“If the doctor wasn’t able to identify it, I doubt Hartley will do any better. He cheerfully admits that he’s not a botanical expert,” she answered, giving it a cursory look. “Nor am I.”
“Still, it can’t hurt to ask him before he departs for the north.” Wrexford rose and drew her into his arms. “I must be off and find Griffin. He’s likely just learning about the murders, so the quicker I can explain to him the circumstances, the better.”
She traced a fingertip along the line of his jaw. “Be careful,” she repeated. A lame expression, but no words could possibly capture the depth and breadth of her emotions.
“Don’t fret, my love. I won’t come to any grief.”
Charlotte watched him go, doing her best to suppress the sense of dread creeping into her consciousness. He was right—a gentlemen’s club in London gave Daggett little room to arrange some vile attack.
And yet, she was finding it hard to breathe. The fast-approaching wedding had made her all the more aware of how she couldn’t imagine her world without Wrexford. That they would soon be sharing a life together . . . that she would wake up every morning to find him close . . .
The idea that he might . . .
“No.” Charlotte forced herself to quell the sudden flutter of panic.
DeVere. DeVere was dead. Perhaps that was why her emotions were so tangled in knots.
A part of her rejoiced that a man utterly lacking in morality had suffered the same fate as his own victims.Vives in gladio, in gladio mori. Live by the sword, die by the sword.Five people were dead because of his obsession with fame and glory. And yet, her conscience rebelled against taking pleasure in any violent death. All men and women, no matter how evil, deserved a fair trial to determine how they must answer for their sins.
She fisted her hands in her lap. Still, it was a relief to know that DeVere couldn’t threaten the boys. If that was wrong, so be it.
I have never claimed to be a saint.
“Might I ask you to come help me shift the side table in the foyer?” asked McClellan, passing by the doorway with a bucket and broom in hand. “I swear, there’s more mud beneath it than in a barnyard. How two skinny little Weasels manage to track in more than their weight in muck is a mystery.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte shook off her brooding and hurried to offer assistance. “Good Lord,” she murmured on approaching the table. “You’re right. We could start a garden under there.”
“I shudder to think what might grow.”
The maid was already on her hands and knees, scooping up the unknown substances and dumping them in the bucket. Charlotte took up a rag and began cleaning the wooden top. They worked in companionable silence, scraping and scrubbing.
Slowly the tightness in her chest subsided. “Thank you, Mac,” she murmured.
“For what?” McClellan gave a grunt as she hefted the bucket. “Getting your gown spattered with dirty soapsuds?”
“Idle hands make for idle thoughts,” she replied. “And mine were heading in a very depressing direction.”
“Don’t worry about His Lordship,” counseled the maid. “He has a very good reason—indeed, several good reasons—to tread lightly and stack the odds in his favor.”
Yes, but even the best of gamblers lose an occasional hand.
Shoving the dark whisper out of her head, Charlotte forced a smile. “Quite right. Luck wouldn’t dare spit in his eye.”
McClellan gathered up the cleaning supplies, and then set a hand on her hip as the latch rattled and the front door flung open. “A word of warning. The Weasels had better not dare spit—or track in unmentionable substances—onto my pristine floor.”
Hawk paused in midstep and crinkled his nose. “Fawwgh, what’s that unpleasant odor?”
“Strong soap and vinegar. They may be foreign fragrances to you little beasts. But add the stench of rotten cabbage to them, and there will be no ginger biscuits for a month.”
Eyes widening in horror, he bent down and promptly slipped off his muck-encrusted boots.
“Where’s your brother?” asked Charlotte. Concern for Wrexford still hung heavy over her thoughts.
“He stopped off at Wrexford’s townhouse to see if Mr. Tyler needed any assistance with his chemical experiments,” answered Hawk.
That the boys were up to no mischief was one less worry weighing on her mind. She hadn’t yet told them about DeVere’s murder, and decided to hold off until suppertime, when Raven would also be present.
“Give me those, and I’ll brush them off in the garden,” she replied, holding out her hands for the boots.
