She took his arm. “Nonetheless, I should like to hear them.”
He hesitated, his evening shoes scraping softly over the paving stones as he shifted. “In quiet moments like these, one can almost imagine that there are places in the world where Evil dares not tread.”
Charlotte drew him closer and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry about all this. I know you were looking forward to a peaceful interlude in the country in which to contemplate personal matters.”
“In the grand scheme of things, sorting through the books from my father’s library is not a pressing concern, given that our dear friends need our help in solving the murder of a loved one.”
And yet Wrexford couldn’t help but regret having to put off the chance to make peace with his own inner demons.
“I know that’s true,” she replied. “But it doesn’t diminish your desire to . . . put to rest the ghosts of the past.”
Wrexford felt the warmth of her closeness ease the knot in his chest.
“Come,” said Charlotte after a long moment of companionable silence. “There is nothing more that we can do tonight concerning the murder. Let us spend an hour or two unpacking the crates of your father’s books that you brought with us from Wrexford Manor.” She smiled. “Who knows—perhaps we will discover some hidden papers which show that your father was a romantic at heart and secretly penned poetry.”
“Heaven forfend,” he said, marveling at how she always seemed to know exactly how to draw him back from his dark broodings. “Some revelations are too shocking to contemplate.”
“You really think it impossible?”
“My father was a great many things. A romantic was not one of them.”
Hand in hand, they turned away from the moon-dappled garden and entered their town house, taking care to tread lightly as they headed for the earl’s workroom so as not to rouse the rest of the household.
“Shall I pour you a whisky to sip as you work?” asked Charlotte after pausing by the sideboard.
“A wee dram would be welcome.” Wrexford rummaged through his top desk drawer and withdrew a magnifying glass, a small notebook, and several freshly sharpened pencils. “I want to catalogue the contents of the crates so that Tyler can cross-check the titles against the books in my own collection. The extra copies I will save to gift to the boys when they are older.”
“That’s a lovely idea.” Cupping the glass of amber spirits in her hands, she turned to the door connecting the workroom to the library—
Only to have it thrown open from the other side.
“What are you three Weasels doing up at this hour?” inquired the earl as he approached the archway.
“We know how much you were looking forward to sorting through your father’s books,” answered Raven. “So we decided to help.”
He stepped back to join Hawk and Peregrine by the side of the door, revealing four long worktables at the center of the room, each of them holding a double row of neatly stacked books.
Wrexford paused in the opening to regard their handiwork.
“We arranged them by subject,” offered Hawk. “Save for the ones in French and German, which we grouped separately.”
“What a lovely surprise,” said the earl after inspecting the first table. “It’s an excellent job.” He turned to face them. “Thank you, lads.”
To his surprise, the boys didn’t crack a smile.
Charlotte noted their solemn demeanor as well. “Is something amiss?” she asked gently. “If perchance an accident happened while working with the books, and one of them was damaged, I would hope that you wouldn’t hesitate to tell us.”
“No, m’lady, no harm has come to any of the books,” assured Raven, though he didn’t quite meet her gaze.
It was only then that Wrexford noticed that the boy had his hands clasped behind his back.
Which didn’t bode well.
“So then, what’s the trouble?” he pressed.
Hawk sidled over and whispered something in his brother’s ear. Raven nodded, prompting Hawk to gesture for Peregrine to join the huddle.
Wrexford would have been amused if he hadn’t suddenly felt a prickling of foreboding at the nape of his neck.
