Page 29 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

D amnation. Repressing a huff of impatience, Charlotte kept up a frequent check of Ducasse while he and several dignitaries of the French émigré community continued to converse with a group of the prince’s cronies.

If the champagne kept flowing so liberally, her quarry would soon be in no state to pass on any useful information.

Returning her attention to the dowager Duchess of Hamden, she smiled and nodded, though in truth she hadn’t a heard a word of the lady’s long and meandering account involving a lost dog.

But thankfully, her next sidelong glance showed the group was breaking up.

“Forgive me, ma’am …” Charlotte lowered her voice to a hushed tone. “Please excuse me while I seek the ladies’ withdrawing room.”

On receiving a sympathetic nod, she began threading her way through the crowd …

Only to see Hubert Odilon, Ducasse’s acquaintance from the Royal Academy art show, approach the artist and take his arm.

Charlotte wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange, but she caught the look of agitation on Odilon’s face before he ducked enough to hide it.

The two gentlemen conversed for a moment or two longer and then began moving discreetly but with an air of urgency toward a side corridor that she knew led to the Prince Regent’s cavernous conservatory.

She hesitated, debating whether to find Wrexford, but quickly decided there was no time and hurried after them, giving silent thanks that she had chosen to wear a dark, smoky-emerald-hued evening gown.

With luck, it would help her blend into the foliage of Prinny’s exotic trees and specimen collections.

Her kidskin slippers moved soundlessly over the Axminster runner, and as only half of the wall sconces were lit, the corridor was wreathed in shadows, allowing her pursuit to go unnoticed.

Still, Charlotte took care to keep her distance from the two gentlemen, who had quickened their pace as soon as they were out of sight from the main reception room.

Though they were now just silhouettes in the flickering light, she could see by Odilon’s gestures that he was upset.

A personal quarrel? Or was it something bigger?

Her heart began to thud against her ribs.

Closer, closer … Was she finally creeping closer to some answers?

Ducasse and Odilon reached the glass-paneled double doors of the conservatory, clicked open the brass latches, and disappeared into the gloom.

Hitching in a deep breath to steady her nerves, Charlotte counted to ten and then slipped in after them.

She was immediately enveloped in a tropical warmth.

The humid air was heavy with the scent of wet soil, its earthiness edged with coal smoke from the banked stoves strategically placed around the sprawling display galleries to keep the winter chill of London at bay.

The sound of dripping water punctuated the soft rustling of leaves, the scattering of overhead skylights allowing pearl-like flickers of moonglow to dance through the swaying foliage.

Looking around to get her bearings, Charlotte saw that she was in a narrow rectangular space filled with various types of palm trees.

She moved to the archway straight ahead, which opened onto a wide central corridor.

Ornate brass lanterns—they looked like something out of an Arabian wonder tale—hung from the decorative columns, and the vaulted ceiling, alive with a crisscrossing of whimsical geometric patterns, gave the place an exotic, otherworldly look.

The aura of mystery was accentuated by skittering shadows, darting like impish afreets which had just escaped from being bottled up inside a magic lamp.

Shaking off such fanciful thoughts, Charlotte cocked an ear and strained to hear any sound of footsteps or voices.

The answering flutters of greenery seemed to mock her efforts.

She moved stealthily to the first column and listened again.

Is that a faint scuff drifting through the leaves from the narrow walkway to my right?

Deciding to take a chance—the junglelike maze of display rooms was confusing enough that she had little choice but to trust her instincts—Charlotte darted into the gloom.

The winding path looped around through several groupings of strange-looking foliage that she couldn’t identify.

The light dimmed as she moved past the only lit lantern in the gallery.

Serrated leaves brushed against her skirts, stirring a prickling of unease along her spine.

She paused for a moment, her pulse quickening as she caught a sudden murmur of voices. It died away in a moment, but she had heard enough to choose the left fork when the path up ahead split in two.

Slowly, stealthily, she crept forward.

A sudden rasping sound—a tree branch rubbing against one of the giant terra-cotta pots?—caused her to halt. But it, too, faded.

After another deep breath, Charlotte continued onward.

Up ahead, a glimmer of starlight filtered in through the overhead panes of glass, illuminating the center of a rectangular gallery.

Though she couldn’t yet see what lay ahead, she suspected it was one of the tranquil resting spots scattered throughout the conservatory, where a comfortable bench invited visitors to stop for an interlude of quiet contemplation.

Giving thanks for the myriad tall, sword-shaped stalks of the bushes clustered by her side, she crouched low and took cover within the greenery, silently shifting the leaves for a peek—

Eyes flaring wide in shock, Charlotte somehow managed to hold back a horrified cry.

Ducasse was kneeling beside the cushioned bench centered on the decorative mosaic floor beneath the skylight, a bloody knife in his hand.

Holy hell.

In the next instant, she realized that the odd rasping sound she had just heard was the death rattle in Odilon’s throat as his lifeblood dripped down to the tiles from the stab wound just below his heart.

“ Mon Dieu, mon Dieu … ” gasped Ducasse. Swallowing hard, he mumbled something unintelligible and then leaned down, bringing his ear to within an inch of Odilon’s trembling mouth.

Charlotte saw the dying man’s lips move …

But then, the sudden clatter of steps fast approaching the far end of the gallery warned Ducasse that someone was coming. He shot to his feet, dropping the knife as he spun around and raced away, passing so close to Charlotte that she could have reached out and grabbed his coattail.

On instinct, she remained hidden. Too much was as yet unknown—it was best to wait and see what happened next. Once again, she carefully moved the leaves for a view of the area under the skylight.

A figure—a tall black-clad gentleman with the sleekly rippling muscles of a stalking panther—ran out from the shadows and skidded to a halt by Odilon’s prostrate body.

He spat out an oath on seeing the knife lying on the tiles.

Charlotte felt her own blood run cold as he raised his gaze and looked around. He had a white silk neckerchief tied to obscure the lower part of his face, but his eyes were utterly reptilian—a rock-hard obsidian, devoid of emotion.

Her first impression—that the man was a viper—was immediately confirmed as he picked up the knife and casually plunged it back into Odilon’s chest before withdrawing it.

The rasp of breath ceased.

“One nuisance is eliminated,” he remarked with casual cruelty while cleaning the blade on the dead man’s sleeve.

That voice! She recognized it all too well.

She froze, not daring to draw a breath.

“The second will quickly follow.” Smiling to himself, Obsidian Eyes drew a snout-nosed pistol from his pocket and cocked the hammer. He listened for a long moment and then headed off down the same path that Ducasse had taken, passing within an arm’s length of her.

The gallery quickly settled into silence, but it was several minutes before Charlotte could bring herself to move.

Lifting her skirts, she carefully felt for the leather holster strapped to her calf—another Christmas gift from the earl, who had commissioned his bootmaker to craft the ingenious solution for how to carry a pocket pistol when dressed as a lady of the beau monde.

Gripping the butt of her hidden weapon helped quell the feeling of being defenseless prey at the mercy of a dangerous predator.

One who savored the thought of a kill..

She knew with absolute certainty that Obsidian Eyes was their assailant from the gardens of Francis Ronalds—a mask had hidden the lower part of his face on that occasion, too.

She hadn’t gotten a good glimpse of his eyes because of the sunlight and shadows, but she would never forget that undertone of amusement in his voice over the prospect of snuffing out their lives.

After taking another moment to steady the erratic racing of her heart, Charlotte eased her weapon free and checked the surroundings, then crept out to the path, intent on finding Wrexford as quickly as possible.

However, she dared not hurry.

“Not with a killer prowling close by—or two killers,” she whispered, reminding herself that she wasn’t out of danger.

Moving with deliberate care, Charlotte edged forward, making her way into the next display room …

and then the next one, and the next … She paused within a cluster of long-needled pines, taking a moment to decide whether to choose another way back to the main hall—only to feel a dampness seep into her left evening shoe.

Looking down, she bit back a gasp as she realized that she was standing in a pool of blood.

A meandering rivulet led her between the boughs of two of the trees …

“M-Milady.” Charlotte’s eyes met Ducasse’s anguished gaze.

He was lying spread-eagled on the floor tiles, his dress coat open, showing that his once-snowy-white shirt was now turning crimson from the bullet hole in his left breast. The dark powder burns on the fabric—the weapon had been jammed right up against his flesh—explained why she hadn’t heard the shot.

“Please …” He crooked a finger, motioning for her to come closer.

“I’ll fetch help—”

“No time, and you need to know …” A sad smile flitted over his lips. He signaled again.

Seeing that his life was fast ebbing away, Charlotte crouched down. “Why murder Odilon?” she asked gently, finding it hard to think of him as a killer.

“I didn’t … didn’t kill him. It was …” Ducasse drew in a rasping breath.

“Forgive me—I’ve not been honest with you, but it wasn’t for nefarious reasons.

I … I’m an agent of the French crown and was dispatched to London because our security minister doesn’t trust your Lord Grentham.

He wished to have me keep watch to ensure that French interests were not compromised by … ” A cough. “By Napoleon’s operatives.”

“But Napoleon—”

“Thinks he is a man of destiny.” A weak wheeze. “Never mind that right now. W-What you need to know is that evil is afoot here—” A fit of coughing cut off his words.

A name. She needed a name for the evil.

Charlotte slid her hand under his head, lifting him slightly so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. “I promise you justice, my friend.”

“Friend.” Her words seemed to give him comfort. “Yes, I think we would have been friends.”

“Who attacked you and Odilon?” she pressed.

“Le …” His eyes fluttered.

She willed him to hold on for another moment.

“Le-L …” But alas, in the next instant he was gone.

For a moment, Charlotte was too stunned to move. But then, the realization that a ruthless killer might still be lurking close by impelled her to her feet.

Tightening her grip on her weapon, she forced herself to plunge ahead and escape the maze of cursed greenery.

A sudden stirring of the leaves up ahead caused her to flinch. Curling her forefinger around the trigger, Charlotte shrank back into the palm fronds and waited. A silhouette appeared, blurred for a moment by the flutters, before the contours sharpened—

“Wrex!” Lowering her pistol, she hurried forward. “Th-Thank God I’ve found you.”

He reached out to steady her as she stumbled over the tiles.

“There’s been a murder just now—actually two!” she continued in a rush before he could speak. “Odilon and Ducasse are dead at the hands of—”

“Forget about all that for now.” He took her arm. “Put your weapon away and come with me.”

Charlotte pulled free and stared at him in mute confusion. “D-Did you hear what I just said—”

“I did.”

She had never seen him look quite so grim.

“But as I said, put all that aside for now.” Wrexford grasped her hand. One by one, he eased open her fingers, then took her weapon and placed it in his pocket.

“The game has changed yet again,” he explained. “The chessboard has been reset, and a new confrontation has already begun.”

“W-What are you saying?”

“I have just been informed that five days ago, on the night of the twenty-sixth of February, Napoleon made his escape from the isle of Elba.”