No, the past was the past. It would not come back to haunt her.
Grabbing up her gloves and shawl, she hurried downstairs to wait for Wrexford’s carriage. Despite her resolve to remain calm, the quickening thump of her heart echoed each passing minute.
Finally, the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones roused her from brooding.
She rose, a spurt of panic shooting through her veins as the horses halted.
Steady, steady.
As Wrexford had promised, it was a nondescript vehicle, with no fancy footman or tiger clinging to the outside perch.
Nihil sibi metuunt. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte took hold of the door latch and stepped outside.
* * *
“You’re a hard man to find, Griffin.” Having had no luck in tracking down the Runner the previous evening, Wrexford finally caught up with him at an out-of-the-way tavern in St. Giles. “It wasn’t so long ago when I couldn’t take a step without tripping over your boots.”
“That was when I wanted your head on a platter. Now, thanks to you and your penchant for finding dead bodies, I have another murder to solve.” Griffin polished off the last morsel of his cheese and pickle, then pushed away the empty plate. “Have you got something for me—other than a wedge of apple pie and another tankard of ale?”
“One would think you’d starve if you didn’t know me.” After calling the order to a barmaid, the earl took a seat at the small table. ‘The answer is yes—I have something meaty for you.”
Griffin waited until his pie and ale arrived before murmuring, “I’m listening.”
“I think Hollis and the radicals may not be solely responsible for Ashton’s murder,” began Wrexford. The Runner was not yet aware of Hollis’s dying words or jumbled numbers found in the desk, a fact he quickly rectified. He did, however, hold back the mention of Nevins. He had not yet managed to track down Henning, and until he spoke with the surgeon, he wasn’t going to send the authorities sniffing around his clinic.
Griffin fixed him with a baleful look. “You didn’t think I should have known that right away?”
Wrexford shrugged. While he and the Runner had an unspokentruce, it was a wary one. “As I said, you’re a hard man to find.”
“Hmmph.”
“There are too many possible—and powerful—motives that haven’t been fully explored,” pressed the earl. “Think about it, Griffin. Why would the radicals leave their symbol on the body? Given the government’s fears of labor unrest, they would know it would be inviting the military to hunt them down like vermin.”
“You’re assuming they think rationally,” pointed out the Runner.
“It feels too simple,” insisted Wrexford. “I think we need to keep looking at whether one of Ashton’s investors was involved in the murder. Or perhaps a member of his household.” A pause. “Ashton’s assistant continues to avoid meeting with me to discuss the case.”
Forking up a bite of pie, Griffin chewed thoughtfully before replying. Ignoring the earl’s suggestion, he focused on the facts. “Any luck in deciphering the numbers? That’s assuming the paper isn’t a child’s mindless scribbles from years ago. As you pointed out, there’s no proof it was left by Hollis.”
“No, I’ve not yet made any sense of it. But as I said, intuition tells me that along with tracking down radicals you should look more closely at the people around Ashton. The motive of the patent is too powerful to ignore. After all, money is usually at the root of all evil.”
“Have you any—any—proof of that?”
Damnation.The fellow was like a bulldog, who needed a bone between his teeth before he could chew. “For God’s sake, use your imagination.”
“My superiors don’t pay me to commune with the realm of fantasy, milord.” Griffin set his fork down. “The government is extremely concerned about the prospect of workers rioting and mayhem breaking out across the country. There’s not asnowball’s chance in hell they will allow me to break off my hunt for the radical leaders on a mere hunch. Even from you.”
Wrexford swore under his breath.
“Find me some actual evidence of your theory,” went on the Runner. “Otherwise you’re on your own.” He took a long draught of ale. “But do have a care. I should miss the pleasure of your company, milord.”
Wrexford rose with a grunt. “And that of my purse.”
* * *
“Good day, madam.” The coachman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door.
Charlotte climbed inside, thankful that the small glass-paned windows let in little light. Shadows would help hide her masquerade.
