Page 30 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

The boy didn’t argue. After inching closer to the warmth of the stove, he laced his hands behind his head. “Is His Lordship going te make trouble fer you, m’lady?”

“No.” She hoped that was the truth.

“What did he want? A fancy toff like him don’t come to this part of Town fer no reason.”

Damnation—Raven was too sharp by half. She had hoped he wouldn’t ask. Deciding it was best to tell him about the arrangement she had made with the earl—or a simplified version of it—Charlotte answered, “He wanted information about the reverend’s murder. We came to an agreement about sharing what I know.”

A frown pinched at his narrow face. “How did he cobble that you’re A. J. Quill? You’ve always told us that it be very dangerous for anyone te know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “Lord Wrexford has agreed to keep my secret safe in return for my cooperation. And I believe he’ll keep his end of the bargain.”

As long as I keep mine.

Thankfully Raven seemed satisfied with the explanation. He let out a yawn and rolled onto his side. In another moment, his soft, snuffing breathing indicated he was, like his brother, fast asleep.

Her belly full, Charlotte was feeling pleasantly drowsy, too. And yet a niggling sense of foreboding kept her awake. Had she made a grave mistake? The first steps on the road to perdition were always taken with the best of intentions.

Choices, choices.

“Aye, but I chose my path long ago,” she whispered, “and now I must follow it, come what may.”

The earl’s money would allow her to splurge and purchase some much-needed clothing on Petticoat Lane for the boys. And perhaps weekly lessons from the young curate of the parish church.A new oil lamp for the dining table, extra blankets, caulking to fix the loose windowpanes . . .Compiling a list of long-delayed necessities helped ease her misgivings.

If she had made a deal with the devil, at least he was a wealthy one.

Charlotte ignored the pricking of her conscience as she recalled the small scrap of paper tucked in a safe hiding place, along with the earl’s bulging purse. Yes, she had held it back. But life in this part of London had taught that a bargaining chip was always a valuable commodity.

Thoughts of money slowly stirred her to pick up her pen. Lord Wrexford’s payments wouldn’t last forever. Survival hinged on keeping her own skills razor sharp.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. From nothing comes nothing.Time to get back to work.

She pulled a fresh sheet of drawing paper from her desk drawer and started to sketch.

* * *

Mercury.In Roman mythology, Mercury was the god of financial gain, mused Wrexford. He was also the god of trickery and thieves.

The irony was not lost on him.

Some perverse power seemed at play here. The more he learned, the less all the facts fit together into any coherent pattern. And as a man who respected scientific principles, that annoyed him.

Most everything had a logical explanation. One just had to see it—

“Ah, there you are!” drawled Sheffield as Wrexford entered his study. “I was wondering when the devil you would return. I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“It does not look as though you have been enduring any great suffering in my absence.”

A bottle of prime Madeira was open on the side table, and a plate of sliced roast beef, bread, and pickle was resting in his friend’s lap.

“Riche thought I looked a little peaked. So he offered refreshments,” replied Sheffield. “Alas, he refused to hand over the humidor containing your special spiced Indian cheroots.”

“He knows I would have hadhishead as well as yours on a platter,” growled the earl.

“Tut, tut, let us not speak of severed necks. It rather ruins a fellow’s appetite.”

Wrexford poured himself a glass of wine and sat down in the facing armchair. He was tired and out of sorts. “Be so good as to swallow your witticisms along with your food and then be on your way. I need some peace and quiet in which to think.”

“About what?” inquired Sheffield.