Page 37 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

“As it happens, I was coming to speak with Drummond about your argument with Lord Canaday.”

Wrexford must have betrayed a spasm of surprise for the Runner curled a slow smirk. “Have you not seen A. J. Quill’s latest print?”

* * *

Tugging her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, Charlotte edged forward on the bench and darted a nervous glance up and down the graveled walkway. The modest park in Red Lion Square was far enough away from the opulent environs of Mayfair to pose no threat of discovery. Still, a meeting with Jeremy always made her insides twist in knots.

It was why she avoided arranging them unless absolutely necessary.

And much as she had tried to convince herself she was overreacting, she couldn’t deny the moral obligation.

A conscience was a cursedly inconvenient encumbrance.

Charlotte shifted again, feeling chilled despite the sunlight and the cheerful chatter of the rustling leaves.

“Good morning, Charley.”

She jumped, so lost in brooding that she had missed her friend’s approach.

Jeremy sat down beside her, a pinch of concern shadowing his smile. “It’s a lovely morning for a picnic. I brought some pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop.”

Her stomach lurched. “How thoughtful.”

“But you are in no mood for spun-sugar treats.”

A reluctant laugh slipped from her lips. “Alas, you know me too well.”

“Well enough to know you wouldn’t ask for a meeting unless it was important,” he replied softly.

“Itisimportant,” she confessed. Jeremy was one of the very few people who knew about her secret identity. Their bond of friendship, and their sharing of secrets, went back a long way—to childhood, before a twist of fate had made him heir to a barony. The change in his life hadn’t altered their closeness. And though she knew he questioned her choices at times, he had always been willing to answer her questions about the beau monde, no matter how odd.

She hoped this time would be no exception.

“How can I help?” he whispered.

Charlotte checked that no one was nearby before asking, “I believe you are acquainted with Lord Robert Canaday?”

He nodded.

“Is he a religious man?”

Jeremy made a wry face. “No more than most gentlemen of theton.”

Which was to say, he worshipped his own pleasures more than the Word of God. A sardonic thought, admitted Charlotte, but no less true for being so.

“Then he had not struck up a friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy in the last few years?”

Her friend frowned in thought. In profile, his fine-boned features and tousled honey-gold hair made him look like a brooding Renaissance prince in a Botticelli painting. “It’s possible,” he conceded. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it, I believe I had heard mention that they belonged to the same club.”

“What sort of club?” pressed Charlotte.

“A small and rather exclusive one, so I don’t know much about it, save for the fact that its members have an interest in literature and the arts.”

“Given the late reverend’s sermons castigating worldly indulgences, that seems strange.” She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “D-do you perchance know the name of this club?”

“I believe it’s called The Ancients,” answered Jeremy.

All at once Charlotte felt the acid burn of bile rise up in her throat. She swallowed hard, willing her voice to remain normal. “Which I suppose means their focus centers on classical Greece and Rome?”