“Have you ever considered marriage, Mac?” asked Cordelia.
The cups rattled as the maid set down the tray. “I do not consider myself a good candidate for matrimony.”
“Oh?” Charlotte raised her brows. “Because you are intelligent, independent-minded, and would refuse to be ruled by the whim of a husband?”
The three of them exchanged looks and burst out laughing.
“Yes, those are rather elemental reasons,” said McClellan, once the chortling ceased and she began to pour the tea. “But I suppose the most important one is that I’ve never met anyone who has tempted me to change the status quo.”
“You never know,” murmured Cordelia.
“Hmmph.” McClellan held out a plate of ginger biscuits. “Help yourselves. The rest I shall wrap up and give to the Weasels. They are taking the late-night shift of keeping mademoiselle’s residence under surveillance.”
“I’ll bring the biscuits to the boys.” Charlotte glanced at the clock and put down her cup. “I had better go wake them.” She had insisted that they take a nap after returning from the fencing academy so they wouldn’t doze off during their assignment.
“And be sure that they wear their coats, as the night is turning chilly.”
* * *
“Wayland isn’t here,” muttered Wrexford after rejoining Sheffield in the shadows of the gaming hell’s foyer. “The barmaid said he hasn’t been seen for the last four nights, which is unusual.”
“Perhaps the fellow is gambling on making his fortune on something other than the turn of a card.”
“Perhaps.” The earl brushed a hand over the pistol in his coat pocket. “Why don’t we go and ask him?”
Earlier in the day, he had learned of Wayland’s current address from the organizers of the transportation conference. “He has extravagant tastes in his lodging as well as his clothing and entertainments. He has rented a set of rooms at the Albany from one of his rich friends for the duration of the conference.”
The Albany was a prestigious residence for the wealthy and well-connected located just off Piccadilly near St. James’s Palace.
“At least the environs will smell a good deal more salubrious than our present location,” said Sheffield. “And it’s only a short stroll from there back to Berkeley Square.”
Such optimism, however, proved short-lived. The porter at the Albany informed them that Wayland was out and had left no word as to when he might return. Wrexford considered asking for access to search the rooms—greasing a few palms would likely smooth over any hesitation—but decided not to reveal his interest in Milton’s murder to their suspect quite yet.
They walked to Piccadilly, but instead of turning right, the earl turned left and waved down a passing hackney.
Sheffield’s face fell. “Now where?”
“To Garfield’s residence,” replied Wrexford. “He’s the man who sent us haring after Wayland. Let’s press him for a more a detailed explanation as to why. Somehow, I have a feeling he hasn’t told us everything he knows.”
* * *
Hawk hunched deeper into the collar of his coat and blew on his bare fingers. “I had forgotten how cold an autumn night can be.”
“Sleeping in a fancy mansion has made you soft,” sniggered Raven. “I remember when finding a broken crate in which to shelter was cause for jubilation.” He glanced out from their hidey-hole at the building across the street before adding, “Who has the ginger biscuits?”
Peregrine dutifully passed him the oilskin sack. “I’ll take the first watch while you two get some rest.”
Raven yawned. “Oiy, there’s no sign of life in mademoiselle’s residence.” Indeed, every house on the street appeared to be slumbering soundly, draperies drawn, lights extinguished, a peaceful stillness blanketing the shadowed brick and stone.
Peregrine kept himself alert by silently practicing a poem by Coleridge that their tutor had asked them to memorize.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
