“I’ll go fetch Raven,” called Hawk, flinging off his jacket as he raced for the stairs, “and we’ll fly to alert His Lordship.”
“Would you care for some tea?” asked McClellan as Charlotte removed her bonnet and shrugged off her cloak.
“Thank you, but no.” What she desperately needed was some solitude in which to think.
“Well, then . . .” The maid picked up Hawk’s jacket, her brows rising as she surveyed the streak on its front. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. This may require some witchcraft to remove.”
“Thank you,” repeated Charlotte, but her mind was already spinning, spinning, spinning . . .
Once seated at her desk, she set a fresh sheet of paper on her blotter.Is it possible the trail leads back to DeVere?Wrexford had searched carefully for any incriminating evidence and had found nothing.
And yet . . .
Her pencil moved over the paper, sketching in the sword-shaped plant at its center and a series of lines and arrows radiating out to the confusion of clues—grains of snuff, a slender knife, a voltaic pile, a Wellington hat, the shadowy outline of a figure.Something had to tie them all together.
She just had to see it.
* * *
“Sir Kelvin Hollister?” The grizzled porter at Boodle’s scratched at his chin. “Aye, he was here earlier, milord, closetedin one o’ the private rooms with a gent I didn’t recognize. But you’ve just missed him.”
Wrexford cursed. He and Sheffield had spent the last few hours searching through Mayfair, trying to catch up with their quarry. It appeared they were getting closer. But not close enough.
He took out his purse and gave it a discreet shake. “Any idea what other haunts he favors in Town?”
The porter’s eyes widened at the muted clink of gold against gold. “You could try the Golden Cockerel in St. Giles, milord.” He looked around before adding, “I’ve heard murmurs here in the club that it’s known as a place where a gentleman who needs a hidey-hole can take refuge.”
Wrexford passed over several guineas. “Let’s be off, Kit. If we hurry, perhaps we can finally run him to ground.”
* * *
“His Lordship ain’t—isn’t—at home,” announced Hawk in a rush as he pushed open the door to her workroom. “Mr. Tyler says he and Mr. Sheffield went off to confront Sir Kelvin Hollister, and they’ve been gone fer hours.”
Repressing an oath, Charlotte looked down at her scribbles. Hollister was another maddening thread in her tangled sketch. His connection with her slain cousin was through science . . .
And through Lady Julianna Aldrich.
She suddenly felt a prickling between her shoulder blades.
“Raven stayed with Mr. Tyler,” continued Hawk, “so he can come tell you when His Lordship returns.” He edged closer to her desk, watching her intently. “You want for me to run any other errands?”
“No, there’s nothing for us to do but wait,” she answered.
His gaze shifted to the drawing paper. “What’s that?”
“Just random doodles,” replied Charlotte, still contemplating the crisscrossing squiggles and arrows. “They sometimes help me think.”
Think.
All at once, the idea that had been lurking at the edge of her consciousness snapped into sharp focus.
He craned his neck. “Why—”
“I fear I’m too exhausted to contemplate any more questions tonight,” she cut in. “It’s been a very long day. We should both get some sleep.”
Hawk’s eyes betrayed a tiny flicker, but he reluctantly lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Oiy, I s’ppose so.”
Charlotte pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his tangled curls. “Rest easy, sweeting. Because of you, we are gathering more and more clues that may lead us to the killer.”
