Page 31 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
T he journey home from Wrexford Manor the following afternoon passed without incident, save for a spot of rain near Foxton.
Tired and dusty from hours in the saddle—the afternoon was fading into twilight—Wrexford guided his stallion into the walled courtyard of the mews and blew out a sigh as he dismounted.
“Make up a generous mash of corn for Lucifer,” he called to the groom, who knew enough to keep his distance from the temperamental horse. “Just leave it outside the stall,” he added. “I’ll feed him once I’ve finished giving him a rubdown.”
“Thank you, milord. I don’t fancy losing a hunk of flesh to that demon from Hell.”
The stallion laid back his ears and gave a sharp snort.
“Watch your tongue.” The earl smiled. “There are times when I’m quite certain he understands English.”
The groom retreated several steps. “I don’t doubt it. He’s possessed by some supernatural …” His mutter trailed off into a wordless scowl as he hurried away.
“Not everyone appreciates your feisty spirit,” said Wrexford, giving the stallion’s flank a fond pat. After leading Lucifer to a stall well away from the other horses, he removed the saddle and bridle, slipped on a halter, and rubbed down the stallion with a special soothing salve.
A pail rattled outside the stall’s gate. “The mash is ready, milord,” called the groom.
Wrexford fetched it and hung it on a hook over the manger filled with hay. “Enjoy a well-deserved repast,” he murmured as his own stomach growled.
Charlotte greeted him at the back entrance to the townhouse with a fierce hug.
“You ought not get so close—I reek of sweat and horse,” he protested, though her closeness was a balm for both his body and his spirit.
“You must be weary to the bone,” she said after pressing her lips to his. Taking his arm, she headed for his workroom. “Sit by the fire while I fetch you some food and drink.”
Wrexford sank into the soft leather of the armchair nearest the hearth and propped his boots on the brass fender.
The coals crackled, releasing a blissfully welcome warmth.
Closing his eyes, he put aside all thoughts of the daunting challenges that lay ahead and simply savored the quiet joy of home and family.
Having been through war before, he knew how those precious things could change in a heartbeat.
The muted rattle of porcelain announced Charlotte’s return with a tray of tea and a large wedge of steak and kidney pie.
“I imagine Scottish malt would be even more welcome than tea,” she said, after handing him the pie.
“Bless you,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the savory meat and pastry.
She brought him a glass of the spirits and took a seat in the facing chair.
“Any further news from Grentham’s minions on the situation in France?” he asked
“No, there seems to be no reliable information yet about what’s happening,” answered Charlotte.
“Things are calm here in London. My drawing announcing the news was published this afternoon, and I made a point of reminding the public that for now, Napoleon is merely a fugitive on the run with a small band of loyal followers, not the leader of a grand imperial army.”
“Let us pray that Napoleon is quickly apprehended.” Wrexford quaffed a long swallow of whisky. “But I fear that it may not prove so easy.”
“Tomorrow, we will regroup and concentrate our efforts on figuring out the ultimate target of all the French machinations,” replied Charlotte.
As Wrexford looked to the hearth, the lamplight accentuated the lines of worry etched at the corners of his eyes.
“But for tonight, let us not allow our pressing fears and worries about the future to darken the present moment,” she added.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he mused. “Life is unpredictable, which I suppose is both a blessing and a curse. But you’re right—let us not fritter away the evening in philosophical abstractions.”
For several long moments the only sound in the room was the clink of cutlery as the earl polished off the meat pie.
“Would you care for some Stilton and a slice of apple—” began Charlotte, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in,” called the earl.
“Forgive me, milord.” Their butler’s face was wreathed in shadows, but the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed that his normally unshakeable composure was a touch off-kilter. “There is a woman seeking to speak with you.” A pause. “She says it is a matter of life and death.”
The announcement stirred a sudden prickling of gooseflesh at the nape of Charlotte’s neck.
She couldn’t begin to articulate why.
I suppose it’s because we are all on edge , she told herself, making ordinary occurrences take on sinister overtones.
There was no reason to be alarmed, Charlotte told herself.
Word had spread through the network of urchins in the city about Wrexford’s generosity to those in need, so supplicants appeared with some regularity at the Berkeley Square townhouse.
Indeed, the only odd thing about this visitor was that Riche had felt compelled to inform them of her presence.
“If you would escort the woman to the kitchen,” she said, “Mac will fix a hamper of food and pass on a purse to tide her through whatever emergency she is facing.”
The butler bowed his head in apology. “I know the usual procedure, milady, and attempted to do exactly that. But there is something different about her.”
Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that. Riche wasn’t one to indulge in drama. “In what way?” she demanded.
“Her dress and deportment,” he answered. “The woman insists that it is … personal.” He swallowed hard. “And refuses to budge until she has an audience with His Lordship.”
“Then I had better meet with her,” replied the earl.
“I put her in the Blue Parlor to wait while I ascertained how you wished to proceed,” intoned Riche.
Wrexford got to his feet somewhat stiffly, which raised Charlotte’s protective hackles. He looked exhausted.
“Sit,” she commanded. “I’ll see to her.” Her eyes narrowed. “And if she claims to be the long-lost Countess of Wrexford, who has finally escaped from the band of malicious fairies who kidnapped her on her wedding night, I shall send her away with naught but a flea in her ear.”
He allowed a grudging laugh. “If she comes up with a more outrageous story than that, perhaps she should be given an extra reward.”
“On the contrary, Banbury tales should not be encouraged.”
“Perhaps not, but I do consider myself obliged to hear her story,” he said. “It would feel cowardly to do otherwise.”
Charlotte heaved a sigh and gestured for Riche to lead the way to the parlor. “I’ll come along, too. The sooner we hear her out, the sooner we can go back to enjoying some peace and quiet.”
Despite their butler’s warning that their visitor was no ordinary supplicant, Wrexford found himself surprised when the sound of his entrance into the parlor caused her to turn abruptly from gazing out the windows overlooking Berkeley Square. His first impressions were …
A quiet strength and determination, trying hard to conceal a rippling of fear.
He stopped short, trying to make sense of his reaction. Fatigue did strange things to one’s mind.
Charlotte, however, didn’t hesitate to take the bull by the horns. “Our butler has informed us that you claim to have a pressing personal matter to discuss with His Lordship.” Her voice, though pleasant, carried an undertone of steel that made it clear that no nonsense would be tolerated.
“I do, Lady Wrexford,” came the soft but equally resolute reply. “I apologize for intruding on your household. Please be assured that I would never do so unless there was no other alternative.”
“Life and death?” said Charlotte. “Be forewarned that theatrical displays of drama do not play well with us.”
That drew a wry smile from the woman. “I am relieved to hear that. I’m not very good at acting.”
Wrexford had used the short exchange to study their visitor.
Her dignified bearing—perfect posture, steadiness in the face of adversity—had at first disguised the fact that she was elderly.
She was dressed modestly, but her clothing was clearly of good quality.
As for her face, it was plain, with blunt-cut features that held not a trace of guile.
Their eyes met, and in that instant he was sure that the woman was no charlatan.
Which yet again begged the question of why she was here.
Charlotte, too, seemed to have retreated from her initial hostility. “Please be seated.” She indicated one of the armchairs facing the sofa. “Allow me to offer you some tea, and then you can tell us the reason for your visit.”
“Tea is not necessary, milady. I am already intruding on your hospitality.”
“Nonetheless, the ritual is useful in smoothing the rough edges off a difficult topic of discussion.”
That drew another ghost of a smile.
As Charlotte rang the silver bell on the side table and sent a parlor maid hurrying to the kitchen, the earl took a seat on the sofa facing the woman.
“Forgive my lack of manners, madam,” he said. “I’ve neglected to introduce myself properly and inquire as to your name.”
“Like Her Ladyship, I much prefer plain speaking to the platitudes of proper etiquette,” replied their visitor. “You and your wife need no introduction, milord. But given my role in what I am about to tell you, it’s only right that you know my identity.”
The woman smoothed a crease from her skirts. “My name is Moreen O’Malley.”
“Is your accent from County Galway, Mrs. O’Malley?” inquired Charlotte.
“It is Miss , not Missus , milady,” replied their visitor. “You have an excellent ear for languages. Yes, I’m originally from Connemara, but I’ve lived in England for a number of years.”
“My wife is very attuned to noticing little details,” said Wrexford.
A tiny twinkle seemed to light for an instant in Miss O’Malley’s eyes. “Then I shall take care to say nothing but the truth, so as not to draw Her Ladyship’s censure.”