Page 13 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

C harlotte slept until nearly noon—an ungodly show of sloth for her—and yet still felt oddly muzzy as she went through the motions of dressing and making her way down to the kitchen.

In no mood for conversation, she was relieved to find that McClellan was busy with the housekeeper in another part of the house.

After fortifying herself with a cup of black coffee and a slice of fresh-baked bread slathered with butter, Charlotte sat for an interlude in the welcome warmth and solitude, simply letting the sweetly familiar yeast-scented air clear her head before heading off to her workroom.

However, drawn by the murmur of voices from the schoolroom, she turned left instead of right at the top of the landing.

The door was slightly ajar and on impulse, she crept closer and took up a position where she could safely eavesdrop without being seen.

Hearing the boys engaged in their studies—the lesson this morning was geography, and punctuated by the whispery turn of a large globe, their tutor was explaining the location and history of the Spice Islands—reminded her that for the most part, their lives were filled with light and laughter, not darkness and danger.

The thought helped loosen the knot in her chest.

A flurry of questions and answers followed. She appreciated how Mr. Lynsley challenged them, forcing them to think about their answers and whether there might be alternative perspectives. Most of all, the tutor did what a good teacher should do—he sought to spark their curiosity …

Not that the Weasels needed any encouragement!

After another few moments, she retreated to the quiet of her workroom, satisfied that at least for now they were in no danger of getting into mischief.

Speaking of mischief, news had reached their residence at first light that the monkey was now back in place at the Tower Menagerie—but not because it had been recaptured.

The animal had been discovered by its keeper, wrapped in its woolly blanket and fast asleep in the snug little wooden hut within the unlocked cage.

Charlotte’s lips quirked. No doubt the monkey had been smart enough to realize that being provided with food and shelter was far more comfortable than foraging through London in the dead of winter.

The public would, of course, wish to see a final drawing on how the Great Escape had come to an end. Humor helped relieve the fears and stresses of their own everyday life.

“We all need a good laugh,” she observed as she picked up her pen knife and sharpened her quill.

And yet her mind refused to focus on the task at hand.

Charlotte sat for a long moment, trying to force her fingers to begin the familiar process of creating a drawing.

But instead, she put down her pen and slid open the bottom drawer of her work desk.

The sight of the grimy canvas sent a shiver down her spine.

“Don’t,” she whispered, knowing that no good could come of keeping the macabre reminder. “Don’t look at it, don’t touch it …”

If he knew of the hidden talisman, Wrexford would use reason—along with an edge of sarcasm—to chide her for letting the incident spook such elemental fears.

Still, Charlotte couldn’t help but pick up the damaged rucksack and run her hand over the singed—

“Good heavens, what is that revolting object in your lap?”

Lost in her brooding, Charlotte hadn’t heard the tap-tap of her great-aunt’s cane as Alison, the dowager Countess of Peake, marched into the room.

“I would rather not speculate,” added Alison. “The possibilities that come to mind aren’t very pleasant.”

“Neither is the reality.” She sighed, deciding not to try to pull the wool over Alison’s eyes.

Such tactics were usually a waste of effort.

Age had not dimmed the dowager’s sapphirine gaze.

“Come, let us sit by the hearth. Much has happened during the fortnight that you were visiting your friend in Bath and taking the waters.”

“Yes, McClellan and I had a long talk as we sorted through samples of drapery fabric last night.” Alison raised her quizzing glass after settling on the sofa and subjected the rucksack to a thorough scrutiny. “I see that she wasn’t exaggerating about a bullet hole.”

“Alas, no.” Charlotte set the rucksack on the carpet, suddenly feeling as if the worn canvas was about to scorch her flesh, and went on to explain about the murder at Somerset House, and how Wrexford had felt compelled to help Durs Egg prove that his relative was not guilty of the crime.

After drawing a deep breath, she continued with the account of Raven’s brush with death and the suspicious evidence that had been recovered from the warehouse.

“I confess, I find myself …” she added after pausing to steady her voice. “I find myself quite unsettled.”

Alison edged closer and gave her a reassuring pat. “That’s very understandable.”

Charlotte responded with a wry smile. “Your presence is already helping to sooth my spirits. Just like when I was a child, your stalwart support always seems to frighten away the worst of my inner demons.”

“Ha! That’s because they know a fire-breathing dragon will burn them to a crisp if they don’t take to their heels.” The dowager had been dubbed “The Dragon” by the beau monde for her sharp tongue—and equally sharp cane, which she wielded with wicked accuracy.

“Now, enough Sturm und Drang. Tell me what worries are preying on your mind.”

Choices, choices. Wrexford paused as he approached the corner of Haymarket Street, uncertain of whether to go straight to the Royal Institution—he had suddenly realized who might be able to give him some advice—or to head back to Berkeley Square to check on the progress of deciphering the flame-damaged scraps of paper found in the warehouse.

“Or perhaps I should simply choose to be an indolent aristocrat, who doesn’t give a rat’s arse about Truth and Justice,” he muttered. The idea had its appeal …

“But alas, I appear to be cursed with a conscience.”

After another few steps, the thought of returning home was too appealing to resist. Wrexford quickened his steps and turned onto Haymarket Street.

A carriage passed, its iron-shod wheels thumping over the uneven cobblestones, followed by a brewery wagon filled with sloshing barrels. The earl turned up his coat collar to ward off the freshening breeze as another carriage clattered past him …

And then came to a sudden halt.

The door flung open as Wrexford came abreast of the vehicle.

“Get in, milord,” called a voice from within the shadows.

“I’d rather not,” he replied, without breaking stride.

An oath sounded, followed by a barked order to the coachman. The carriage moved up another five yards and stopped again.

“ Please .”

“Well, since you ask so politely …” The earl exhaled a sigh. “In any case, I expect that you would continue to plague me all day if I don’t, so I might as well get it over with.”

He climbed into the carriage and shot a sour look at George Pierson, a top operative and second-in-command to Lord Grentham, Britain’s shadowy minister of state security. “Kindly make it short. I’m busy.”

“I’m worried about Wrex,” admitted Charlotte.

“We all think of him as a pillar of strength, impervious to the doubts and emotional uncertainties that plague the rest of us. But I fear this mystery regarding his father and a possible intimate liaison is weighing heavily on his mind. And yet, he feels compelled to put aside his own troubles and take on the conundrums of others.”

She looked away, and as if mocking her concerns, the shadows within the unlit corners of the room seemed to darken and swirl. “Perhaps I’m seeing specters where in fact there are none, but I have an unsettling feeling that this current murder is a crime that will have no easy answers.”

“We are very good at untangling conundrums,” pointed out Alison, who had proved herself frightfully good at sleuthing.

Charlotte smiled in spite of her worries. “Ha! I’m not sure whether that is a blessing or a curse.”

“Yes, you are.”

Her lips quirked again, then quickly thinned to a grim line. “I’m also concerned about the Weasels. The frightening incident with Raven the other night marks a momentous turning point.”

“In what way?” asked Alison.

“They are …”

Charlotte hesitated for a heartbeat, searching for the right words to express her concerns. “They are growing up—way too fast for my liking.” Another pause. “I can’t help but notice that they are becoming more independent-minded and taking more risks. I fear …”

A sigh. “Ye gods, I can’t even begin to articulate all the fears and worries that keep me awake at night.”

“Change is inevitable,” said the dowager softly. “Growing up is part of life.” A smile. “Alas, so is aging.”

The dowager’s pithy sense of humor served to soften the seriousness of the moment.

“If it’s any consolation, know that all parents worry incessantly about their children, especially during the fraught transition from child to adult,” continued Alison.

“But the Grim Reaper can strike at any moment—a wayward carriage as one crosses the street, a bout of influenza, tainted food. Obsessing about all the dangers that lurk in Life will only drive you mad.”

A harried nod acknowledged the statement. “So I am learning.”

“You and Wrex believe in your hearts that it’s elementally important that Good triumph over Evil, and there’s no denying that such dedication calls for taking some risks. It’s who you are,” said the dowager.

She touched a caress to Charlotte’s cheek. “Inspired by your example, it’s who we all are in this family.”

Charlotte reached for the dowager’s bejeweled hand. Their fingers twined together, setting off a flash of sapphire blue.

“We all have black moments of doubt and fear, my dear,” said Alison. “But such sentiments are corrosive—they rob you of strength and the will to fight back, which is what you need most in dark times.”

The dowager cleared her throat. “Whatever challenges we must face in the future, we will find a way to overcome them.”

“Indeed,” Charlotte agreed. In fact, her earlier fears were giving way to a far more bellicose mood.

“In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am determined to see that the varlets from the warehouse don’t get away with whatever crimes they’ve committed.

” A scowl tightened on her features. “Anyone who dares to attack the Weasels will have to answer to me .”

“And me ,” added the dowager.

“Thank you for coaxing me out of my sullens,” said Charlotte. Indeed, her spirits felt infinitely lighter.

“You’re very welcome,” replied Alison. “And now, I think we both could use a spot of tea and a plate of Mac’s ginger biscuits.”

“You know, at some point, your sarcastic sense of humor is going to get you into trouble,” observed Pierson.

“Quite likely. But your appearance always seems to follow with you asking me to get the government out of trouble.”

Grentham’s second-in-command didn’t crack a smile.

“What is it this time?” demanded Wrexford.

“Word is, Durs Egg has appealed to you to help prove that his brother-in-law didn’t kill Atticus Boyleston.”

“He did,” confirmed the earl.

“Well, don’t !” snapped Pierson.

Wrexford narrowed his eyes, his mind beginning to whir as he took a moment to parse through the ramifications of the admonition. Power and influence could be wielded to pull in personal favors, even at the highest echelons of government.

“Who the devil are you protecting?”

Pierson heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, bloody hell, the situation isn’t that simple.”

“It never is with you and Grentham,” he retorted.

“This isn’t a bloody game, Wrexford. It’s a matter of the utmost importance to our nation’s security.”

The earl chuffed a laugh. “You know me better than that. You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“That would require me to confide highly secret information.”

“Suit yourself.” Wrexford reached for the door latch.

Another sigh. “Look, the government is well aware that Redding is innocent.”

A growl rumbled deep in Wrexford’s throat. But before it could reach his lips, Pierson made a pained face.

“And before you start frothing at the mouth about justice and fair play, I assure you that we have no intention of stringing him up on the gallows. We simply …”

A hesitation. “We simply want to keep him locked up for a while so that the public assumes the murder has been solved and people forget about the crime.”

The unexpected admission puzzled Wrexford. “But why?”

Pierson leaned back against the leather squabs, allowing a moment of silence … and then another.

The earl swore under his breath and once again reached for the door latch.

“Because you are barking up the wrong tree, milord! Forget about the murder and who did it—that isn’t important!”

Before Wrexford could react, Pierson added, “We need you to use your sleuthing skills on a conundrum that has far more momentous consequences for our country.”

He flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “And the clock is ticking.”