They had returned to London nearly a week ago, but between dealing with all the details of their newly expanded family, keeping pace with her responsibilities as London’s most notorious social commentator, and strategizing the first moves in a murder investigation, it felt as if there had been precious few moments in which to simply catch her breath and put her thoughts in coherent order.
A half-finished drawing—a parody on the Prince Regent’s prodigious appetite for buying expensive art and expecting the country to pay for his pleasures—lay on the worktable.
“No rest for the wicked,” she quipped, taking a seat and rearranging her pens and brushes. But rather than set to work adding the final India ink shadings and details in preparation for the watercolor washes, Charlotte sat back and pressed her fingertips together.
She could see in her mind’s eye the exact placement of the hues—a carmine red velvet coat collar to draw the eye to Prinny’s avaricious face, an aquamarine blue waistcoat to accentuate his ocean-wide girth . . .
“If only I could picture a clever way to contrive a meeting with the members of the French scientific society,” she muttered.
But fretting was a waste of time, and at the moment, she had none to squander.
Reminding herself that she had a deadline looming, Charlotte chose a fine-nibbed pen and began adding some crosshatching beneath Prinny’s goggling eyes.
The scientific visitors from France had arrived yesterday, and Wrexford had just left to meet with some of his friends at the Royal Institution to learn what official receptions were being planned to honor the conference’s participants. Sparkling wine and potent spirits, served in the glittering splendor of a Mayfair mansion, often loosened tongues.
And loosened tongues tended to wag a little too freely.
Still, there was only so much one could learn in a drawing room. The real secrets preferred to lurk within smoke and shadows.
The clink of porcelain drew Charlotte back from her musing.
“I thought you might welcome some sustenance,” said McClellan as she entered the room bearing a tray of tea things and a basket of fresh-baked muffins.
“Bless you.” Charlotte quickly moved her artwork aside. “Your company and conversation would be even more welcome.”
The maid made a sympathetic sound.
A plume of fragrant steam rose from the silver pot. Tea, dark as mahogany, splashed into the two cups. Charlotte took a sip and felt the tension melt from her spine.
“Things may feel a little helter-pelter right now, but we shall manage,” said McClellan after passing over a muffin.
“From your lips to Lucifer’s ears,” muttered Charlotte.
A chuckle. “The devil should know by now that challenging us gets him naught but a kick in the arse.” After a glance at the drawing, the sounds of mirth grew louder. “That will be a hugely popular print with the public. You’ve caught the prince’s gluttonous expression to perfection.”
“It’s good to make the public laugh on occasion. However, I would much rather make them think,” replied Charlotte. “Milton’s murder has made me aware of issues that may create momentous changes in the movement of goods and people around the country. That will greatly affect all our lives, and I’m anxious to learn more about the subject.” A sigh. “And yet here I sit, swathed in silks and satins, just twiddling my thumbs.”
“It seems to me that you are being a trifle harsh on yourself. But I understand your impatience.” McClellan took a bite of her muffin and chewed thoughtfully. “Tyler mentioned that he met with some friends at a tavern in St. Giles last night and happened to learn that a meeting is taking place later tonight to discuss the problems of returning soldiers who cannot find employment.”
Wrexford’s valet, who also served as his laboratory assistant, had a number of other useful attributes, including a knack for making friends within the less salubrious sections of the city. The information he gained through his contacts there had proven very useful in previous murder investigations.
“Apparently a Frenchman will be one of the speakers,” continued McClellan, “and from what Tyler has gathered, the fellow’s main point will be that the lack of easy and inexpensive transportation serves as an invisible prison for the poor.”
Charlotte considered what she had just heard. “Does Tyler know where this meeting is taking place?”
“I believe so.”
“Please ask him. I think Magpie ought to attend it.” Charlotte occasionally slipped into a third skin—that of a streetwise urchin who represented an employer willing to pay very well for certain information—in addition to her role as the Countess of Wrexford and the infamous scribbler, A. J. Quill.
Indeed, there were times when her many responsibilities became so blurred that she wasn’t quite sure who her real self was.
“It will be good to get out of the cosseted confines of Mayfair and back into the stews,” she mused. “What with planning a wedding and feathering the nest for our new fledgling, I worry that I’m in danger of losing my edge.”
Before she met Wrexford, she had spent several nights a week prowling the hellholes and cesspools of the city for the secrets and scandals that made her pen so powerful.
“I had better make up a fresh batch of grease and ashes to rub on your face, said McClellan. “And retrieve your jacket from the cellars, where it’s perfuming itself in a sack filled with rotting garlic.”
* * *
