McClellan gave a crucial squint. “No wonder you look like hell. Sit. I’ll fix you something to fill your breadbox.”
The thought of poor Becton laid out on Henning’s mortuary slab made Charlotte sure she had no appetite. But the delicious aroma of frying gammon, perfumed by the scent of bread fresh from the oven, quickly made her realize that she was ravenous.
“That will put some color back in your cheeks,” said the maid, watching with approval as Charlotte dug into her meal.
“Where are the Weasels?” she asked through a mouthful of shirred eggs.
“I put them to work in the garden,” answered McClellan, “so that they won’t pester you with ghoulish questions about what happened at Henning’s surgery until you’ve finished your breakfast.”
A clatter at the rear door, followed by the thump of steps in the pantry passageway, signaled that plan had died an early death. Sure enough, Raven rushed into the kitchen, with Hawk right on his heels.
McClellan winced, watching their filthy boots leave a trail of muck across the just-swept floor. “Your orders were to stay outside so milady could dine in peace.”
“Oiy, but a note just came from Aunt Alison.” Raven held up the pristine piece of paper clutched in his grubby hand. “We assumed you would wish to read it right away.”
“Right—because in another few minutes, it wouldn’t be legible,” said McClellan. Her eyes narrowed. “Whatisthat disgusting substance on your fingers?”
The slime, noted Charlotte, was the exact color of horse piss.
“I swear,” grumbled the maid, “if Tyler has given you two another set of noxious chemicals—”
“Aren’t you going to open it?” interrupted Hawk, fixing Charlotte with an expectant look.
The boys were very fond of Alison, who had insisted they call her their aunt, even though they were unrelated by blood.
But then, love was the true bond that tied all of her odd little family together.
Putting down her fork, Charlotte cracked the wax seal and read over the short message. As she expected, Alison was all afire to hear what had kept her and Wrexford from appearing at the gala supper.
The dowager was one of the few people who knew about Charlotte’s secret identity, and how her passion for justice occasionally drew her into danger. Indeed, Alison had been involved in their last murder investigation—and had shown a frightening enthusiasm for puzzling out mysteries.
“Would you like for us to run a message back to her?” pressed Hawk. The dowager’s cook was very generous with sweets.
Charlotte was fairly certain that the death—much less the suspicion that it might be murder—had not yet been made public. Alison would have far too many questions to be satisfied with a mere note.
“I had better go myself.” On hearing a chuff of disappointment, she added, “But I’d be grateful if you would hare along to her townhouse and tell her I’ll come by for tea at four.”
The boys spun around in a flash. But McClellan was just as quick. She reached out and snagged Raven’s collar. “Wash your hands first. A young gentleman doesn’t appear in polite company stinking of . . .”
Hawk began to giggle, only to find his own collar caught in the maid’s clutches. “That goes for you, too.”
“We ain’t gentlemen,” retorted Raven. “We’re Weasels. Which, like ferrets and polecats, are part of the genusMustela.”
Their tutor had recently been teaching them the classification system for animals and plants created by the legendary Carl Linnaeus.
“Ergo,” he added, “we don’t have to wash ourdamnpaws.”
McClellan gave him a shake. “I don’t care whether you’re a bloody lion from the wilds of Africa, use bad language in this house again and you’ll have soapsuds bubbling over your tongue, as well as your hands.”
Charlotte cleared her throat with a cough, unsure whether to be amused or appalled by the deliberate transgression. Raven was well aware of the rule against swearing within the walls of their home. But he was reaching a difficult age—not quite a child, not quite an adolescent—and she feared there would be a great many similar challenges to authority in the days ahead.
“Butergois Latin!” chirped Hawk, looking a little confused. “It meanstherefore,so—”
“Mac meantdamn,” explained his older brother with a grin.
“Oh.” Hawk made a face. “Right.”
Charlotte watched the boys hurry to the washbasin. Abandoned at a tender age, they had learned to survive in London’s toughest slum. Clever and resilient, they had been living as homeless urchins when Charlotte had first met them and taken them under her wing. Patience and love—along with schooling and lessons in manners—had polished their rough edges. They now could speak with a plummy accent and charm their way through a Mayfair drawing room. But a streak of hardscrabble independence would always set them apart from the pampered scions of the aristocracy.
