“For now, I wouldn’t rule any of them out,” she replied. “Wheeler might be lying.” A pause. “But if that were so, why hasn’t Carrick appeared?”
Silence.
And then a heavy sigh. “Having seen more than our fair share of the evil that man does to his fellow man over the last few months, I suppose we have all become rather cynical,” mused the dowager. She handed the champagne to Charlotte. “Come, let us pop the cork and add some effervescence to the present. Heaven knows, the coming weeks will likely offer precious little sparkle.”
* * *
Wrexford cocked an ear as he entered the manor house, taking a moment to savor the sweetly familiar sounds of his family.
McClellan’s voice floated up from the kitchens as she passed on instructions for the next day’s supper menu . . . Charlotte and Alison were in the Blue Parlor discussing the merits of Jane Porter’s latest novel . . . the Weasels were upstairs and sounded in high spirits . . .
He turned as Harper padded across the marble entrance tiles and let out awoofof welcome.
“Wrex!” The hound’s bark brought Charlotte hurrying from the room.
Her smile, a blaze of warmth in the late afternoon shadows, was all it took to lighten the heaviness of his heart. Wrexford opened his arms and drew her close.
They stood for a long moment in perfect silence, the tension in his muscles giving way to gratitude. Yes, life was capricious. And unfair. But at that moment the earl considered himself the luckiest man alive.
He tightened his hold.
A heartbeat passed. And then another.
Charlotte eased back and pressed a palm to his wind-roughened cheek. “I take it that there was no mistake.”
“No,” answered Wrexford. “The mortal wound was definitely made by a knife.” He took her hand and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “Shall we go sit by the fire? Kit and I rode hard to make it back here by nightfall. I would welcome a glass of whisky.”
“Of course. But first let us go upstairs. The boys and I have a surprise for you.”
His throat was parched, and his body ached from the hours in the saddle, but he forced a smile. “Please tell me they haven’t concocted some new and nefarious chemical substance. Their last surprise of dusting the insides of my riding boots with itching powder was not at all amusing.”
Another hoot of laughter sounded from upstairs.
“But I’m glad to hear them sounding more like their usual selves.”
“It’s not a prank, Wrex,” she promised. “Come.”
He let himself be led up to their quarters. The door to the schoolroom was half-open . . .
Hawk spotted him and gave an exuberant shout. “Wrex! Wrex!”
Raven scrambled into view, followed by . . .
Wrexford blinked.
And then all three boys began jabbering at once.
Charlotte waved them to silence. “Peregrine has returned to the nest—” she began.
“Yes, I can see that with my own eyes,” he replied.
“And he’s not leaving!” crowed Raven.
A surge of emotion—an elemental rush of joy—bubbled through his blood, but he forced himself to keep a straight face. “Dare I ask how this came to be?”
The three boys suddenly turned a little green around the gills. After exchanging guilty glances, they looked to Charlotte in mute appeal.
“You’re not going to like it,” she admitted. “But hear me out before reacting.”
