Canaday looked as if he was going to be ill. “N-Never that! It’s of great sentimental value to the family. And besides, it’s part of the entail—couldn’t sell it if I wanted to.”
“Bad luck for you,” murmured Wrexford. “I’m familiar enough with the Old Masters to know it would solve your money worries in one fell swoop.”
* * *
With a few quick flicks of her pen, Charlotte drew in some shadowing around the faces, then leaned back to assess her handiwork.
It was, she decided, suitably provocative.
Anthony had described the main room of The Ancients’s clubhouse in great detail many times. As for the members, she knew all too well what Stoughton looked liked. His crony—St. Alban? St. Aubin?—she had seen only once, but she had a good memory for faces. And Wrexford’s description of Canaday was still fresh in her mind.
She was sure it was accurate, and once she added highlights of garish color to accentuate the grotesquely exaggerated portraits, it would be sensational enough to grab the public’s attention.
Especially when she penned in a titillating title and subtext.
Propping up the paper, she stared at the three men and the shadowy silhouettes she had sketched in behind them. Was one of The Ancients a murderer? Both Wrexford’s evidence and her intuition said yes.
If so, perhaps shining a glaring light on the club’s dark doings would spook the guilty man into giving himself away.
Charlotte took up a pencil and began to play with possibilities for the wording for the headline. It had to be titillating—and outrageous enough to provoke gossip.
Why was Reverend Holworthy REALLY murdered?
Yes, that should throw oil on the fires of speculation. She tested a few phrases to write in under it, but crossed them out as too tame.
“Think, think,” she murmured, looking at the details of her drawing. The pile of old books, the large open volume on the ornate table, with the men cackling over the strange symbols on the yellowed pages.
Ah, inspiration struck.
Does the answer lie in an ANCIENT secret?
It was perfect—the thinly veiled references would soon have all of London abuzz with speculation.
CHAPTER 17
“Dratted woman,” muttered Wrexford. He kicked a clump of rotting cabbage out of his path, and took savage satisfaction in hearing it explode against the grimy brick of the narrow alleyway. The day had already taken an unpleasant turn. At breakfast, his exasperation over the Runner’s misguided investigation had quickly given way to a more visceral emotion on having Charlotte’s newly published satirical print delivered along with his eggs and muffins.
A grim-faced Tyler had come home from his daily trip to Fores’s shop and wordlessly unrolled the offending art on the dining table.
Dropping his plans to march over to Bow Street and confront Griffin, Wrexford had instead grabbed his coat and set off at a brisk pace for another part of Town.
He had to admit, she had a reckless courage. He would have applauded it—had he not instead wanted to wrap his hands around her bloody neck and shake some sense into her.
“Willful . . . Stubborn . . . Unreasonable.” The ricochet of a stone punctuated each growl. He would have moved on to epithets had he not grudgingly admitted that there was a degree of ironic humor in the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.
No wonder his friends—what few he had—found him so aggravating to deal with.
A sardonic smile touched his lips, but quickly tightened to a frown. However brave, Charlotte had put herself at grave risk by poking a stick into this particular nest of vipers. He was fairly certain that at least one of them was a murderer, one who already had shown no compunction about eliminating anyone who might be a threat to exposing his identity.
Multiply the danger by at least two other unscrupulous dastards, or maybe three.... He didn’t peg Canaday for the murderer—the man lacked the nerve. Was it Stoughton or St. Aubin? Or someone who as yet had been too clever to show his colors?
Whatever the number, only rudimentary math skills were needed to calculate that she was dancing on a razor’s edge.
The earl was several streets away from Charlotte’s house when he spotted Raven and Hawk in the entrance to an alleyway, taking turns pitching rocks at a half-broken bottle.
“You there—weasels!” he called. “Come here.”
The younger boy laughed and trotted over to him. Raven was slower to respond, and crossed the muddy lane with deliberately slow steps. “Whatcha wont?” he demanded, lifting his chin to a pugnacious tilt.
