“He’s quite right, it’s a fascinating subject, lad.” Yet another surprise in a day filled with surprises. “And I look forward to talking with you at greater length about the wonders of mathematics.” Wrexford held up the sealed note. “At the moment, however, m’lady is waiting for my reply.”
* * *
Punctuating the papery crackle with a low oath, Charlotte crumpled the earl’s missive and dropped it into her desk drawer.
“We have much to talk about,” she muttered, repeating the first of the two sentences he had deigned to write. The second one merely stated, ‘The carriage will call for you tomorrow at noon.’
His high-handedness caused a clench of resentment in her chest, even though she knew he was right to respect the strictures of society. It was the brusqueness of his message that felt a little like a slap in the face. Charlotte had thought their friendship, though fraught with complexities, was a bond that had grown into something deeper than mere pragmatism. Perhaps she was wrong.
Which brought into question her judgment on a great many things concerning the earl. Including her own feeling for him . . .
The clench suddenly tightened with a fierceness that forced the air from her lungs, and for an instant she feared her ribs might crack.
No, I am stronger than such weak-willed longings,she told herself, forcing away thoughts of the earl.Survival depends on being pragmatic.
Willing the iron-fisted grip to relax, Charlotte found she could breathe again.
Picking up her pen, she returned her gaze to the unfinished drawing on her desk. There was nothing like the need to put bread on the table to focus a clear-minded clarity on the moment at hand. She had promised it to Mr. Fores by tomorrowand had never failed to keep her word to him. With that in mind, she set to work.
It was close to midnight before Charlotte scraped back her chair and flexed the stiffness from her shoulders. The composition had demanded a dramatic balance of black and white, one that required a laborious series of crosshatched shadings. But as she cast a critical eye over the details, she decided she was satisfied with the result.
Painting in the colored highlights could wait until morning. Fatigue was hazing her head and hanging heavy on her lashes. Charlotte found she could barely keep her eyes open as she rose and made her way into the night-dark corridor leading to her bedchamber. Still, she paused by the narrow set of stairs leading up to the attic aerie and cocked an ear to catch the soft stirrings of the boys asleep in their beds.
Rustling wool, a snuffled breath—the sounds were reassuring. Of late, their nocturnal ramblings had grown less frequent. A sign, she hoped, that they were adapting to a more settled life.
For the moment all was well, and yet Charlotte lingered, thinking about the hopes and fears that came with love.
Love.
The heart was safer in solitude. Was that what was keeping Raven at arm’s length? The boy had seen enough of life’s cruelties to sense the dangers of caring too much.
As for her own emotions . . .
Charlotte looked up, though the slumbering gloom revealed no answers. She was curious as to what had happened at the earl’s townhouse. Hawk had come home looking blissfully happy—the pungent smell of horse that clung to his clothing explained why. Raven, too, had seemed pleased about something, though her gentle probing had failed to elicit more than a cryptic smile.
She wished . . .
“Ah, but if wishes were winged unicorns, I could fly a chariot to the moon and back by dawn.” A yawn punctuated her murmur. Time for sleep, before her thoughts spun any further quicksilver silliness.
* * *
A discreet knock on the workroom door roused Wrexford from his brooding.
“Milord, Mr. Henning wishes to speak with you. He says it’s rather urgent.”
Thank God for small favors, thought the earl. He hadn’t been in any mood to go out searching through the stews again. “Show him in, Riche.”
As the surgeon shuffled into the room, looking even more disheveled than usual, Wrexford added, “Where the devil have you been? Gabriel Hollis has been murdered.”
“An outbreak of influenza had hold of the rookies near the Foundling Hospital. I’ve been there for several days.” Henning came closer, and as he ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, the lamplight caught the circles of fatigue bagged beneath his eyes. “As for Hollis, I heard.” He withdrew a small packet from his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “That’s why I thought you had better see this without delay.”
As Wrexford snatched it up, Henning let out a sigh and looked around. “Might I pour myself a wee dram of that lovely malt?”
“You may have the whole damn bottle,” muttered the earl as he stared down at the words written on the outer wrapping.
From Gabriel Hollis. To be given to William Nevins in the event of my death.
“I found it shoved under my door when I returned home this evening,” said Henning as he shuffled to the sideboard. “Hollis was a prescient fellow, it seems.”
