Charlotte uttered a frustrated oath. She felt she should have seen the answer by now. Noticing the telling little details was supposed to be her strength. And yet, her mind remained blank as a pristine sheet of paper.
Picking up a pencil, she forced herself to set aside conscious thought and simply start sketching. Why not let intuition have a try, as intellect had failed?
To her surprise, Charlotte found she was drawing Lord Kirkland’s face. How strange, she thought, as she had seen it only once and for just a few moments as it lay devoid of life and painted a sallow yellow by the greasy flicker of lamplight. Even so, the viscount’s features had possessed a saturnine beauty.
Why do they seem familiar?
She moved the pencil point to a blank part of the page and started again. This time, another face—similar, yet different—took shape. She stared at it, trying to place the slightly hooded eyes and well-shaped mouth.
And then it hit her—a man brushing past her in the closeness of a corridor, his face all the more memorable because of his fire-bright eyes.
Dear God.It took a stretch of the imagination, but all at once she saw how it all could make perfect sense.
Charlotte quickly folded the sketch and hurried to her bedchamber to change into her urchin’s garb. After tucking thepaper safely into her shirt, she went downstairs and found McClellan busy reorganizing the shelves in the kitchen foyer.
“I’m going out,” she announced, feeling McClellan deserved her trust. Besides, she needed her to keep the boys in check. “I have to find Wrexford.”
The maid slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “The thing is, His Lordship ordered me to stay with you, Mrs. Sloane, and not allow you to hare off on your own.”
“Circumstances demand that we improvise,” she shot back. “Time is of the essence, and I’ll move faster alone.”
McClellan’s brow pinched as she considered what to do.
“It’s vitally important,” added Charlotte. “Lives may depend on it.”
“Then I suppose,” said the maid slowly, “we had best act on the old adage that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”
Charlotte nodded her thanks.
“Do you need a weapon?”
“I have one, though apparently I’m not nearly as skilled as you are in its use.”
“Like anything, marksmanship takes practice,” said the maid. “It is, perhaps, a skill you would find useful to acquire.”
“Quite likely.” Charlotte tugged at her cap. “I need you to keep Hawk from dashing after me. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And when Raven returns, you must see to it that he doesn’t leave,” she added. “Though that won’t be an easy task.”
“I’ve a good deal of experience with fiercely stubborn lads,” assured McClellan.
“Thank you.” Charlotte reached for the latch of the door leading out to the back garden, only to have it flung open by some unseen hand.
“Raven!” she cried as the boy stumbled in, his face half-covered in blood.
“Never mind that!” he exclaimed, fending off her attempt to enfold him in her arms. “It’s just a scratch from flying stones!”
McClellan had been quick to fetch a wet cloth from the kitchen and offered it to him. “She’ll calm down if you don’t look like death warmed over.”
“It ain’tmewho’s in any danger of meeting the Reaper! It’s His Nibs—he’s been coshed on the head and abducted.” Raven plucked a paper from his pocket. “By a bloody bastard named Geoffrey Blodgett!”
CHAPTER 26
It was the throbbing pain—like an iron spike hitting with a clanging rhythm against the back of his skull—that slowly brought Wrexford awake. He squeezed his eyes open and shut several times, feeling dizzy and disoriented as he tried to bring the murky gloom into focus.
He was lying on a stone surface, surrounded by a strange dampness that seemed both hot and cold. The metallic rattling grew louder, punctuated by a steady stream of hissing and whooshing.
