“Is m’lady ill?” asked Hawk as Raven tiptoed back into the schoolroom. “Though she tried to hide them, she was making some very distressing little moans during the carriage ride home.”
“Hard to tell,” answered his brother. “She’s lying on the chaise longue in the Blue Parlor, which sheneverdoes.”
“Maybe she ate a bad kipper for breakfast,” suggested Peregrine.
“We could bring her a plate of ginger biscuits,” said Hawk. “Mac says ginger is very good for belly aches.”
Harper’s ears pricked up at the mention of biscuits.
“I don’t think it’s her belly.” Raven crinkled his nose. “A pot of salve smelling of camphor was sitting on the table beside her.”
The three of them exchanged quizzical looks.
“But whatever the ailment, let us trust that Mac knows what to do,” continued Raven. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because we have other fish to fry.”
Hawk and Peregrine edged closer.
“Tyler has a surveillance task for us tonight,” explained Raven. “He wants for us to come along with him to a tavern in Seven Dials and wait in the alleyway while he attends a meeting. Then he wants us to follow the man who leaves with him and discover where he is lodging.”
Hawk looked a little disappointed. “That’s child’s play. Doesn’t he have anything more challenging? Like sneaking into the man’s quarters and stealing some incriminating document?”
“For now, we just do as we’re told,” said Raven. But the gleam in his eye hinted that further orders might be open to interpretation.
Peregrine cleared his throat. “Just so we all understand the rules . . . as I’m now a full-fledged Weasel”—Wexford and Charlotte had used those exact words—“doesn’t it stand to reason that the old restriction forbidding me to accompany you on clandestine forays into the stews is now rescinded?”
When Belmont was the boy’s legal guardian, Wexford and Charlotte had refused to let Peregrine take part in any potentially dangerous activities. A fact that had not sat well with him.
“Oiy,” agreed Raven after giving it some thought. “I don’t see any reason why you can’t now fly with us.”
“Hooray!” crowed Hawk as he thumped his brother-in-spirit on the back.
“Let’s gather up our urchin rags and head down to the mews,” said Raven. “I think they may need a fresh layer of muck.”
* * *
“Ouch!” Wincing, Charlotte shifted on the chaise longue, feeling as if a regiment of the King’s Household Cavalry had just ridden roughshod over her body.
“I heard that.” Wrexford came into the parlor and assessed her appearance—she was still wearing her fencing breeches and chemise, with a soft wool blanket draped over her supine body.
“How was your lesson?” he inquired, after pouring two measures of Scottish malt from the decanter on the sideboard.
“Harry Angelo is a malicious demon,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “sent by Lucifer himself to torture unsuspecting mortals.”
The earl handed her a glass of the spirits. “That bad, eh?”
“I ache in parts of my body that I never knew existed,” replied Charlotte, wincing as she gingerly arranged herself into a sitting position against the pillows. She took a swallow of whisky, and as its fire warmed her innards, she managed a rueful smile. “I loved it.”
“I thought you might.”
“But heaven only knows if I will be able to drag myself to the next session.”
“You’ll feel much better after a hot bath and a good night’s sleep,” he assured her.
“Impossible.” A dubious sigh. “I feel as if I won’t be able to move for a month.”
He laughed.
“But enough on my travails.” Another wince as she shifted her position. “How did your meeting with Hamden go?”
