The sticky raspberry-red smear on his chin made the announcement superfluous.
“One?” The dowager raised a brow.
“Or maybe two.” Unlike his older brother, Hawk had not yet mastered the art of guile. “They’re very good.”
“Well, then, I hope there’s one remaining formysupper.”
Hawk swallowed hard and slanted a guilty look at Raven.
“Oiy.” Raven grinned. “We left a crust.”
Alison laughed, which drew a sigh of relief from Hawk.
“Do you need us to run any more errands?” he went on, turning to Charlotte.
“No, I think you locusts have devoured enough sweets for one day,” she replied dryly. “In any case, I imagine you have lessons to finish for tomorrow’s meeting with Mr. Linsley.”
“Hawk wishes to return home and work on his botanical drawings. But my lessons are finished, so I plan to pass by Grosvenor Square and visit with Lady Cordelia,” responded Raven. “There is a very intriguing mathematical problem in the latest issue of theLadies’ Diary.”
Charlotte knew that despite its name, the magazine featured a very sophisticated section on mathematics that was read by all the top scholars in the field. Each issue challenged readers to solve a problem, and the competition was quite fierce to be the winner.
Her lips quirked. Submissions were accepted from anyone, and the winner was frequently a woman. Which, of course, drove the professors from Oxford and Cambridge to distraction.
“I have an idea on how to solve it, but I wish to ask her advice,” finished Raven.
Lady Cordelia was a good friend and a brilliant mathematician. Some months ago, she had been drawn into a highly dangerous enterprise to save her brother from ruin at the hands of a ruthless financial consortium. Charlotte felt her throat seize as she recalled just how close to disaster they all had come.
If not for . . .
“Actually, I think I shall stop at Lord Wrexford’s townhouse before heading home,” piped up Hawk. He flashed a grin, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “And ask Mr. Tyler when Harper can come back for a visit to London. I’ve grown since he was here last, and I’m sure that I’m now tall enough to take him for walks in Hyde Park by myself.”
Charlotte hesitated. Harper was averybig hound, and Hawk, despite his assertion, was still as slight and skinny as a weasel, despite all the pastries he consumed. “Have you discussed this with Wrexford?”
The boy bit at his lower lip. “Not precisely. But I’m sure he would say yes. Harper and I won’t get into any trouble. He’s very well-trained.”
“Trained in filching slabs of roast beef from the meat larder.” Raven snickered. “And sleeping for hours in front of the hearth. Other than that, the beast is—”
Hawk nudged him none too gently in the ribs.
“The trouble lies with others, sweeting,” explained Charlotte. “People tend to find Harper a trifle terrifying.” The hound was the size of a small pony, and with his wire-grey fur and massive jaws, he bore an unfortunate resemblance to a wolf. “And alas, it will only exacerbate their fears if they see his only handler is a . . . a very young person.”
Alison shot her a look of sympathy.
“So for the time being, I think it best that you wait until we all pay another visit to Wrexford’s country estate. There you may take him out for as many walks as you please.”
The boy nodded, but disappointment was writ plain on his face. Raven had recently shot up several inches, and she sensed Hawk was feeling a little small amid all the momentous changes going on around him.
She reached out and ruffled his hair. “How about after supper we sit down together and choose one of your sketches from the Royal Botanic Gardens to try as a watercolor?” Hawk had just started to experiment with the art of painting and was already showing an aptitude for it.
The offer coaxed a glimmer of a smile.
Impatient to be off, Raven sketched a very gentlemanly bow to Alison, though the effect was slightly marred by his raggle-taggle clothing.
The dowager, however, was aware that appearing as naught but guttersnipes helped keep the boys from drawing unwanted attention as they flitted about the city. Ignoring the malodorous streaks on their jackets—not to speak of the grease on their cuffs—she merely smiled and gestured for both boys to come get a hug before they raced off.
“You won’t escape that easily,” she murmured before planting a peck on each of their cheeks. “Especially as you’ve eaten all my tarts.”
The mention of art had reminded Charlotte that she had yet to fully resolve the wrestling with her conscience over the subject of her next drawing for Mr. Fores’s printshop. The Royal Society would, of course, prefer that Becton’s death remain unknown to the public.
