“Bloody hell, pour me a brandy. I’ve run hell for leather across half of London,” he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gulps. “I did what you asked and dug around for more information about St. Aubin—and discovered that he, too, is a member of The Ancients. But for now, he’s not of primary concern—I think I’ve discovered who the murderer is.”
CHAPTER 15
Tyler moved to the pearwood console at the far end of the room, where a silver tray of elegant decanters sat centered between the two tall storage shelves filled with jars of chemicals.
“Make that Highland malt,” called Sheffield as he sank into a chair with a theatrical wince. “I need some fire in my belly to revive me.”
Wrexford crossed his arms and waited.
“There were no hackneys to be had in St. Giles,” continued his friend. “I’ve ruined a perfectly good pair of boots mucking through those stinking alleyways.” He flexed his hands. “Not to speak of bruising my knuckles fighting off a footpad.”
“I concede a round of applause for your valiant heroics,” said the earl. “And your flair for melodrama.” He waited for his friend to toss back a long swallow of his whisky. “Now kindly stubble the playacting, Kit, and tell us what you’ve learned.”
Sheffield straightened and assumed an air of injured dignity. “I’ll have you know I’ve put myself at considerable risk to pull your cods out of the fire. The least you could do is show some appreciation.”
“Kit,” warned the earl.
“It’s Canaday,” announced his friend without further ado. “He’s been lying through his teeth about his connection with Holworthy.”
“Which is?” queried the earl.
“They are cousins!” A note of triumph shaded Sheffield’s voice. “Granted, second or third cousins through Canaday’s mother. But according to Grantley, who grew up on the neighboring estate, the two of them have known each other since childhood. In fact, Holworthy spent several summers living with the baron’s family.”
“Cousins,” mused the earl. “And yet he took great pains to hide that fact.”
“Precisely! And the question is why,” said Sheffield eagerly.
Why, indeed. But this was no time to go off half cocked. Knowing his friend’s penchant for exaggerating, he moved to the bank of mullioned windows and stared out at the night shadows, carefully reviewing all that he knew about the baron.
The facts—look at the facts.As he considered the empirical evidence, this latest bit of information about Canaday made all the disparate pieces suddenly fit together.
“The question is why,” repeated Sheffield.
“That,” said Wrexford slowly, “is something I intend to ask him first thing in the morning. And this time, I shall rattle the truth out of him, if I have to break all two hundred and five bones in his body.”
“Two hundred and six,” murmured Tyler.
“To do that, you will have to journey to his estate in Kent,” said Sheffield. “On top of all else, I’ve learned he left London yesterday to spend a week at his estate in Kent.”
“Even better,” he replied. “I was already planning on having a look at his library. This will give me a chance to kill two birds with one stone.”
* * *
Charlotte let out a laugh as she thumbed through the drawings of the Tower lions. The childlike exuberance was endearing. There was an unfettered freedom to the lines and squiggles, an innocent enthusiasm that replaced the all-too-present streetwise wariness.
However, the humor quickly left her lips. She worried about the boys, especially Raven. He seemed more withdrawn of late, as if the weight of worldly responsibilities was pushing him inward. Charlotte knew he considered himself his brother’s protector. And she sensed that he had also taken her under his fledgling wing.
No boy that young should bear those burdens.
Raven had no idea of his age. To her eye he looked to be no more than eleven, and yet the recent spurt of growth might indicate he was a year older. She found it hard to think of him as more than a child. But in the stews, the age of twelve would be considered on the cusp of manhood. Why, boys of fourteen or fifteen routinely marched off to the hell-cursed war raging on the Continent.
A chilling thought.
She blinked back the sting of tears. Wrexford’s money would at least allow her to take better care of their basic needs. More nourishing food, a modicum of education, warm clothing . . . She made a mental note to make another visit to Petticoat Lane and buy less tattered garments for both of them.
It wasn’t nearly enough. They should know the joy of carefree play, of youthful laughter, of sweet, fresh air and streets free of pestilence and predators. Ah, but Life was often stingy with its favors. She had learned to be a pragmatist and take what was given.
The musing was a sharp reminder to turn her attention back to the books on alchemy. The boys had eaten their supper and hared off to deliver her latest drawings to the engraver, leaving her with several quiet hours in which to continue her study of the strange images.
