Page 30 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

W rexford poured Charlotte a glass of brandy as soon as they arrived back at Berkeley Square, but she set it aside untouched.

“Drink,” he counseled. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

“Be damned with my sensibilities,” she answered. “What if the Weasels follow the coldblooded killer, thinking he is Ducasse’s co-conspirator?”

“They won’t,” said the earl. “They have strict orders to shadow Ducasse and know better than to improvise in this situation.”

“His Lordship is right,” said McClellan. She and Tyler had been informed of the momentous news of Napoleon’s escape and invited to the drawing room to discuss the ramifications. “The boys will be fine.”

“But as for our nation and the Continent …” muttered Tyler.

A fraught silence gripped the room.

“Have we any idea where Napoleon is headed?” continued the valet.

“He landed in the south of France near Antibes three days ago and appears to be heading toward Grenoble,” answered Wrex ford.

“Surely the French people have had enough of war and bloodshed,” said Charlotte.

“The French value glory over peace,” said Tyler. “My guess is that they will welcome their former emperor with open arms.”

Wrexford wished he could disagree.

“We just returned from a supper soiree and saw your note.” A pale-faced Sheffield and Cordelia appeared in the doorway. “I—I don’t suppose there could be … a mistake?”

“Grentham isn’t prone to making mistakes,” said the earl. “Especially about something of this magnitude.”

“What can we do?” queried Sheffield.

“As to that, I was told to wait for further instructions. Apparently Grentham left for Brussels earlier this evening after telling his temporary man-in-charge to alert me of the escape. Wellington is also headed there to cobble together an army to face Napoleon—for I think it’s safe to assume the former emperor is intent on putting his arse back on the French throne,” he replied.

“What about the murders?” demanded Charlotte. “We know the man who is responsible, but we have no idea of his actual identity.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He has no name—save for the fact that I call him Obsidian Eyes!”

“Obsidian Eyes!” exclaimed McClellan. “The man who shot at Raven?”

“That’s my surmise,” answered Charlotte. “As he’s also the fellow who planned to murder us and Francis Ronalds in the gardens of Kelmscott House …”

As Charlotte recounted to the others the gruesome chain of events she had witnessed in the Prince Regent’s conservatory, Wrexford moved to the window and stared out at the few flickers of lamplight still visible in the buildings across the square.

They seemed awfully puny, he reflected, compared to the vast expanse of darkness.

Closing his eyes for a moment, the earl pushed such thoughts aside before turning back to the room.

“Grentham’s men took care of removing the bodies from the conservatory, and the official story will be that the two men were the victims of a robbery gone bad while crossing through Green Park.

So no rumors about murders within the Prince Regent’s residence will spark panic in the city. ”

Wrexford considered their next move. So much was unknown … “What we need to concentrate on is figuring out what Napoleon’s ultimate strategy is for weakening Britain. All these preliminary moves have been orchestrated with consummate skill to keep us off guard. We need to discover why.”

“In poking around for information concerning Boyleston, the Weasels and I have had our ears to the ground for any skull-duggery going on,” pointed out Tyler. “And we’ve heard nothing about any illicit activities. Even the urchins, who see things that most people miss, haven’t offered up any clue.”

“Then we have to try harder,” said Wrexford. “It seems to me that an assassination could cripple our ability to organize an army to confront Napoleon, as well as create fear and panic in the city.”

Charlotte chafed her palms together, trying to dispel the chill forming in the pit of her stomach. “Much as I hate to suggest it, should we inform Grentham’s office about Obsidian Eyes and the fear of an assassination plot?”

“As I said, Grentham is out of the country. As is Pierson.” The earl made a face.

“I know nothing about the fellow now in charge. But then, that’s what Grentham prefers his operatives to be—amorphous swirls of smoke, hidden in the shadows, going about their wolf-eat-wolf business without anyone seeing a flash of teeth. ”

“Do you trust him?” queried Sheffield.

Wrexford chuffed a sardonic laugh. “Trust is most definitely not a word that comes to mind when speaking of the Machiavellian world of espionage. And both Grentham and Pierson stressed to me that I was not to discuss the French attempts to stir chaos here in Britain with any official other than them.”

“In other words, it’s imperative that we conduct our own investigation independently from the government’s activities,” said Charlotte.

“Correct. To do otherwise would perhaps threaten our country, not to speak of putting our family secrets in danger.”

She nodded, relieved that he had given voice to her own inner fears. However, his next words took her by surprise.

“My first course of action tomorrow will be to have a word with Elias Fogg, a senior official at the Foreign Office.” Wrexford recounted what Colonel Duxbury had said to him earlier in the evening.

“As well as have a very confidential talk with Duxbury and arrange for a discreet increase in security for the prime minister and the senior generals at Horse Guards. He can be trusted to keep quiet about it.”

A harried sigh. “And my second will be to pay a quick visit to Wrexford Manor.”

Seeing her quizzical look, he explained. “If we’re investigating on our own, I may be called on to move about Town quickly in case of a crisis, and we have only placid parkland mounts and carriage horses here in the mews. I need to bring Lucifer back to London.”

Charlotte made a face at the mention of the earl’s favorite stallion. “That beast is nothing but trouble. Hawk nearly lost a hand the first time he tried to feed the brute a lump of sugar.”

“What Lucifer lacks in manners, he more than makes up for in stamina and fearlessness. I need to have a mount that I trust won’t let me down in a pinch,” countered the earl. “The boys know to avoid him.”

“Very well,” she conceded, accepting his reasoning despite her reservations. “As for me, my responsibilities as A. J. Quill demand that right now I give my full attention to keeping the public informed of current events—and to encourage a sense of calm rather than panic.”

“I daresay even Grentham would have no quarrel with A. J. Quill’s voicing such commentaries in the coming days,” responded Tyler.

“The good of Britain’s people— all of Britain’s people—is always my first obligation,” replied Charlotte. “Whether it suits the minister’s needs or not.”

Further planning was interrupted by the clatter of footsteps in the corridor announcing that the Weasels had returned from their mission.

“We waited until the last of the guests left Carlton House,” announced Raven. “Each of us kept watch on a different entrance, but Ducasse never appeared.”

“That’s because Ducasse and his friend Odilon were lured to the conservatory and murdered,” said Charlotte. “I—I think the killer may be the man you called Obsidian Eyes.”

Raven gave an involuntary flinch.

“You saw him clearly,” she continued. “Was he tall and sleekly muscled, with a pantherlike quickness to his movements?”

“Oiy,” answered Raven. ‘He had the look of a predator—one who enjoyed the hunt.” He blinked. “And the kill.”

“Let us be careful about jumping to conclusions,” counseled Wrexford. “For now it’s merely speculation that Raven’s assailant and the French operative are one and the same. We can’t afford to go haring off after specters.”

Nobody voiced a disagreement.

“Have we anything else to discuss tonight?” he asked, looking to Charlotte.

She shook her head.

“Then let us get some rest. Come morning, we need to start unraveling this devil-cursed web of intrigue.”

Charlotte stared at the blank sheet of watercolor paper, trying to visualize just the right image to inform the public of the momentous news that Napoleon had slipped away from his island prison and landed in the south of France.

She had carefully read all the morning newspaper accounts of the escape, only to put them aside in disgust. Given that precious few facts had reached London, the stories were filled with lurid speculations.

Thankfully, Wrexford had received a terse note just after dawn from Grentham’s office containing what little the government knew so far.

Picking up her pencil, Charlotte began a rough sketch.

She deliberately chose to make the former emperor a small image on the page, showing him wading ashore from a rowboat onto French soil.

Trailing in his wake was a small retinue of the Garde Impériale who had followed him into exile—she added a few moth holes to their coats and rips to their boots to make them look less threatening.

She leaned back, satisfied with the composition. It was based on facts, not rumors. At the moment, Napoleon and his loyal followers were no more than a raggle-taggle group on the run. It was still unclear what he was seeking.

That, she decided, would be the subject of her captions. Is he seeking passage to America in order to start a new life in the New World? … Does he think that King Louis XVIII will grant him the right to live quietly in France? … Or are his desires more ambitious?

Picking up her penknife, Charlotte sharpened her quill and set to work on inking in the final image.

“Your pardon, sir.” The junior secretary tapped a tentative knock on the half-open door. “A gentleman wishes to have a word—”

“Are you daft, Hopkins?” barked Fogg. “Send him away. I have no time for visitors.”

“This won’t take long,” said Wrexford, shouldering his way past the young man and closing the door.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Fogg under his breath as he removed his spectacles and scowled.

“We have a crisis unfolding here. I am not at liberty to reveal what it is, but I assure you, the Foreign Office has far greater concerns at the moment than …” A hesitation.

“… than any of your pestering questions.”

“If you’re referring to Napoleon’s escape from Elba, I learned of that last night,” replied the earl.

“How—” began Fogg.

“Never mind that now. I simply wish to clarify a few things you said at the Royal Institution’s reception for Monsieur Ducasse,” replied Wrexford.

A look of surprise flared in Fogg’s gaze—along with a flicker of unease. “I—I can’t imagine why, milord,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Because it puzzles me that you couldn’t recall a stranger being present at the Royal Society on the night of Boyleston’s murder when Norwood mentioned to me that you had spent most of the evening conversing with him.”

The morning light angling in through the leaded windows caught the sheen of sweat now beading Fogg’s forehead.

“Bloody hell, milord, you know how these scientific meetings go! We discuss serious topics, and afterward, the wine flows and we indulge in friendly conversation with our colleagues.” Fogg’s voice turned shrill.

“I may have had a glass too many, because I don’t remember the damn stranger you described. Is that a bloody crime?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Wrexford. Curious to hear how Fogg would respond, he added, “I don’t suppose you recall the topic of conversation?”

“The Chelsea Physic Garden!” replied Fogg, his voice rising another notch. “Are you now going to demand to know the color of the undergarments I wore that night?”

Wrexford raised his brows. “Oh? Do they come in any shade other than white or cream?”

“Why the devil are you asking these questions? Have they something to do with Boyleston’s murder?”

Ignoring the question, the earl abruptly switched to a new line of inquiry. “I also just learned from Colonel Duxbury that you serve as a liaison with Grentham’s department for the Foreign Office and Horse Guards—”

“That is not true!’ exclaimed Fogg. “I have no such official position. I do occasionally confer with Grentham’s senior staff for general updates, and if I happen to hear a trivial bit of information that might interest Horse Guards, I pass it on.”

“Grentham’s department does not deal in trivial matters,” said Wrexford.

Fogg drew in a shaky breath. “You seem intent on twisting my words, milord. Might I ask why?”

Wrexford kept his answer deliberately vague. “I’m merely trying to put together a clear picture of certain events.”

“But the authorities have apprehended Redding and charged him with Boyleston’s murder.”

“So they have,” agreed the earl.

Muttering to himself, Fogg picked up his pen. “Unless you have any more absurd questions to ask—and by the by, I answered you out of gentlemanly courtesy, as I can’t imagine you have any official mandate to ask them—I have serious work to do.”

“That’s all,” said the earl, allowing a moment to pass before adding, “For now.”

Another spasm of emotion passed over Fogg’s face, but he quickly looked down and began writing.

Without further comment, Wrexford retreated into the corridor. The fellow’s answers were all reasonable, he conceded, knowing there were likely many times when he wouldn’t have been able to identify who had been part of a group conversation. And the fellow’s ire was understandable.

However, there was something about Fogg’s demeanor—a tautness that seemed tinged with fear—that bothered him. As he made his way out to the street, Wrexford was not yet ready to deem the fellow free from suspicion.