Page 4 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

Only one of many he had made in recent weeks.

But Wrexford pushed such musings aside for now. “There’s no need for any further work here this evening. The liquid must cool completely, so we will wait until morning to continue with the experiment.”

“You are going out again, sir?”

“Yes. I need a walk to clear my head.” He reached for the print and folded it into a neat square before tucking it into his coat pocket. “And then I may stop at the new gaming hell on St. James’s Street. Don’t wait up. I shall likely be late.”

“Good luck at the tables, sir. But then again, you usually do come away with your pockets stuffed with blunt.”

“Luck is said to be a Lady, and you know that I have the devil’s own way with women.” The more accurate explanation probably lay in not giving a damn whether he won or lost. He gambled because watching the frenzy of brandy-fueled emotions—sweaty fear, giddy exultation, blank despair—play across the flushed faces was a diversion that kept boredom at bay.

“So we shall see how the cards fall.”

* * *

“M’lady! m’lady!” The boy skidded to a breathless stop in the entrance hall and poked his head into the tiny parlor. “Bloody hell, ye’ve got te move yer pegs! The fancy church cove wots roasting His Nibs—”

Charlotte Sloane set down her pen and waved for silence. “Speak English, Raven.”

“But I was!”

“The King’s English. Pronounced clearly and like a gentleman,” she chided. “And no swearing.”

“Gentlemen swear,” he shot back. “A lot.”

Charlotte bit back a smile. “True. But under this roof, you must temper your tongue.”

“I—”

“Hurry! Hurry!” Raven’s younger brother peltered through the front door. “Wot’s keeping ye?”

“Put a cork in it, Hawk. I’m trying te tell her.” Drawing a deep breath, Raven turned back to her. “You must come quickly, milady,” he said, this time enunciating his words like a proper little Etonian. “The churchman in your drawings has just been murdered. Skinny, the streetsweep who works the corner by St. Stephen’s Church on Black Swan Lane, heard the watchman scream and run off to fetch the magistrate. If we move fast, you’ll have time for a peek before they return.”

Murder?

Charlotte flinched, nearly spilling the bottle of ink over her unfinished cartoon.

“Skinny said it’s horrible,” volunteered Hawk in an awed whisper. “The reverend’s head is near cut off and there’s enough blood pooled round the body to float a forty-gun frigate.”

She hesitated. It wasn’t that she was a ghoul, but a look at the scene would give her a great advantage over her competitors. In her business, knowledge was money.

And God knows, she needed money.

Having all the gruesome details at her fingertips . . .

Shooting up from her chair, Charlotte gestured at the stairs leading down to the tiny kitchen. “Fetch a lantern. I’ll just be a moment changing into my breeches and boots.”

A short while later, garbed as just another grubby urchin prowling the unlit streets, Charlotte squeezed through the back gate of the churchyard and followed the boys as they picked a path through the crumbling gravestones. Scudding clouds hid the crescent moon and the faint mizzle of starlight was lost in the thick malodorous mists drifting up from the river. Somewhere in the trees, a lone owl hooted.

Quickening her pace, she darted into the alcove between the buttresses and crouched down in front of the iron-banded side door. Raven was already at work on the lock, the thin shaft of his steel pick probing, probing . . .

Click.

The massive hinges swung open with a rusty groan.

“Keep watch out here,” whispered Raven to his brother. “The usual signal—two sharp whistles—if we need te scamper quick-like.”

Hawk nodded solemnly.