Murder at Kensington Palace Page 4

  “Perhaps,” agreed the earl. “Though Griffin, as you know, is very careful and methodical about his investigations. And damning evidence was found in Mr. Locke’s rooms at the Albany Hotel.”

  Her heart lurched. The boys she remembered were bright, generous-spirited souls, full of laughter and kindness. But people changed. Saints became sinners. Goodness turned to greed.

  Hugging her arms to her chest, Charlotte wrenched her thoughts back to the present. “Has Griffin taken Nicky to Bow Street?”

  Wrexford shook his head. “Newgate.”

  “Newgate!” A surge of outrage lifted Charlotte to her feet. “That putrid, pestilent bastion of depravity! He’s from a wellborn family—”

  “And accused of murdering his brother,” he pointed out, “in a shockingly foul way.”

  “Nicky didn’t do it!” She was shouting, and didn’t care. “Be damned with Griffin and his evidence. I tell you, he’s made a dreadful mistake.”

  The earl drew in a measured breath and released it without making a sound. His air of stoic calm was infuriating.

  “I must see Nicky.” She started for the door. “Now.”

  Wrexford’s reaction was panther-quick. He was out of his chair in a blur of black and caught hold of her arm.

  “Let go of me,” demanded Charlotte, trying to pull free.

  His grip tightened. “Mrs. Sloane, you aren’t thinking with your usual clarity. What do you think the chances are of an unaccompanied woman arriving unannounced and being let through the iron-banded portal of London’s most formidable prison?”

  Nil, she mentally conceded.

  “Exactly,” he murmured when she said nothing. “Even if I were to come with you, it would be a waste of time without arranging for the proper permissions—and the requisite bribes.”

  Charlotte knew he was right, and at that instant hated him for it.

  “You needn’t bother with all that. I shall ask Jeremy to help me.” Her childhood friend, now Baron Sterling, was a better choice—not simply out of spite, but because he, too, had been a playmate with the two brothers.

  Wrexford’s brows notched up in sardonic reaction. “It’s understandable that you would prefer Sterling.” The two gentlemen had come to know each other during the investigation of Elihu Ashton’s murder. But to call them friends would be exaggerating the connection. “However, if you recall, he’s away in Yorkshire, helping to work out the ramifications of the last murder we investigated.” Jeremy had been very good friends with the victim and his two assistants. “Even if you send an urgent summons, it will take a number of days for him to return. And time is of the essence.”

  He was right—she wasn’t thinking straight. Even if Jeremy could arrive quickly, it would be wrong of her to call him away from those who needed his expertise.

  “I’ll go see Griffin now and work out all the arrangements to visit the prisoner tomorrow,” he went on. “I’ll send around a carriage, if that is acceptable to you.”

  Her blood still at a boil, Charlotte was tempted to throw his well-reasoned offer back in his face. But sanity quickly reasserted itself.

  “Thank you.” Suddenly ashamed of her earlier outburst, Charlotte lifted her gaze to meet his. “Forgive me, Wrexford. It’s not you. I’m simply angry at . . .”

  At what? The fickleness of Fate?

  “I’m simply angry at the whole bloody cosmos, I suppose.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mrs. Sloane,” he said softly.

  “Damnation.” She felt the skin tighten over the bones of her face. “I thought you said the universe ran on orderly, scientific rules—the Earth circles the Sun, the tides rise and fall, the seasons come and go in an unchangeable pattern.”

  “The laws of Nature do have a natural cycle for our life and death,” Wrexford replied. “It’s we ourselves who muck it up with our unholy attraction to the Seven Deadly Sins.”

  Nodding absently, Charlotte shifted her stance, suddenly desperate to be alone. She knew he was trying to help, but her emotions were too jumbled for rational conversation. She needed to think.

  The earl waited another few moments, and when she still didn’t reply, he moved to the doorway. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll send word once I’ve arranged the final timing.”

  She waited until he left the house before returning to her workroom. Time seemed skewed—it felt like it took forever to climb the stairs and take a seat at her desk. The colors on her palette looked all wrong. Her mind felt numb, a deadweight detached from her body, floating within an impenetrable black cloud.

  One swift slice of steel, and her carefully constructed world had been knocked to flinders.

  A minute ticked by, and then another. “And I can either cry while every drop of hope spills out,” she whispered, “or find a way to salvage what’s left.”

  The thought of Nicky in prison roused her from the stranglehold of despair. He would likely swing from the gallows unless she could find a way to prove him innocent.

  Charlotte sat unblinking, unmoving. To do so might require her to sacrifice her own hard-won life in order to save his.

  Which, of course, she would do in a heartbeat.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was late, a spitting rain deepening the night shadows to an impenetrable gloom by the time Wrexford tracked Griffin to a seedy tavern near Covent Garden.

  “Milord.” The Runner looked up from a plate of pickle and cheddar. “What brings you to these humble environs—other than the magnanimous urge to gift me with a joint of roast beef and an apple tart for the rest of my supper.”

  The earl took a seat at the rough-planked table. “A favor.” He signaled for the barmaid to bring two tankards of ale. “Given your prodigious capacity for consuming food when I’m paying for it, I daresay you’re getting the best of the bargain.”

  “Indeed?” Griffin took a small bite of cheese and chewed meditatively. “To what do I owe such good fortune?”

  “The misery of others,” shot back Wrexford. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’d like you to arrange for me to meet with Nicholas Locke.”

  The Runner’s heavily lidded gaze suddenly sharpened. A big, chunky man, Griffin’s slow movements and taciturn manner fooled many people into thinking he was a beef-witted sluggard. They quickly learned their mistake.

  “You told me earlier that you didn’t know the fellow from Adam. Why the sudden interest?”

  “Call it scientific curiosity.”

  Griffin snorted a low sound that sounded suspiciously rude. “There’s nothing scientific about murder, milord. It’s all about pure primal passions.” He paused as the barmaid set down the drinks, then took up one of the tankards and quaffed a long swallow. “But since we’re talking about curiosity, I can’t help wondering why you’re so interested in Mr. Locke.”

  Wrexford took a swallow of his ale and quickly set it down. “You have execrable taste in taverns. This is horse piss—if not something worse.”

  A chuckle rumbled in the Runner’s throat. “Flossie brought you the cheapest brew, to save your purse.”

  “I’d rather save my gullet.”

  The quips didn’t distract Griffin from his original question. Like a mastiff with a bone between his teeth, he never let go of any evidence that might affect his investigation of a crime.

  “Swallow your sarcasm, milord.” He took another bite of cheese. “Have you reason to believe Locke is innocent?”

  “I’m not sure,” answered the earl. “Let’s just say I’ve had a conversation which indicates the possibility exists.”

  Griffin set his elbows on the table. “What sort of conversation?”

  “A private one.” The earl held up his hand to forestall the Runner’s retort. “That’s all I can say right now. I’ve no evidence to indicate that you’ve arrested the wrong man, merely the assertion from a friend of Locke that he couldn’t be guilty of such a heinous crime. The brothers have apparently always been close.”

  “Greed and envy have a way of p
oisoning brotherly love,” observed Griffin. “Chittenden had only recently inherited the title. That could have changed everything.”

  “True,” agreed the earl. “It seems the most logical explanation. And I’m a great believer in logic . . .” He leaned back and watched Griffin dig into the just-delivered platter of beef and boiled potatoes.

  “And yet?” said the Runner after swallowing a bite.

  “And yet, I don’t see the harm in my having a talk with the young man. He might be more forthcoming with me than an officer of the law.”

  Griffin took several long, drawn-out moments to consider the earl’s suggestion.

  He was, thought Wrexford wryly, far quicker with his fork than with his words.

  “Very well.” Finally a muffled murmur came as the Runner finished with the beef and turned his attention to the wedge of apple tart. “I’ll make the arrangements. But it goes without saying that in return, you’ll inform me of any facts I ought to know.”

  “Agreed.” The earl rose, hiding a smile. Clever as Griffin was, he had left his demand wide open to interpretation. “Thank you. And now, I’ll leave you to finish your supper in uninterrupted bliss.”

  The Runner wiped a bit of custard from his chin. “Doing business with you is always a pleasure, milord.”

  Wrexford made his way out to the narrow street, and wound his way down through the byways to the Strand, where he managed to flag down a passing hackney. Even though the rain had turned to a fine mizzle, he was chilled to the bone when he arrived home. Tossing his damp overcoat and hat aside, he moved to the sideboard of his workroom and, ignoring the rumbled protests of his empty stomach, poured himself a whisky instead of ringing for a late supper.

  After stirring the coals to life in the hearth, he took a seat by the fire and sipped at the dark amber malt, feeling its heat slowly seep through his body. Still, much as he tried to relax, the muscles in his shoulders refused to unknot.

  Secrets tangling with conundrums. Whatever the ties that bound Charlotte to the two brothers, the murder had shaken her to the core.

  “Bloody hell.” An exasperated sigh fogged the glass as he held it up to the flames. Damn her for not having enough faith in their friendship to confide in him as to why. They had tested each other’s mettle in ways that should have forged a stronger bond of trust. And there had been that brief interlude when both of them had lowered their defenses enough to say . . .

  But perhaps the words and the brief, ethereal kiss had been sparked by the impulsive elation of having dodged death.

  Lapsing into a dark mood, he swallowed the rest of the whisky in one quick gulp and then rose to pour himself another.

  As he set the decanter back on its silver tray, the door flung open and Tyler hurried in. From the look of his dripping garments, it appeared the rain had come back with a vengeance.

  “I trust you’ll offer me a dram as well.” After stripping off his coat and hat, his valet moved to warm his hands by the fire. “In fact, you ought to hand over the key to the wine cellar for the coming week,” he added a little smugly. “I richly deserve it.”

  Wrexford wordlessly poured a healthy measure of whisky and handed it over.

  Tyler took an appreciative gulp and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Ah, lovely. The nuanced flavors of a Speyside malt always warm the cockles.”

  “When you’ve finished your theatrics,” muttered the earl impatiently, “might you consent to share with me what you’ve discovered?”

  With a martyred sigh, the valet carefully pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. “I think I’ve found the answers you’re looking for.”

  Wrexford stared at the notes, watching the red-gold firelight flit across the creases and curling corners.

  “It seems that Mrs. Sloane—” Seeing the earl’s brusque wave, Tyler fell silent.

  “Just hand them over, if you please,” he muttered.

  Sensing the earl’s unsettled mood, the valet refrained from further comment and did as he was asked.

  The notes gave a whispery crackle, the night-chilled smoothness of the paper setting off sparks against his palms. Strangely enough, with Charlotte’s secrets now at his mercy, Wrexford found himself hesitating.

  Tyler tactfully turned away and began to fuss with hanging up their wet overcoats.

  Tit for tat, he told himself. Charlotte would have no right to complain of his methods, given how she made her living. Uncovering the intimate foibles of others was fair game . . .

  Turning abruptly, the papers still unfolded, Wrexford crossed to the hearth and dropped them atop the burning coals.

  Flames shot up.

  Perhaps I’m a bloody fool, he thought, watching the papers blacken and then dissolve to ghostly white ash. But friendship, however exasperating, was friendship. It seemed elementally wrong to steal Charlotte’s personal secrets through subterfuge. When she was ready to tell him, she would.

  And if she decided he couldn’t be trusted, then bloody hell, they weren’t really worth knowing.

  * * *

  Charlotte awoke from a fitful sleep and lay still as the grey, watery dawn light seeped in through her bedchamber window and spread over her coverlet. Her body ached from tossing and turning all night. If only the previous day had been just a bad dream.

  “Yes, and if wishes were unicorns, then I could fly to the moon in a spun-sugar carriage,” she whispered.

  The thought was absurdly appealing.

  Throwing off such longings, along with the bedcovers, she rose and padded down to the kitchen to riddle the stove and put on the kettle. Perhaps tea—pip, pip, the English panacea for any ailment—would help settle the queasy churning in her stomach.

  The boys had learned nothing from their inquiries. None of their usual sources reported seeing any suspicious activity around the Palace on the night of the murder.

  Which begged the question . . .

  Is Nicky guilty or innocent? Charlotte was dreading the coming meeting. It was, in a sense, a two-edged sword. Either way it swung would cut her to the bone.

  The hiss of the water coming to boil echoed her own conflicted feelings.

  “You’re up early.” McClellan entered the kitchen and quietly set to measuring out tea from the canister and preparing the pot.

  Charlotte shifted in her chair.

  “Do you wish to talk about whatever is plaguing your thoughts?” murmured the maid as she carried the tea tray to the table and poured a cup for each of them.

  The swirl of fragrant steam seemed to release some of the tension from her overwrought nerves. “Not really.” A hesitation. “I simply fear I’m going to have to make a very difficult decision. One that will leave me no choice as to what I must do.”

  “One always has a choice, Mrs. Sloane.” McClellan put a pan on the hob and began slicing bread to fry with the fat-streaked strips of gammon. “You’re simply too principled to choose your own self-interests over aiding those in need.”

  How much the other woman guessed about her dilemma was impossible to know. McClellan, too, kept her thoughts to herself, but there was no missing the glint of lively intelligence and steely sharpness in her eyes.

  “Principled?” Cradling the warm cup in her hands, Charlotte took a sip. “More likely buffle-headed.” She blew away a wisp of steam. “Both the victim of the recent murder and the man accused of the crime are very dear to me. If I am to find the real killer and see that justice is done, there’s a good chance that I must step out of the shadows. Which means I will have to tell the boys, and you, and all my friends—about my past.”

  “That includes Wrexford, I imagine,” murmured McClellan.

  Charlotte drew in a deep breath. “Wrexford already knows.”

  The other woman’s expression didn’t change.

  “I asked him to keep it a secret until I felt ready to take the momentous step.”

  “And you don’t really wish to?”

  “Let’s just say it will change
everything,” Charlotte replied carefully.

  Grease sizzled as the meat slapped against hot cast iron. “How so?”

  “I . . . I suppose secrets are like a comfortable cloak. They hide all the warts and imperfections that we prefer for our friends not to see.” Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Or perhaps it’s merely the illusion of having our vulnerabilities covered that provides the comfort.”

  “It seems to me that Wrexford doesn’t look at you any differently.” Taking up a fork, McClellan shifted the fried meat to a plate and added eggs to the frying pan. She didn’t elaborate on the statement.

  The smell of food was unexpectedly welcome. Charlotte hadn’t expected to feel hungry.

  “I’m not so sure,” she replied. “The earl can be mercurial.” And unpredictable. “His moods make him—”

  A sudden rapping of the front door knocker interrupted her words. Charlotte tensed. The early hour meant it wasn’t a social call.

  “I’ll go see who it is.” McClellan wiped her hands on her apron and hurried down the corridor—though not before slipping a kitchen knife into one of the pockets.

  She returned shortly with a missive bearing the earl’s crest.

  Charlotte quickly broke the wax wafer and scanned the contents. Wrexford had somehow worked magic overnight. “It seems the earl has arranged permission to visit Newgate, but it must be done before the night guards go off duty. He’ll be here shortly.” Which meant the moment of reckoning was coming even sooner than she expected. “I must hurry and dress.”

  * * *

  The wide brim of Charlotte’s oversized hat curled down to hide her eyes, making impossible for Wrexford to read her face. Dark on dark, shadows dipped and darted beneath the drab brown wool. She had smudged dirt on her face, making her expression even more impenetrable.

  In his note, he had suggested that she dress as a street urchin, a disguise she wore like a second skin. A lady seeking entrance to Newgate would draw too much attention, something they wished to avoid.

  “Mrs. Sloane,” he said, reluctantly interrupting whatever thoughts were swirling in her head. “I must remind you to let me do all the talking with the officials. Once we are in the cell, I shall defer to you.”