Page 12 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

Hawk sat up a little straighter. “While Raven was nabbering with Mr. Fores, a Runner came into the shop. He asked the clerk questions about yer print. Said he had just come from speaking with Lord What’s His Name.”

Charlotte snapped to attention, all thoughts of where to find the best bargain on beef gone in a flash. “What did this Runner look like, Hawk?” If the Earl of Wrexford was really a suspect, she could feast off the scandal for months, regardless of whether or not he hanged for the crime.

Both boys were very observant. Hawk was able to describe the man in great detail.

“That’s very helpful.” After jotting down a few lines in her notebook, she took a fresh sheet of paper from her desk drawer and dashed off a quick letter.

“Would you kindly deliver this right away?” She gave them the address. “You know the procedure.” She tried not to pester her childhood friend too often. But given that he moved in the highest circles of Society, his information in this case could be enormously helpful.

“Shall we wait for an answer?” asked Hawk hopefully. Her friend’s cook was apparently very generous with sweets.

“Yes, if there’s a chance for one. Otherwise, you can return for it in the morning.”

“I was just thinking, m’lady. Whiskers, the streetsweep who works the corner near Bow Street, might have heard some tittle-tattle about His Nibs. We could stop on our way back and have a jaw with him, if you’d like.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” Charlotte had learned long ago that every bit of gossip was useful. Stitching together all the scraps of thread was how one embroidered the plain cloth of a scandal. A. J. Quill was the most popular satirist in Town because of the colorful details. “Thank you.”

Raven tucked the folded missive inside his grubby shirt. “C’mon, Hawk, let’s fly.”

* * *

Wrexford paused in his pacing around the room to pull a book down from the shelf above his worktable. Something about the cursed print was niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

The colors depicted by A. J. Quill could be meaningless, a simple artistic artifice to convey the gruesome look of burned flesh.

But in his experience—which had become far too personal of late—Quill’s pen was uncannily accurate in showing all the little details.

Once again he wondered how.

He resumed walking, this time his boots beating a steady tattoo back and forth in front of the blazing hearth as he thumbed through the pages.

The logs crackled, punctuated by the muffledthump, thumpof leather on the polished parquet.

“Damnation.” Wrexford had no sooner uttered the oath when his fingers stilled. He read over the section several times before turning to where he had tacked the print up on the wall.

He was still standing there, lost in thought, when his valet let himself into the workroom.

“Have you discovered something?” asked Tyler, noting the open book and gleam in the earl’s eyes.

“Perhaps.” Wrexford handed him the leather-bound volume. “Read that section.”

Tyler skimmed over the pages. “Hmm, yes. I daresay that’s possible.”

“I’m going to the workroom. I want to experiment with a few things. . . .” The earl’s voice trailed off as he was already making mental note of some chemical combinations.

“We could try different percentages of the acids and test the effects.” His valet quirked what might have been a smile. “That is, if you care to sacrifice your cheeks.”

“It’s more than acids,” mused Wrexford. “As to empirical observation, let me remind you that I pay you very well for your services.”

“Not well enough to be disfigured for life. But you—think of it this way, better your face than your neck.”

“Your feeble attempt at humor falls far short of the mark.” Wrexford crossed his arms. “I trust you did better with Mr. Fores.”

“Alas, no. The man refused to divulge anything about the artist’s identity or where he lives. Claimed he didn’t know, and added that even if he did, A. J. Quill was worth more to him in the long run than your gold.”

“Bloody hell! You, of all people, I expected to show more ingenuity—”

Tyler waved him to silence. “Do permit me to finish, milord.”