Even if his guess was correct and the experiments proved that Becton had been killed by a poison more potent than foxglove, that didn’t change the fact that he had been murdered. And it likely wouldn’t offer any clue as to the identity of the scoundrel who had committed the foul act.
Not as of yet, amended Wrexford as he smoothed the tails of his cravat into place.
And then he gave a guilty grimace at his reflection in the looking glass. Griffin and his fellow Runners at Bow Street would have to catch the killer on their own, he reminded himself.
“I’ve sent word to Griffin that you and Hosack will meet him tonight at his favorite tavern. Though given the political ramifications of the case, I daresay he will have to discuss things with his superiors before he begins his inquiries.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’ve left a hefty purse on my desk. He will expect to be fed a very generous supper while he listens to the facts of the case.”
Tyler nodded. The glass vial carefully cupped in his hands, he headed off to the workroom and its adjoining laboratory.
Wrexford quelled the urge to follow. He had a more important obligation to attend to.
“There isn’t a snowflake’s chance in Hell that I’m going to allow a stranger’s death to delay our nuptials,” he muttered, descending the stairs two at a time and hurrying out the front door of his townhouse to the waiting carriage. The coming week still held a number of social obligations, and for once, he was loath to stir any gossip by failing to appear.
He didn’t give a fig for his own reputation, but he wished to protect Charlotte from the tattle-mongers of the ton, whose silky smiles hid sharklike teeth. At the slightest scent of blood, they would swarm in a vicious frenzy, looking to tear their victim to shreds.
Charlotte wouldn’t care. But he did. She had suffered enough indignities from her own family, cast out for refusing to live her life as a pasteboard cutout, devoid of any color or individuality.
Her courage, her strength, her passions, her sense of right and wrong—all the myriad things that made Charlotte who she was—took his breath away.
“Damnation—Iwon’tlet her be hurt. Not by anyone.”
Though uttered in naught but a whisper, the fierceness of his pledge took him a little by surprise. Wrexford leaned back against the soft leather squabs and took a moment to settle his jumpy nerves. Therewasno threat, and no reason to imagine that one would rear its ugly head.
With that in mind, he called for the coachman to crack his whip and set the carriage wheels in motion.
* * *
“Dear heaven, another dead body?” Alison’s eyes widened as she looked up from her book.
Charlotte didn’t like the speculative gleam that flashed to life behind the lenses of the dowager’s reading glasses. Taking a seat in the facing armchair, she quickly gave a bare-bones account of the previous evening’s events, careful to omit certain details that might encourage her elderly great aunt’s curiosity to run amok.
“Murder, eh?” With a flutterythump,the pages snapped shut. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Weare going to donothing,” she replied. “Wrexford is arranging for Griffin to handle the investigation, and will pass on what little we know of the crime.”
“Griffin is very skilled at what he does,” conceded the dowager. “However—”
“Speaking of skillful friends,” interrupted Charlotte. “Which of the new gowns from Madame Françoise’s shop do you think I should wear to the scientific soiree at Kensington Palace tomorrow evening—the slate-blue or the sea-green one? The Royal Duke of Sussex is hosting the party, so I imagine the crème de la crème of society will be in attendance.”
Appearing momentarily at a loss for words, Alison fixed her with an owlish stare. “I confess, I’m not sure which shocks me more,” she said, once she had regained her voice. “Your concern with fashion or your concern with the guest list.”
“You know very well that I couldn’t care less about either. But Wrexford seems as skittish as a cat on a hot griddle about whether some of the high sticklers will whisper unkind gossip about my past. He’s been acting oddly protective of late, so I’d rather not give him cause for . . .”
“Explosion?” suggested Alison. “Oh, pish, the duke’s parties are usually dreadfully boring. A bit of pyrotechnics would liven up the evening. The earl is delightfully amusing when he loses his temper.”
“Heaven forfend,” murmured Charlotte. “However, it’s not just Wrexford. I confess that I’m also worried about meeting my brother and his family after all these years. So I would prefer not to stir any memories of past scandals.” She sighed. “Or create any new ones. I have enough to explain as it is.”
It was doubtful that her brother knew anything about her late husband’s family tree. But even though Wrexford had created a very official-looking trail of paper, she would rather not have him—or anyone—look too closely at her claim that Raven and Hawk were orphans from Anthony’s side of the family.
The laughter in Alison’s eyes quickly died. “Never fear, my dear. Nothing will upset the upcoming reconciliation. Your brother is as eager as you are to resume cordial relations.”
However, any further talk of family affairs was cut short by the boys, who burst through the drawing-room door in a helter-pelter of good-natured pushing and shoving.
“Aunt Alison’s cook just baked a batch of jam tarts!” exclaimed Hawk. “She let us sample one.”
