“It’s likely that Milton’s killer meant for the corpse to fall into the river below.” Charlotte repressed a shiver. “If it had, then God only knows if it ever would have been found. So if Carrick has met the same fate . . .”
Silence.
“But let us not be disheartened by what we don’t know.” Her words were as much for herself as for the others. “And concentrate on finding a thread that will lead us to the truth.”
She gave a grimace. “As to that, it may only turn into a useless knot, but since you discovered that a visiting Frenchman will be spouting his views on how the poor are kept in their place by the lack of affordable transportation, I thought it might be worth it for me to attend tonight’s meeting of radical thinkers. Where is it taking place?”
Tyler hesitated. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s quite unnecessary.” She heard the sharpness in her voice and didn’t care. It rankled that he thought she had gone too soft to fend for herself. “Just because I’ve assumed a fancy title and live in the gilded splendor of Mayfair doesn’t mean I’ve become a helpless widgeon.”
“I meant no insult, m’lady. I’m not questioning your skills. But this is a group whose outspoken ideas can land them in prison—or worse. They know me. If a stranger shows up alone, they may very well suspect the fellow is an informer. And in a fight of twenty-five to one, I don’t wish to contemplate what might happen.”
“You know that Tyler isn’t one for exaggeration,” said McClellan. “If he says it’s too dangerous to go on your own, then it is.”
Charlotte knew they were being sensible. But for one mad moment, she wanted to tell them to go to the devil. The truth was, her life was feeling entirelytoosensible. A part of her craved that fizz in the blood which came from dancing along a razor’s edge.
That was the trouble with danger. It was seductive. All reason went to hell.
McClellan must have read her thoughts. Eyes narrowing, she looked about to add a more forceful warning.
“You need not ring a peal over my head,” assured Charlotte. “You’ll get no further objection from me.”
Tyler shuffled his feet. “You’ll need to do exactly as I say.”
“Yes.”
He looked in question to McClellan, who gave a gruff nod. “Aye, m’lady’s word is her bond.”
“Then you had better go dress in your rags. We need to leave shortly.”
“Fawwgh,” muttered the maid. “I suggest waiting until the last moment before donning your stinking coat.”
A short while later, Charlotte and Tyler were headed east, winding their way through the back alleys and byways that few of the beau monde even knew existed. The surroundings grew shabbier, the stench of rotting garbage and human waste thickening the sooty air.
No words were exchanged until they passed into the slums of Seven Dials. Slowing his steps as the narrow footpath between two sagging buildings opened onto a cart path, Tyler edged closer, shoulder to shoulder.
“Once we’re inside the tavern, keep your head down and let me do all the talking,” he whispered. “These men are damnably good at smelling a rat.” His breathing shallowed. “Though whatever godawful substances Mac used to scent your coat should obliterate all other olfactory messages.”
Charlotte tugged the brim of her hat a little lower. “Oiy.”
“I’ll try to get myself invited to share an ale with the Frenchman after the meeting—I’m known to the group as a Scottish radical who has no love for the British. But I don’t dare have you linger with us. They have sharp eyes.”
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll leave and make my way home on my own.” She knew this part of the stews well. Her old residence was close by.
Though it might well have been on the moon, considering how far removed she was from her former life. Here the ambient smells were of sweat, piss, and despair rather than of money and all the luxuries it could buy.
Tyler plucked at her sleeve. “This way.”
A winding turn brought them to a lane unlit save for the greasy flicker of lamplight oozing through the shuttered windows of a low building. A fugue of sounds—rumbled voices, the thump of pewter, the hiss of cheap candles—greeted them as Tyler wrenched open the tavern door and entered, Charlotte shadowing his steps. Threading his way around the perimeter of the taproom, he headed for a door located on the far wall and led the way into a windowless meeting area.
It was half full—Charlotte gauged that there were between twenty-five and thirty men present, a mix of laborers and better-dressed men with soft hands. She guessed they were the intellectuals, hoping to use their minds rather than their fists to effect change.
A ferret-featured man with lank brown hair framing his narrow face came over to greet Tyler. No introductions were made. This was not the sort of place where the niceties of Polite Society were observed. A terse exchange followed, which Charlotte studiously ignored, while straining to hear what was being said.
Frenchie . . . delegation. . .transport—the few words she caught were promising.
The man drifted away to confer with several cronies. One of them then moved away and mounted an overturned wooden crate set close to one of the walls. The crowd shuffled around to face him, and the room grew quiet.
