Page 90 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

Without looking up, she turned to the next page.

A curse—at least, she suspected it was one. Everything said in Gaelic sounded a little rough around the edges. He rose abruptly. “I really must insist.”

“Very well,” answered Charlotte calmly. “You may bring me the biscuits. But I would prefer brandy over the warm milk.”

His jaw tightened. He was, she observed, no doubt trying to decide whether gentlemanly scruples allowed him to toss her out on her ear. Or perhaps his uncertainty centered around the small pistol she had seen him ease out of the workbench drawer the moment she had dropped into the room.

Whatever the moral dilemma, it was interrupted by Wrexford’s hurried entrance.

He appeared agitated. “Tyler—”

Be damned if the book was rare. Before he could say more, Charlotte smacked it down on the desk with a ferociousthumpand shot to her feet. “You, sir, are an unmitigated arse.”

The earl stopped short.

“How dare you!” she continued. “I swear, if I had a piece of rope right now, I’d hang you myself.”

He had the grace to look a little abashed. “They were in no danger.”

On hearing his curt reply, all her pent-up fears came bubbling up. “Has God suddenly given you the powers of Almighty omniscience to go along with your lordly arrogance? Or is it simply what the devil does it matter if two homeless brats get shipped off to the penal colonies half a world away! There are hundreds—nay thousands—of such worthless weasels roaming the streets of London.” To her dismay, Charlotte felt tears well up, but quickly blinked them back. “Of course they wouldn’t be missed.”

His face expressionless, Wrexford fixed his stare not on her but rather on some spot on the far wall.

Detachment, she thought bitterly, was a great gift to have when faced with inconvenient truths.

Tyler didn’t move. The only sound was the sinuous whisper of the heavy silk draperies as they stirred in a gust of air.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You are right. It was wrong of me to involve the boys without first discussing it with you.”

She blinked again.

“But rest assured, I would never have allowed them to come to any grief.”

The unexpected apology drained away the rush of righteous anger, leaving her feeling naught but hurt and exhausted. Charlotte sat down again and folded her hands in her lap. There was an ink smudge on her calloused thumb, an all too visceral reminder that in both action and thought, her behavior was beyond the pale of Polite Society decorum.

A black mark. She contemplated the thought, then decided to see it instead as a badge of honor. A pattern card of propriety had no more substance than the pasteboard on which it was printed.

Let the beau monde consider her disgraceful for having passions.

As to what the earl was thinking of her . . .

It didn’t matter.

Charlotte made herself look up and pretend to possess more strength than she felt. “I hope that the risk proved worth it.” Strangely enough, her voice sounded strong and steady.

“It did,” answered the earl with equal calmness. “Indeed, we may soon know the truth about at least part of the mystery.”

Without further ado, he gestured at the ginger-haired man. “Tyler!” Turning to her, he added, “By the by, this is Tyler. A mediocre valet but an excellent laboratory assistant.”

Tyler inclined a courteous nod.

“Allow me to introduce . . .” Wrexford hesitated.

“A. J. Quill,” said Charlotte. Seeing as the valet was privy to the other secrets, it seemed silly to keep this one.

If Tyler was surprised by the announcement, he hid it well. “What a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured. “I am a great fan of your work.”

“Never mind that.” The earl had already moved to the central worktable, and with great care he took a wad of silk from inside his coat and placed it down as if he were handling the most fragile of eggs. “I need two of our thinnest glass squares, and be quick about it.”