banged open, allowing Sheffield to saunter in uninvited.
“It’s nearly noon,” replied Wrexford. “Which begs the question of why you aren’t sleeping off your revelries and allowing me to enjoy my breakfast in peace.”
“Normally I would be dead to the world at this hour.” Pulling out one of the Chippendale chairs, Sheffield sunk into a sinuous slouch and ran a hand through his unruly shock of wheat-gold hair. He was nearly as tall as the earl, but less broad in the shoulders, which accentuated the whippet-like grace of his movements. “However, I expect you’ll have a visit from the magistrate this morning and I wouldn’t miss such theatre for all the tea in China.”
“Thank you for the moral support.
“Besides, I’m famished,” added his friend. “And my pockets are temporarily empty. I lost heavily at the tables last night.” He plucked a muffin from the basket of fresh pastries. “Luck really is a duplicitous bitch.”
