Page 20 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

After sharpening her quill, she resumed her work.

An hour passed, though as she glanced out the window Charlotte realized it might have been two. She often lost track of time when she was working. It was the growling in her stomach that had broken her concentration.

Or perhaps it was the faint rasp of metal on metal.

She froze and cocked an ear.

The sound came again.

The outer entryway had nothing to steal within the bare-bones space. But she always kept the main door locked, and aside from her only Raven had a key.

Snick. Snick.The latch slowly lifted.

Swallowing a spurt of panic, Charlotte grabbed her penknife. A meager weapon, to be sure, but if push came to shove, she’d learned a few nasty tricks over the years to fend off attack.

Steady, steady.She slipped off her chair.

The wall lamp shivered as the door creaked open. A figure stomped through the opening, his skirling overcoat sending a spray of raindrops spattering over the floor. Great gobs of viscous mud clung to his black boots.

They were exquisitely made, noted Charlotte in spite of her fear, the leather buffed to a soft sheen.

A gentleman, not a ruffian from the stews.

She jerked her gaze upward.

Well-tailored wool, burnished ebony buttons. Shoulder capes that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders.

She took an involuntary step back.

He pulled off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending more drops of water flying through the air. Wind-whipped hair, dark as coal, tangled around his face. At first, all Charlotte could make out was a prominent nose, long and with an arrogant flare to its tip. But as he took another stride closer, the rest of his features snapped into sharper focus. A sensuous mouth, high cheekbones, green eyes, darkened with an undertone of gunmetal grey.

Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .

“Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”

“You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.

“I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”

“Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”

“By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”

She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”

“How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”

Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”

“Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made atsk-tsksound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”

“I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”

For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.

“Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.

“Your husband has captured Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”