“Hell’s teeth, since when did you become such a stick in the mud?”
“Since you led me into this putrid-smelling swamp of an alleyway,” he retorted. His own wits were a little fuzzed with alcohol, and he winced as he slipped, nearly losing his balance. “Pray, why are we taking this route past Half Moon Gate? Tyler will raise holy hell at having to clean this disgusting muck from my boots.”
“Heaven forbid we upset your valet.” Sheffield made a face. “You know, you’re in danger of becoming no fun to carouse with.”
Wrexford came to a halt as the alley branched off into three twisting passages. “Which way?”
“The middle one,” said Sheffield without hesitation. “As for why we’re cutting through here, there are two reasons. It’s much shorter than circling around by the main street.” A grunt, as he slipped again. “More importantly, there’s a chance we’ll encounter a footpad, and given my recent losses at the gambling tables, I’m in the mood to thrash someone to a bloody pulp.”
The earl tactfully refrained from comment. Like many younger sons of aristocratic families, his friend was caught in a damnably difficult position. The heir and firstborn usually had a generousstipend—and if not, tradesmen were willing to advance generous credit. But those who trailed behind were dependent on parental pursestrings. Sheffield’s father, however, was a notorious nipcheese, and kept him on a very puny allowance.
In retaliation, Sheffield made a point of acting badly, a vicious cycle that did no one any good.
It was, mused Wrexford, a pity, for Kit had a very sharp mind when challenged to use it. He had been of great help in solving a complicated crime a handful of months ago—
“Has Mrs. Sloane decided to move to a different neighborhood?” asked his friend, abruptly changing the subject.
“The last time I paid her a visit, she made no mention of it,” he replied.
Sheffield shot him an odd look. “You didn’task?”
Thesquish-squishof their steps filled the air. Wrexford deliberately said nothing.
“Never mind,” murmured his friend.
Charlotte Sloane.A sudden stumble forced a sharp huff of air from his lungs. That was a subject he didn’t care to discuss, especially as the throbbing at the back of his skull was growing worse.
He and Charlotte Sloane had been drawn together—quite literally—by the gruesome murder of a leading religious zealot, a crime for which he had been the leading suspect.Secrets twisted around secrets—one of the more surprising ones had been that the notorious A. J. Quill, London’s leading satirical artist, was a woman. Circumstances had led him and Charlotte to join forces in order to unravel a diabolically cunning plot and unmask the real miscreant.
Their initial mistrust had turned into wary collaboration, and then to friendship—though that was, mused Wrexford, a far too simple word to describe the bond between them.
Chemistry.As an expert in science, Wrexford could describein objective detail how the combination of their special talents seemed to stir a powerful reaction. However, they lived in different worlds and moved in vastly different circles here in Town. Rich and poor. Aristocrat and Nobody. Charlotte had made it clear after solving the crime that said circles were unlikely to overlap again.
Despite her assumption, he did pay an occasional visit to her humble home—simply out of friendship—to ensure that she and the two urchin orphans she had taken under her wing were suffering no consequences for helping prove his innocence. But given his own reputation for being a cold-hearted bastard, Sheffield didn’t need to know—
“We turn again here.”
Sheffield’s murmur drew Wrexford from his brooding.
“Mind your head,” added his friend as he squeezed through a gap between two derelict buildings. “A beam has broken loose from the roof.”
The alleyway widened, allowing them to walk on side by side.
Wrexford grimaced as a particularly noxious odor rose up to assault his nostrils. “The next time you want my company while you try your luck at the gaming tables, let’s choose a more civilized spot than The Wolf’s Lair. I really don’t fancy—” His words cut off sharply as he spotted a flutter of movement in the shadows up ahead.
He heard an oath and the sudden rustling of some unseen person scrambling to his feet and racing away.
“Don’t fancy what?” asked Sheffield, who had stopped to light a cheroot.
“Strike another match and hand it over,” demanded Wrexford. “Quickly!”
Sheffield dipped a phosphorus-tipped stick into a tiny bottle of nitric acid, igniting a flame.
Wrexford took it and approached the corner of a brickwarehouse. Crouching down, he watched the sparking point of fire illuminate what lay in the mud and then expelled a harried sigh.
“I really don’t fancy finding yet another dead body.”
* * *
