“On the contrary, I’m always happy to hear Wrexford’s advice,” replied Charlotte. “That doesn’t mean I always follow it.”
The gentlemen laughed appreciatively, and after another quick salute, they continued on their way.
“Dear heaven,” muttered Charlotte, once they were out of earshot. “I think I’ve forgotten to speak with your cook about the wedding breakfast. She—”
“She will have it well in hand,” he cut in. “Indeed, I wouldn’t have the nerve to question her choices. Tyler informs me that she’s sworn the kitchen maids to secrecy over the menu.”
“She’s quite welcome to keep firm hold of the cooking spoon.” Charlotte let out a sigh of relief. “I’ve enough other things on my mind.”
They had skirted around the milking sheds and arrived back at Piccadilly Street, where the carriage was waiting.
“I’ll leave you and McClellan here.” Wrexford seemed equally relieved to drop the matter of wedding details. “I want to head on to Albemarle Street and make some inquiries at the Royal Institution. And then this evening, I’m attending one of the symposium lectures with Dr. Hosack. So perhaps by tomorrow, I’ll have some facts, rather than mere speculation to pass on.”
* * *
“Hmmph.” Pursing her lips, McClellan leaned back against the squabs after Charlotte finished recounting her conversation with Wrexford. “So much for the two of you having an interlude of peace and quiet in which to settle into connubial bliss.”
“From the very beginning, our relationship has hardly been a traditional one,” observed Charlotte. “I suppose there’s no reason to start now.”
“Actually, I can think of a number of them,” replied the maid. “However, I shall remain tactfully silent.”
That was probably for the best. Once they started to make a list . . .
The carriage wheels hit a rut in the cobblestones, and all at once, the scenery outside the windowpanes began to blur. Squeezing her eyes shut, Charlotte sought to steady her nerves. It was only now, after repeating it to McClellan, that she realized the conversation with Wrexford had left her badly shaken.
Had she really misjudged Hosack’s character, as well as the threat from fellow satirical artist James Gillray? Was it because of overweening hubris?
Or am I simply losing my edge?
The question seemed to unleash all her pent-up fears. Unable to stop them from tangling her thoughts, Charlotte couldn’t seem to muster any answers.Focus, focus.She stared down at her lap, only to realize she was twisting the fringe of her shawl into knots.
The seat leather creaked as McClellan leaned forward, her thick, work-roughened fingers gently taking hold of Charlotte’s clenched hand and easing it open. The simple gesture—a touch that told her she wasn’t alone—was enough to bring the steel back to her spine.
“Diabolical challenges are nothing new for us,” murmured the maid, releasing Charlotte’s hand in order to unravel the silky strands of the fringe and smooth them back into place. “We shall solve them.” A gruff chuckle. “We always do.”
“Thank you, Mac.” Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Forgive my momentary show of weakness. My doubts are only about myself, not any of you.”
“Doubts aren’t a sign of weakness. Only a bloody fool doesn’t worry over the pitfalls of a dangerous task.”
“I confess, my fears about this one . . .”
“Are no worse than the ones that have come before,” counseled McClellan. “They just seem so at this moment.”
Strangely enough, the nugget of practical wisdom made her feel better. Or perhaps it was simply that the act of sharing fears took some of the weight off her shoulders.
The maid shifted again, and reached up to rap a signal to the coachman. “Let us leave off thinking about the murder—it can wait until this evening. In the meantime, I suggest we go meet Lady Peake and the boys at the museum, and join them for ices at Gunter’s.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure Raven and Hawk would assure us that fear and danger are much easier to stomach when one is stuffed with sweets.”
“Sometimesout of the mouths of babes—”
“Good heavens, don’t voice thatsentiment in their presence,” she replied. “They are . . .” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “They are growing up so very fast.”
McClellan gave a sympathetic nod. “Aye. But not as fast as they think. There are still some years to go before they are fully-fledged. And they’ll never fly too far from the nest.”
The maid’s words further loosened the grip of uncertainty. Even the clatter of the iron-shod hooves striking the cobblestones took on a more cheerful ring. The murderer was clever and cunning. Which made him, and any henchmen, a formidable opponent.
But so are we.
