Wrexford drew the thin-bladed knife from the hidden sheath in his boot and handed it to Skinny. Blodgett had made the mistake of assuming that a fancy aristocrat knew nothing about the dirty little tricks of the rookeries. “This should make short work of the screws holding the grate in place.”
Flashing a gap-toothed grin, Skinny took the weapon and tested the point on his thumb. “I’ll have dem out in two shakes of a bat’s arse.”
“Drop it back down here when you’re done, bantling.” Turning back to Benedict, the earl rubbed his palms together. “Don’t worry, I do have an alternative plan in mind if this comes to naught. But in my scientific experience, the best solution to a problem is usually the simplest one.”
* * *
Pewter-dark clouds, heavy with the promise of impending rain, scudded across the grey sky and a chill gust blew in from the choppy river, bringing with it the fetid smells of the ebbing tide. Charlotte huddled deeper within the cluster of pilings at the foot of the wharf and turned up the collar of her coat. The wind-whipped spray clung to her lashes, the drip-drip of its salt stinging her skin. Every bone in her body ached from fatigue. That she could will herself to ignore.
I am stronger than pain.
But fear . . . Like a serpent, fear coiled around her ribcage, squeezing so hard that her heart was thrashing wildly against her bones to keep from being crushed. Fear bubbled through her blood, burning like a bilious acid. It rose up in her gorge, so overpowering that she could taste it.
Raven had darted off to fetch a hot meat pie for them to share. And while the warmth would be welcome, the mere thought of food made her nauseous.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, trying to puzzle out how Wrexford had come to have such a commanding presence in her life. It wasn’t physical—they saw each other infrequently. Yet by some cerebral sleight of hand, he had managed to squeeze himself into her head, crowding her thoughts until few of them weren’t touched by his shadow. Whether wrestling with a concept for her art or simply dealing with a mundanemoment of everyday life, she often found herself asking,What would he say? What would he think?
That she might never hear his shouts, his growls, his laugh . . .
That she might never have the chance to tell him . . .
“Here, the barrowman had lamb—yer favorite.” Raven sat down beside her and broke off a chunk of the still-steaming pastry. For a moment, the stink of decay gave way to the sweet fragrance of herbs and spices.
“Ye have te eat,” he ordered, his dark eyes narrowing, daring her to disobey.
Charlotte choked back a brittle laugh at the irony of having their roles reversed. That her little lamb—well, in truth he had never been a lamb, but more like a lion cub—was willing to fight tooth and claw rather than lose heart and surrender to the darkness made her feel ashamed of her moment of weakness.
She took a small bite and found it helped her swallow the worst of her terror.
“We’re going te find him, m’lady,” said Raven softly.
She smiled, and in an instant her despair dissolved, transformed by some esoteric alchemy into hope. Wrexford would likely have a scientific theory about the chemistry of it. She must remember to ask him—and watch him huff and snarl about the illusions of sniveling sentiment.
“Of course we’re going to find him,” answered Charlotte. And when they did, she was going to thrash him within an inch of his arrogant, devil-be-damned life.
* * *
The earl winced as Benedict’s boot heels dug into his shoulders. Feet planted firmly on the anvil, back braced against the wall, he couldn’t see what was happening up above.
He heard a scraping of metal against metal. Benedict grunted and shifted again. “Skinny has pried out the screws. I’ve got the grate.”
A good sign.As was the slithering sound of wool against brick and the iron-grey crumbs of mortar raining into his hair.
Another excruciating few moments passed, then suddenly the knife plummeted past him—a hairsbreadth closer and it would have nicked his ear—to bury its razored point in the planked floor with a quiveringthwack.
“The lad is out!” exclaimed Benedict in an excited whisper. “By God, your plan worked.”
“Yes, well, it’s just the first step in the experiment.” Wrexford twisted awkwardly, his back pinching in protest as they slowly untangled themselves and dropped down to the floor. “As a man of science, you know it’s too early to gauge the final result.”
After placing the knife back into his boot, he dusted his trousers and went to examine the chemicals arrayed on the workbench more closely.
Benedict joined him. “Now what?”
“We wait,” replied the earl as he lit the spirit lamp and poured a measure of oil of vitriol into one of the copper cauldrons. “Or rather,youare going to wait. I’m going to try to stop Blackstone from leaving. Otherwise, we may never be able to bring him to justice.”
“But how?” Benedict cast a dubious look up at the tiny opening in the wall. “Even if you could reach that pinhole, you’d never get a leg, much less your shoulders, through it.”
“Not to speak of the fact that the effort would likely ruin a very expensive pair of boots,” replied Wrexford dryly. Seeing that the acid had come to a boil, he selected several other chemicals and added them one at a time. “Which is why I intend to go out through the door. As I said earlier, simplicity is always the most elegant of solutions.”
