Murder at Queen's Landing Page 4

That made him Wrexford.

  Their relationship had taken a number of twists and turns, the way all too often darkened by danger. And of late, it had taken a new spin . . . one that still seemed to have both of them off-balance. Perhaps if in the future they stopped tripping over dead bodies, they could begin to sort out their personal feelings.. . .

  “The future? Ha!” Shoving aside her musings, Charlotte crumpled the sketch and drew a fresh sheet onto the blotter. “I had better concentrate on the present.”

  After several long moments, a sigh of relief slipped from her lips as she suddenly remembered the bit of gossip McClellan, the redoubtable woman who served as both maid and general taskmaster in their little household, had mentioned at breakfast. A highwayman had apparently accosted a carriage last night on Hounslow Heath and robbed the lone traveler of a princely sum of valuables.

  That the victim was the notoriously eccentric Duchess of York, wife of the king’s second son, would delight the masses, who, along with having a soft spot for the romantic image of a dashing highwayman, loved nothing more than to laugh at the follies of their betters. The duchess’s marriage was not a happy one, and she had taken up residence at Oatlands, the family estate in Surrey, where she lived alone, with a vast menagerie of animals to keep her company.

  She was said to be particularly fond of her pugs and pet monkeys.

  Repressing a grin, Charlotte reached for her paint box and began mixing a batch of garish colors. Already she was imagining the drawing’s composition—the carriage, with drooling dogs peering from all the windows and a capering monkey dressed in a footman’s livery throwing a coconut at the pistol-wielding highwayman. After all, the public needed to laugh as well as ponder the serious issues that often resonated in her satire.

  With a few quick pencil strokes, she drew in the basic outlines, then reached for her pen. . . .

  A loud pounding on the front door nearly caused Charlotte to spill the inkwell.

  “Now what?” she murmured after expelling a harried sigh.

  “Oiy, oiy!” cried a reedy voice as McClellan admitted the caller. “There’s been a ’orrible murder down by the wharf where de rich skivvies bring in their puffers from the east!”

  * * *

  “Hold your horses, Skinny,” called Charlotte as she hurried down the stairs. The rail-thin streetsweep, never easy to understand under the best of circumstances, tended to mangle his vowels when he was excited. “And please repeat what you just said—at a walk, not a gallop.”

  “Oiy,” snorted the lad in frustration. “Ye didn’t skibble wot I jez sed?”

  Charlotte smiled at McClellan. “Perhaps ginger biscuits would smooth out the rough edges of Skinny’s tongue.”

  The boy was part of a small band of urchins—all friends of Raven and Hawk from their time of living on the streets—who regularly gathered information for Charlotte. Their eyes and ears had also proved invaluable in previous murder investigations.

  “Indeed,” agreed the maid. “I daresay a jam tart and a cup of sugared tea would help, as well.”

  “Aye, that would do the trick.” Skinny’s pronunciation was suddenly greatly improved.

  Charlotte looked down at the boy’s muck-encrusted shoes and gave a mental wince before saying, “Excellent. Now come have a seat in the parlor while McClellan fetches the refreshments.”

  “Where’s Raven and Hawk?” asked Skinny as he scampered to one of the pillowed armchairs, leaving a trail of dried dung on the carpet.

  Charlotte furrowed her brow, suddenly realizing she hadn’t yet seen her young wards.

  The brothers had first come under her wing while her late husband had still been alive—two half-wild street urchins who ran errands in return for scraps of food and a place to sleep. But they had come to be a family, tied together by love rather than blood. In fact, she had recently become their legal guardian, though how that had come about was rather complicated....

  She sighed. A maid proficient in wielding a pistol and picking a lock . . . two streetwise-beyond-their-years urchins . . . and herself, a lady with so many personas she sometimes feared her true self was becoming blurred beyond recognition.

  Theirs was, admittedly, an exceedingly eccentric household.

  McClellan’s brusque cough brought her back to the present. “I believe they went out before you awoke.”

  “To do what?” she asked.

  “As to that, I really can’t say.”

  “Hmmph.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Well, I do hope Raven remembers that he has a mathematics lesson with Lady Cordelia later this afternoon.” Though whether his tutor was in any frame of mind to recall the appointment was another question.

  However, she pushed that thought aside on hearing Skinny start to squirm. For her, adding up all the elements of a murder was a far more intriguing challenge than a page full of numbers.

  * * *

  Wrexford tightened the sash of his dressing gown and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “I must be getting old,” he muttered. In the past, a night of dancing and drinking champagne wouldn’t have left him feeling as if a spike had been hammered through his skull.

  Though in truth, he admitted after swallowing a sip of the scalding devil-dark brew, it was unlikely that the ballroom revelries were responsible for his throbbing head. They had been surprisingly pleasant. Dancing with Charlotte was . . .

  He suddenly recalled her musings on how some things defied words. What a pair they were—conundrums wrapped in conundrums. And yet, strangely enough, that thought provoked a smile.

  A mistake. The tiny facial movement sent another sharp stab through the back of his head.

  Wrexford took another swallow of coffee and then began massaging at his temples. The fault for his present condition lay in his workroom, not the Countess of Lexington’s opulent mansion. On returning home from the ball, he had taken a moment to read over the books that Tyler had left out for him regarding Silliman’s experiments. One thing had led to another, and he had stayed up until well past dawn, working at close quarters among the fumes of some potent acids.

  Ah, but science requires sacrifice.

  After picking up his cup, the earl ambled out of the breakfast room and headed for the rear of the townhouse, curious to see how the experiments were progressing. To his surprise, he heard voices emanating from the workroom. One of them was Tyler’s. And the other . . .

  “Ah, there you are, milord.” A big, beefy man turned from studying the esoteric objects displayed in the curio cabinet and eyed Wrexford’s sleep-tousled hair and unshaven jaw. “Apparently, there’s no truth to the old adage ‘No rest for the wicked.’ ”

  “On the contrary, Griffin, I’ve been sleeping the sleep of the innocent,” Wrexford retorted. He and the Bow Street Runner had first met when Griffin had suspected him of a gruesome murder, but they had since become allies rather than adversaries and had worked together in solving several other deaths. “So please swallow any further attempts at humor. I’ve not yet had my breakfast.”

  A smile curled at the corners of Griffin’s lips. “What are we having?”

  “Bloody hell, how do you survive when you’re not feasting off my largesse?” grumbled Wrexford. Their meetings usually took place at a tavern, with the earl purchasing a very handsome meal in return for the Runner’s help in working through the conundrums of a case.

  “Very poorly,” shot back Griffin. He gave an appreciative sniff as a footman discreetly knocked, then entered the room, bearing a large tray of covered dishes.

  The earl blew out a long-suffering sigh. “You might as well set an extra place, Tyler. Otherwise he’ll stay for supper.”

  The valet dutifully cleared a spot on the massive desk and carried over an extra chair.

  “Much obliged, milord,” murmured the Runner.

  Wrexford slouched into his seat and poured a fresh cup of coffee. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit—other than the need for you to fill your growling breadbox?”


  “The fact that you’re the most learned man I know.” Griffin helped himself to a freshly baked muffin. “Does the word argentum mean anything to you?”

  “Anyone who’s had the classical languages thumped into his head can’t help but know it,” the earl replied. “It’s Latin for ‘silver.’ ”

  “Hmmm.” The Runner took a bite of the pastry and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Why do you ask?”

  A swallow. “There was a murder at Queen’s Landing last night. The watchman who found the victim reported that he said the word argentum—several times, in fact—with his last dying breath.”

  “Who’s the dead man?” inquired Wrexford.

  “A clerk with the East India Company,” answered the Runner.

  “With all the unloading of valuable cargoes, the Company wharves attract a criminal element,” observed the earl. “Perhaps he witnessed the theft of a silver shipment, and that’s why he was killed.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Griffin as he studied the sultanas studding his muffin. “But . . .” He looked up. “Why say it in Latin?”

  Wrexford shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Hmmm.” The Runner sliced off a large chunk of ham and forked it into his mouth.

  Griffin’s slow movements and laconic style of speech often caused people to think he was dim witted. The earl, however, knew otherwise.

  “What is it about the death that’s caught your attention?” he asked. “Bow Street prefers that you investigate crimes involving the highest circles of Society. So, regrettable as it is, the murder of a clerk wouldn’t normally be a case that concerns you.”

  “I can’t say for sure.” Griffin polished off a bite of eggs before adding, “At least not yet.”

  “Well, do take your time in thinking it over,” quipped Wrexford. “You’ve still got a platter of deviled kidneys and a slice of pigeon pie to plow through.” He rose. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. Unlike you and Tyler, I have work to do.”

  * * *

  “Now, about the murder . . . Let us start from the beginning,” said Charlotte, taking a seat in the armchair facing Skinny.

  “It happened last night at Queen’s Landing,” replied the streetsweep. “The watchmen found the cove just before eleven bells in an alleyway near the gate leading out to Commercial Road.” His eyes widened. “Word is, his throat was sliced open from ear te ear.”

  Her stomach gave a small lurch at the gruesome detail. “Is the victim’s identity known?” she asked.

  Skinny nodded. “Oiy, Alice the Eel Girl heard from Pudge that he was a . . . a clerk.” His face scrunched in thought. “Wot’s a clerk?”

  “A man who keeps all the records organized for a company. He writes down all the business information and makes copies of all the letters sent and received,” explained Charlotte.

  “Sounds boring.” Skinny rubbed at a gob of mud on his sleeve. “Are you and His Nibs gonna solve the murder?”

  Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt. Much as she mourned the passing of any living being, she couldn’t find justice for all of them.

  London was a large city, and murders were a grim reality of its everyday life. The heartless truth was, only those that involved a prominent person or touched on a juicy scandal were of interest to the public who purchased her prints. Mr. Fores wouldn’t publish something that everyone from the lowest pauper to the highest aristocrat knew was true—that countless nameless souls who inhabited the city would die as they had lived, with no one taking note of their existence.

  “Alas, I’m not sure that Lord Wrexford and I can be of any help in this case,” she said softly. “The man was likely killed for the few pence in his pocket, and the murderer has melted back into the stews, leaving no trail of his misdeed.”

  “Aye,” agreed Skinny, with fatalism well beyond his years. “Bad things just happen. Not much ye can do about it when the Reaper decides te swing his blade at ye.” His expression quickly brightened, however, as McClellan carried in a tray heaped with treats and moved a side table in front of his chair.

  As he dug noisily into a jam tart, Charlotte leaned back, feeling troubled by the conversation.

  Am I losing my moral compass?

  Once she had made the momentous decision to step back into the splendor of the beau monde, she had vowed that she wouldn’t lose her passion for fighting against the injustices of the world. But what if its seductive pleasures tempted her into losing her edge?

  The thought squeezed the air from her lungs.

  Lost in her brooding, Charlotte didn’t hear the front door open or the patter of light-footed steps in the corridor. It was the sudden lush swirl of floral perfume tickling at her nose that caused her to sit up.

  “Faawgh,” exclaimed Skinny, making a face. “What happened? It smells like a French brothel in here.”

  “It’s ungentlemanly to say the word brothel in front of a lady,” called Hawk as he and his brother paused just outside the parlor.

  Skinny grinned. “I ain’t a gentlemun.”

  “No—you’re an imp of Satan,” called McClellan from the corridor. “I swear, you’ve left more horse droppings on the rug than a regiment of the King’s Household cavalry!”

  “Let us not tease Skinny,” chided Charlotte as she turned in her chair. “I—”

  Her words stuck in her throat as she caught sight of the massive bouquet of flowers the boys were carrying toward her. Pale pinks, creamy whites, and dusky lavenders, punctuated by curls of leafy greenery . . . and two dirt-streaked faces peering at her through the fronds.

  The effect was breathtakingly beautiful.

  A low whistle sounded. Even Skinny was rendered speechless.

  “Mr. Tyler said that it’s de-de . . . ,” stuttered Hawk.

  “De rigueur,” prompted Raven.

  “That it’s de rigueur for a gentleman to show his admiration for a lady after a ball by sending her flowers the next day,” finished Hawk.

  “We know how well you waltz,” added Raven. The boys had served as her practice partners while Tyler and McClellan had taught her the steps of the dance in preparation for the occasion. “And we saw how grand you looked in your ball gown . . .”

  “Like a fairie princess!” chirped Hawk.

  “So we wanted to present you with a token of our esteem.” Raven then nudged his brother and waggled a brow.

  “Oh. Right.”

  They both stepped forward and bowed in perfect unison.

  Charlotte felt tears pearling on her lashes.

  “Do you like them?” asked Hawk, looking up through his tangled curls.

  “I love them.”

  They both smiled as she took the flowers, and suddenly the room seemed filled with a burst of warm light, chasing away the specter of Death and her own dark worries.

  “Here, let me take those and put them in a vase.” McClellan flashed a wink at the boys as she bustled by them. “Well done, Weasels.”

  “You knew,” murmured Charlotte.

  The maid assumed a look of innocence. “Knew what?”

  “Owwff.” Having polished off all the pastries, Skinny slid down from his chair. “I need te bobble my bones back te Piccadilly Street.” He looked at the boys. “Ye wanna come along?”

  “I can’t. I have a lesson.” Raven glanced at the mantel clock. “I’d better fetch my books and papers from upstairs.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Hawk. “I wish to have a look around Covent Garden and see if there are any interesting new plants to sketch.”

  “Mebbe we’ll hear something more about the murder,” said Skinny as the two boys trooped out of the parlor.

  “Thank heavens I don’t have to turn my pen to the subject of violent death for my drawing,” murmured Charlotte, though she still felt a little guilty that the poor man would go unremarked, save as a grim statistic. She turned and let out a startled huff.

  “Forgive me for appearing unannounced, but the front door was open.” Corde
lia Mansfield paused in the doorway. “And McClellan waved at me to enter.”

  Charlotte quickly smiled. “As you know, we don’t stand on ceremony in this house. Please come in. Raven is fetching his things from the aerie.”

  “What murder were the boys discussing?” asked Cordelia as she stepped into the sunlit parlor.

  “A clerk was knifed to death.”

  “How terrible,” replied her friend. “The city seems to be growing more perilous.”

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you. The crime took place far from Mayfair, and the dockyards are known for being dangerous places.”

  The bag of books Cordelia was carrying slipped from her grasp and fell to the carpet with a thud. “How clumsy of me,” she muttered, stooping to pick it up. “The crime occurred in the dockyards?”

  “On Queen’s Landing,” explained Charlotte.

  “Ah.” Her friend tightened her hold on the books. “As you say, a world away.”

  “Indeed, a world away.” Charlotte quickly cleared a jumble of skittles off the sofa table to make room for the sheets of equations and textbooks. “I’ll ask McClellan to bring some tea and biscuits,” she murmured after plucking the skull of a mouse from among the pillows and stuffing it into her pocket. “Sorry. Hawk was in here earlier, sketching from his collection of nature objects. But have no fear, there’s nothing alive back there.”

  She checked a few more nooks, just to be sure. “At least I don’t think so.”

  Cordelia gave a small smile, as she took a seat on the sofa. “As you know, I’m quite at home among eccentricities.”

  “No need for a summons.” McClellan appeared with refreshments. “I took it upon myself to fix some hearty refreshments.” She set down a tray loaded with savory tarts, fresh-baked bread, and a selection of cheeses. “You two were dancing until dawn, and that requires more than mere crumbs.”

  “Bless you,” murmured Charlotte, surprised to find she was ravenous.

  Cordelia, however, took only a tiny morsel of cheddar—and left it unnibbled on her plate.

  In response to the maid’s curiosity about the previous evening, the talk turned to the opulent decorations, the sumptuous refreshments, and the other guests.