As the boys fell to bantering with each other, Charlotte turned back to her drawing. The exchange had only been further proof that Wrexford had been right to press her about providing a good education for them. Not that she had needed it. In her heart, she had known he was right.
So if anyone had been an arse, it was she. Charlotte sketched in her own likeness for the donkey’s face, then added two large equine ears.
Her reaction to their confrontation had been childish. But so had his.
For all his faults, Wrexford was always quick to forgive a quarrel. This time had been different. He had left in a foul temper—for what reason she still couldn’t say. If she didn’t know better, she would be tempted to think she had wounded his feelings. However, the idea was absurd. By his own admission, Wrexford armored himself in cynicism too thick for any barb to penetrate.
Giving up on trying to figure out what was bedeviling him, Charlotte turned her attention to making a list of all the things that she needed for the coming morning.
Tomorrow would be her last day in this house. Lifting her gaze, she took in the room, though every nook and cranny was indelibly etched in her mind’s eye. Dark and light—the silent flicker of the lamp and candles danced over the tiny details. . . the crack in the window casement that always let in a whistle of wind when it blew from the west . . . the spatter of blue pigment on the far wall where Anthony had once flung his paintbrush in frustration . . . the dent in the stove caused by a mouse who had dislodged the cast iron frying . . .
Memories, memories.
Charlotte sat staring at her own ink-stained hands for a moment longer, then shook off the shadows of the past. It was time to look to the future.
Malum consilium est, quod mutari non potest. Bad is the plan that is unable to change.The words, whether whispered in Latin or English, made it sound so simple....
Pulling a pristine sheet from the stack of blank drawing paper, she set it atop her doodles. Mr. Fores expected a new print by the following evening and as her pen and pigments had not yet mastered the art of creating satire on their own, she set to work.
* * *
A potent fugue of distinctly male smells—smoke, sweat and brandy—enveloped Wrexford as he entered the gambling hell.Red-gold flames licked up from the glass-globed wall sconces, their oily light casting the jumbled scene of the crowded gaming tables in a Mars-like glow.
War was an apt analogy, he thought sardonically. A cacophony of curses clashing with drunken laughter filled the hazed air. Man’s primal urges battling against their better nature.
No question which was the stronger of the two.
“Gannett is most likely in one of the rear salons,” murmured Sheffield. “Follow me.”
His friend led the way through the press of bodies to a narrow corridor that led deeper into the bowels of the building. The rattle of rolling dice echoed loud as musket fire against the close-set walls. They passed several more dimly-lit rooms before Sheffield came to a halt by a low archway.
“The lowest pit of hell,” he quipped. “The stakes tend to be highest in here.”
Through the scrim of cigar smoke, Wrexford could make out the vague shapes of men hunched around a half dozen tables.
“Though I’m surprised Gannett is still welcome to play among these devils,” added Sheffield. “I’ve heard he’s having trouble paying off his vowels. And those who can’t settle their debts aren’t looked upon kindly.”
Wrexford watched the flash of pasteboard cards as they slapped down upon the green felt. From what Sheffield had told him of their quarry, he found it hard to believe that a wastrel like Gannett had any interest in radical reform. But perhaps the fellow simply found fomenting violence and chaos sent the same thrill bubbling through his blood as gambling did.
Danger was addictive.
“Do you see him?” he asked.
Sheffield shifted a step and squinted into the gloom. “Yes, he’s there, in the far corner.”
They waited until the hand had been played out, then made their way to the table.
“Gannett,” growled Wrexford. “We’d like a word with you.”
A man looked up. His face had once been handsome but the sallow skin now sagged from the well-cut bones, giving him the look of a dead cod.
“Can’t you bloody well see I’m busy?” His voice was slightly slurred. “Bugger off.”
The retort drew a rumble of laughter from his fellow players.
Wrexford fisted a hand in Gannett’s collar and yanked him to his feet.
The laughter stopped.
