Page 63 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

The vast majority of them were bored to flinders.

And boredom could be dangerous.

“Come, let us go join the private party,” suggested Wrexford. “And see what gossip bubbles up.”

“You go on,” replied Sheffield. “I think I shall stroll over to White’s and start seeing what more I can learn about St. Aubin. Grenfall is usually there at this hour, and he was in the same Guards regiment.”

“Discretion, Kit,” reminded the earl.

His friend cocked a mock salute and headed off.

* * *

Charlottte set Henning’s package on her desk, then removed her damp cloak and stirred the embers in the stove to life. Thankfully, her finances now allowed her to add some extra chunks of coal. Though the clouds had started to clear, the watery sun was too weak to chase the chill from her bones.

And an unwilling glance at the dark oilskin wrapping did nothing to dispel the feeling.

Strange how the minds of men could be capable of creating both poetic beauty and coldhearted terror. How was it that some individuals believed they had the right to transcend their mortal powers to play God with the universe?

She blinked as the lamplight sputtered, the just-lit wick needing another instant to steady its flame. No possible answer came to mind, save for that the temptation of Evil had been an elemental part of the human condition since the Garden of Eden.

Settling into the comfortable contours of her work chair, Charlotte felt a frisson of surprise at how loath she was to cut the cording around the books. Since Anthony’s death, she had kept her fears and suspicions—and yes, her guilt—locked away, telling herself the past was the past. That nothing would bring him back had seemed a compelling reason for focusing on the future.

And now?

Somehow, she knew in her heart that with the flick of her penknife, she would be taking an irrevocable step.

A crossing of the Rubicon. There would be no going back.

Once she committed to an active investigation, not simply confiding her secrets to Wrexford and allowing him to act, she would have to face her doubts, and the demons whose taunting whispers implied that she should have been strong enough to save Anthony.

Perhaps even more unsettling, she would have to face her own niggling resentment at feeling guilty. The roles should have been reversed, but Anthony had always been ethereal, incapable of shouldering the responsibilities of everyday survival. He had retreated into his art and his dreams, leaving her to manage the realities of life.

Leaving his death—along with all the conflicting emotions shrouding it—buried might be for the best.

The truth would, of course, also remain entombed, moldering for eternity in the same deep, dark crypt....

Footsteps peltered across the foyer. The inner lock yielded to a key and the door flung open with athump.

“Look, look, m’lady!” A breathless Hawk skidded to a halt, followed by Raven, who was moving at a slightly more sedate pace. “I found a ha’penny in the mud at Covent Garden market and I bought these for you!”

As Charlotte looked up through the flitting shadows, the small clutch of pale pink roses was like a blaze of sweet sunlight brightening the gloom.

Her throat tightened. “Oh, how lovely,” she said in a small voice.

“You like ’em?” Hawk came a step closer, suddenly looking a little uncertain. “There wuz other colors, but Raven thought ye’d like pink best.”

“On account of your fancy shawl,” explained his brother.

The boy had sharp eyes. These days, Charlotte wore sturdy, serviceable garments fashioned in muted shades of grey and brown. But tucked away in her armoire was a Kashmir paisley shawl from long ago, woven in soft shades of pink and rose madder. She had put it on once, in celebration of Anthony’s birthday.

“They’re perfect.” She rose and gave Hawk a swift hug before taking the bouquet and placing it in an earthenware jug. “See how they make the room look so cheerful.” The leaves fluttered as she set it on the table, as if casting a spell to banish the grim ghosts from the place.

“Silly, if you ask me, te make a fuss over bits of greenery,” said Raven, but his mouth curled up at the corners as he took in his younger brother’s beaming face.

“Beauty lifts the spirits,” she told him. “As do art and poetry and music.”

“But they’ll just be dead in a few days,” he replied.