Charlotte wiped her palms on her rough wool breeches as she rose, and yet the residue of murder was not like blood or muck. It didn’t come off with a casual scrub. Rather, it seemed to seep beneath the skin.
In absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt. In the absence of light, darkness prevails.
Was violent death an insidious poison, she wondered, which over time would pollute the soul?
Perhaps that was a question whose complexities were best left to philosophers. For now, she simply wished to see justice done. If that was morally suspect, then so be it.
“Weasel,” summoned Wrexford in a low but commanding voice.
Raven darted out from the shadows.
“It’s time for you to return to my townhouse. Wait for Tyler and tell him he’s to send one of the footmen to Bow Street at first light with a note for Griffin—and only Griffin, understand?”
The boy gave a solemn nod.
“He should inform the Runner of Kirkland’s murder and give him the precise location of the body. More importantly, he needs to tell Griffin I have an idea of how this all ties together and ask him to be patient. I shall endeavor to meet with him as soon as possible.” The earl paused. “Can you remember that, lad?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Raven.
“One last thing,” added Wrexford. “Griffin should have the corpse taken to Henning’s surgery. There may be some clue Henning can see.”
A weak scudding of moonlight caught the silent movement of the boy’s lips. Committing the words to memory, realized Charlotte. For all his fierce sense of independence, Raven always held himself a little straighter in the earl’s presence.
“Yes, sir,” repeated the boy.
“Then away with you.”
The shadows skirled, as if caught in a momentary gust of air, and then settled back into stillness.
The earl was already striding to the alleyway.
Charlotte shook off her musings and hurried to catch up with him.
“How do you intend to gain entrance into the widow’s residence?” she asked. “The doors are likely barred, so picking a lock won’t work. And besides, it’s not a wise idea—the footmen may have orders to shoot any intruder.”
He didn’t look around but merely quickened his pace. “There are times when having a high and mighty title proves useful.”
Charlotte fell in step behind him. Whatever force of nature had him in thrall, it wasn’t going to yield to anything she said.
One turn, then another, and suddenly the silvery silhouette of Grosvenor Square’s fancy mansions, all elegant angles and decorative pediments, rose out of the gloom ahead. Moving in single file, the three of them circled around the central garden, hugging close to the leafy shadows overhanging the fence. The residences lining the far side of the square were swathed in silky silence, the pale limestone and stately marble porticos sleeping peacefully in the hide-and-seek shadows cast by the wrought iron street lights.
Lord Blackstone’s townhouse was set near the far corner.Wrexford took the treads of the marble entrance stairs two at a time and grabbed hold of the heavy brass knocker.
Bang, bang!Several staccato raps shattered the quiet tranquility.
“If you are intent on rousing the dead, we could simply summon a regiment of the Royal Hussars to gallop through the streets,” quipped Sheffield.
The earl paid him no heed and pounded out another tattoo.
Charlotte glanced around. No light flared to life in the nearby windows, but as she turned back, she thought she detected the glimmer of candlelight deep within the residence.
Sure enough, a wary voice, muzzy with sleep, sounded on the other side of the paneled oak door.
“Who’s there?”
“The Earl of Wrexford.”
She’d never heard him sound so imperious.
