But murder among the high and mighty was not a crime that ever went quietly to the grave.
Nor should it.It wasn’t a question of whether she would draw attention to the death, but how she would frame it and the accompanying commentary. Already an idea was taking shape...
“If you’ll forgive me, Alison, I must be going as well. I must have a finished drawing ready by tomorrow.”
* * *
Grumbling under his breath, Wrexford returned to his carriage after being informed by McClellan that Charlotte was paying a visit to her great-aunt. Happy to cede her the task of parrying the dowager’s all-too-active curiosity, he called out the order to return home. By now, Tyler should have the laboratory ready for analyzing the poisonous substance . . .
And then, as the wheels began to clatter over the cobblestones, another idea suddenly popped to mind.
Don’t.A warning whisper rose up, intent on batting it away.
He ignored it.
Raising his walking stick, Wrexford rapped on the trap and gave his driver a new destination. Granted, he had assured Charlotte that the investigation would be handed over to Griffin. But no harm could come of gathering a few morsels of information to drop on the Runner’s plate.
The quicker Griffin solved the case, the fewer expensive suppers it would cost him.
The carriage headed east and threaded its way down through the narrowing streets toward the river. Mist rose from the slate-grey water, bringing with it the pungent odors of the ebbing tide. From Earl Street, a sharp turn brought Wrexford to a row of brick buildings overlooking White Lion Wharf.
He climbed down and made his way through a dark-painted door with a discreet brass sign affixed above the dolphin-headed knocker.
From his perch behind a reception desk guarding the entrance foyer, a clerk looked up from his accounting book.
“Milord.” Smiling, he rose and hastily opened the door, giving access to the inner offices.
“Is he in, Jenkins?” asked Wrexford, handing over his hat and coat. He didn’t need to elaborate. The other three owners of the trading company were women.
“Yes, sir. This way—he’s in the chart room with Miss Howe.” The clerk led the way down a short corridor to a large, light-filled room overlooking the docks.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Wrexford glanced at the various nautical maps hung on the near wall, all festooned with a colorful array of string and pins marking certain routes. “I take it business is good,” he added, giving a friendly nod to the woman chatting with Christopher Sheffield.
“It is, milord.” Octavia Howe shifted the stack of folders in her arms. “And likely to get better in the coming months, as one of our main competitors’ ships has just been reported as lost at sea.” She expelled a mournful sigh. “They scrimped and hired a captain who was inexperienced in transatlantic crossings, and alas, the hurricane season started early this year. It’s not only a foolish business practice, but it’s also morally shameful. A goodly number of men lost their lives because of such penny-pinching.”
“Indeed.” As principal investor in his friend’s company, Wrexford happened to know that Nereid & Neptune was scrupulously careful when it came to the safety of its employees. Not only that, but they paid handsomely, and so attracted the most competent captains and crews for their merchant ships.
“Well, I shall leave you and Mr. Sheffield to chat.” Octavia added several books from the table to the top of her pile. “I need to check on the expected arrival of cloth from the mills in Yorkshire and map out the logistics for our next transatlantic voyages.”
Stepping aside, Wrexford held the door open and watched her sail through it. “A force of nature,” he murmured, once the flutter of her skirts had disappeared around a turn.
“She makes a few waves,” answered Sheffield. It was no secret within the company that Miss Howe had very high standards and sometimes allowed her temper to get the better of her when they weren’t met. “However, Lady Cordelia usually manages to calm the waters.”
He gestured to a side door that connected to the adjoining room. “Come, my office is a tad less spartan. The chairs have cushions.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “As you see, we don’t piss away the money of our investors on creature comforts.”
The earl made a pained face as he took a seat in the straight-backed chair facing his friend’s desk. “I’m sure there are some old armchairs in my attic. I shall have Tyler arrange to have them delivered here.”
“No, please don’t!” Sheffield gave a look of mock horror. “I might start sleeping through the working hours, and cause my partners to give me the boot.” He shuffled several piles of paper and swatches of fabric off his blotter.
The desk, noted Wrexford, had a very well-used look, with ledgers and other samples stacked in an orderly arrangement. And the sideboard and shelves held only books and boxes. Not a bottle of spirits was in sight.
“I’m still not sure why they tolerate my presence,” added Sheffield. “The three of them are far smarter than I am.”
Tapping his fingertips together, he fixed his friend with a critical squint. The two of them had been close friends since their days at Oxford, a fact that had puzzled most people. The earl was known for his razor-sharp intellect, while Sheffield . . .
Sheffield had earned the reputation for being a charming but frivolous rogue. The younger son of an imperious aristocrat was often trapped in a damnably difficult position. The heir and firstborn usually had a generous stipend. But those who trailed behind were dependent on parental purse strings. Sheffield’s father, however, was a notorious nipcheese, who kept him on a very puny allowance. In retaliation, Sheffield had made a point of acting badly since his university days, a vicious cycle that did no one any good.
But that was no longer the case. Sheffield had finally been allowed to let his true colors cut through the hazy fugue of drinking and gambling to excess.
