Grumbling, he did as he was told.
“And go out the way you came, so as not to track dirt through Mac’s freshly-swept corridor.” Charlotte handed her drawing to Raven. “Do try to hand this over to Mr. Fores without any additional colors being added to the paper.”
The boys raced off, their laughter lingering for a moment before the house settled into a peaceful stillness. McClellan had gone out to the Covent Garden markets, leaving Charlotte to wait for Alison’s arrival. She had sent word to the dowager late last night, asking her to stop by for tea and a discussion of the wedding plans.
Given the subject of the invitation, she rather expected . . .
A knock on the front door announced that Alison had indeed decided to arrive early.
“Where is everyone?” asked the dowager as Charlotte clicked open the latch. Only the plumes of her bonnet were visible above the jumble of fabric swatches, menus, and paper samples clasped in her arms.
“Out running errands,” answered Charlotte, quickly taking charge of all the items. “Come, let us spread all this out in the parlor and then I will make us a pot of tea.”
“You had better bring a platter of Mac’s ginger biscuits,” came the cheerful reply. “This may take some time . . .”
* * *
“Slipped through your fingers?” Wrexford put down his pen. “I thought you had two of your best men keeping watch on the Sun and Sextant Club.”
“I did, milord,” answered Griffin. “Unfortunately, there was a robbery at the Earl of Audley’s townhouse last night, and I needed their help until reinforcements arrived to take over the case.”
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl.
“It was only for an hour,” responded Griffin, “but it seems that Daggett chose his moment well.”
Yes, the dastard seems to have the devil’s own luck.
“You’re sure he’s gone for good?” demanded the earl.
“Yes. One of my men had a word with the porter—who, thanks to the purse you left with us, was very willing to talk. Apparently, the captain paid his bill and left with his bag just before dawn.”
Wrexford rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth. That the American had absconded was no surprise. But it stuck in his craw that he hadn’t had the chance to confront the damned fellow and shake some answers out of him.
“I suppose,” murmured the Runner, “that this means you’re not going to offer me breakfast.”
“If I did,” snapped the earl, “it would be naught but bread and water.”
Griffin hung his head and let out a mournful sigh.
The coals emitted a whispery hiss as Wrexford pivoted—and stopped short. “I suppose you’re now going to tell me that you toiled all night without rest or a morsel of sustenance.”
The Runner pursed his lips and said nothing.
Wrexford resumed his pacing, but directed his steps to the sideboard, where he poured a measure of brandy into a glass.
“Tyler,” he called to the closed laboratory door as he handed the spirits to Griffin.
No answer.
“Thank you, milord,” murmured the Runner.
“Tyler!”
Still, no response.
“Hmmph.” Puzzled, he picked up the handbell from the work counter and rang for his butler.
As if summoned by some invisible force, Riche appeared an instant later. “Yes, milord?”
