The boy obeyed in a flash, clutching his sketchbook and a fistful of colored sticks of chalk to his chest.
“This way,” she murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him toward the conservatory’s study rooms. To her relief, the lanterns along the walkway to that section of the building were unlit.
The door to the art room was locked, but Charlotte plucked a hairpin from her topknot. After a few deft twists of the metal, it opened with a softsnick.Drawing it shut behind them, she led Hawk over to a study table set by an exterior window looking out onto the herb gardens. The night sky was cloudless, the twinkling of the stars amplifying the whisper of silvery moonlight coming in through the glass panes.
The pale glow caught the look of apprehension on the boy’s face. “I-I’m sorry. I know Mr. Tyler told me to stay in the section containing the bromeliads, so I wouldn’t disturb any of the scholars. But he’s been gone for an age, and there wasn’t anyone among the ficus trees . . .”
His lower lip began to quiver. “I didn’t think it would do any harm. I was quiet, and w-wery careful.”
Hawk’s pronunciation always turned a little shaky when he was nervous. Feeling her heart clench, Charlotte gently smoothed a tangle of hair back from his brow. “You did nothing wrong, sweeting. However, there’s been an unfortunate incident in another part of the conservatory, and it’s best that we stay out of sight while the proper authorities deal with the matter.”
Hawk squirmed in his chair. “W-What sort of incident?”
Alas, both boys were far more familiar with murder investigations than she would have liked. Still, she saw no reason to mention the dead body.
“Wrexford will come fetch us when things have calmed down,” she replied. He had let his sketchbook slip onto the table, but it appeared that his hands remained tightly fisted, though they were now resting in his lap. Seeking to reassure him that he had done nothing deserving a scold, she asked, “Did you discover some new and interesting plants to draw?”
* * *
“There will be an extra few guineas for you and your men if the body arrives at Henning’s surgery before dawn,” murmured Wrexford as he passed over a handful of coins.
“Oiy, milord.” The driver gave a tug on his greasy forelock as his two helpers loaded Becton’s canvas-wrapped corpse into the back of the mortuary wagon. “Never fear, we won’t hesitate te rattle a few bones te get there quicklike, heh, heh, heh.”
“Then crack your whip and get your wheels rolling,” replied the earl. The Royal Botanic Gardens were in Kew, a long drive from the heart of London. Given the less-than-official order he had just issued, it was best that the trip be completed under the cover of darkness.
He watched the wagon jolt off into the gloom, then turned to Hosack. “I think you should join the gala dinner, sir. One of the footmen informed me that Tyler is still somewhere on the grounds, so I’ll have him wait here and bring you to my friend Henning’s surgery, once the evening’s festivities have come to an end.”
“I’m profoundly grateful, Lord Wrexford.”
“Well, there is an old English adage—Be careful what you wish for,” responded Wrexford.
“Yes, I know . . . I know. It would have been expedient to ignore my suspicions. But it would have been wrong.” Releasing a sigh that trailed off in a ghostly vapor, Hosack stared into the shadows. “Not to speak of being cowardly. Becton could be oddly reclusive. And secretive. But he was a dear friend. I couldn’t in good conscience turn a blind eye on the evidence.”
“I pray you’re mistaken,” muttered the earl.
“So do I, sir.” Another sigh. “So do I.”
A breeze rustled through the nearby trees. The leaves, already turning brittle from the first hints of autumn, gave off a mournful crackling.
Hosack blew out his cheeks and inclined a small bow before turning to the path leading up to the palace.
Wrexford remained where he was, feeling a chill slither down his spine which had nothing to do with the nighttime drop in temperature. Though this death did not involve him or those he held dear, he knew all too well how murder—if this, in fact, proved to be one—had a way of reaching out and entrapping innocent victims within its tentacles.
Damn the devil and his legion of demons.
He would have to stay sharp and be ready to cut off any threat that tried to come close.
Somewhere in the grove of trees, a branch cracked. Pushing aside his mordant thoughts, the earl turned around and set off to reenter the conservatory.
The main entrance foyer was deserted, and the agitated current of shock had settled back into the usual aura of quiet tranquility. In no mood to appreciate the lush sweetness of the air, Wrexford batted aside a leafy vine and started down one of the side paths, intent on taking a shortcut to where Charlotte was waiting. The way looped through a tall cluster of holly specimens, and as he emerged from the jagged shadows, he saw he wasn’t alone.
Someone was sitting on his haunches and peering into a tangle of sword-shaped leaves.
A frustrated mutter floated above the ruffling greenery. “Where the devil are you?”
“Ye gods,” muttered Wrexford. “I pray you’re not looking for a lost Weasel.”
Tyler looked up with a start. “He’s not lost. He’s simply . . . not where he was told to be.”
