“Wrexford’s estate has a hothouse, and Hawk has come to have a keen eye for the whimsical beauty in everyday flowers,” she mused. With all the distractions of late, she had been worrying that the boy might feel lost in the shadows. But perhaps . . . “Come to think of it, perhaps the two of you could create something special out of those simple treasures.”
A speculative smile brightened the dowager’s expression. “The idea holds possibilities.”
One challenge solved.As to the others that lay ahead . . .
* * *
As the receiving line snaked its way slowly up Kensington Palace’s opulent King’s Staircase, Wrexford felt the tension thrumming through Charlotte. A sidelong gaze showed a polite smile pasted on her lips, but her eyes had a faraway look, which signaled her thoughts were anywhere but here.
A surmise accentuated by the fact that she had taken no notice of the surrounding art.
“What do you think of the murals?” he murmured, seeking to draw her back to the moment. Alison had paired off with her friend Sir Robert, leaving the two of them to proceed on their own. “They are quite renowned, you know. William Kent was commissioned to create them for George the First in the 1720s. The faces of the figures are said to be courtiers of the day—and include a portrait of himself.”
She looked up and studied the walls and ceiling for a long moment. “Kent was an excellent draftsman and colorist.”
“I fear the poor fellow has just been damned with faint praise.”
“It’s lavish decoration, meant to impress, and it suits its purpose quite well,” said Charlotte, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “As you know all too well, I prefer art that has some higher purpose.”
Something in her tone warned him that he had touched on a raw nerve. But with others close by, he merely raised a brow in question.
Her hand tightened on his arm, a signal he would get no answer right now.
However, a comment from the two gentlemen behind them gave him an inkling of the problem.
“Have you seen the latest commentary from A. J. Quill?” asked one of them. “I swear, that dratted scribbler seems to know everything that goes on within the world of the beau monde. How the devil does he do it?”
“Bribery and blackmail—there’s no other explanation,” muttered his companion. “I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky. He merely announced that our gala evening at the Royal Botanic Gardens was marred by death, and added a sarcastic speculation at how many exotic poisonous plants poor Becton might have rubbed up against. Let us pray he’s not tempted to imply it was deliberate.”
“Murder? Oh, surely he wouldn’t have the nerve to imply it was murder! Such a charge, no matter how scurrilous, has a way of tainting those who have the misfortune to be touched by it,” exclaimed the other man. He cleared his throat and addressed the earl. “Isn’t that so, Wrexford?”
The earl turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“A. J. Quill,” said the man’s companion, “has announced to the world that Mr. Becton shuffled off his mortal coil during the symposium’s gala evening at the Royal Botanic Gardens, and made some sly references to poisonous plants. What if his next drawing says it’s murder?”
“Well, if A. J. Quill says it,” drawled Wrexford, “then it must be true.”
Both men uttered embarrassed little laughs.
“Quite right, milord. Quite right,” said the man who had drawn him into the conversation. “The idea is, of course, absurd that someone would murder a scholar. But I suppose these gadfly scribblers must seize on any excuse to stir up trouble and sell their wares.”
His companion added an apologetic nod to Charlotte. “Forgive us for raising a topic unfit for a lady’s ears.”
“Think nothing of it,” she replied graciously as they reached the top of the landing.
Quickening his steps, Wrexford drew her through the requisite greetings with the president of the Royal Society and on into the King’s Gallery.
“So,” he murmured, pausing in the shadows of one of the display pedestals, “I take it your current drawing is why you appear a little tense. Were you worried that I would take issue with it?”
“We haven’t always agreed in the past—”
“An understatement if ever there was one,” he cut in. “And likely we won’t in the future.” He shifted a little closer to her, feeling the silken skirts of her gown flutter against his trousers. “I may snap and growl, but surely you know I would never seek to silence your pen.”
Charlotte lifted her chin. Her expression was coolly composed, but her eyes betrayed a tiny flicker of uncertainty. “I will have new responsibilities to consider.”
“None that will ever ask you to crush your conscience.”
Her hand was still resting lightly on his sleeve. Holding his gaze, she tightened her fingers in a quick caress. “I wish I was as sure as you are. Worries—unreasonable ones, I know—seem to be clouding my thoughts.”
