The boat bumped up against barnacled pilings. The engineer jumped out and fastened the mooring lines around the iron cleats.
“You’re free to go, lad,” said Mrs. Guppy as she slowly rose.
Raven darted over the railing and crossed to the cobbled courtyard just beyond the wharf. But then he stopped and took cover in the shadows of the stone warehouses, intent on following them to where Oliver Carrick was hiding and then reporting back to Wrexford and Charlotte.
“This way, my dear.” Mrs. Guppy guided mademoiselle past the storage sheds. “We haven’t far to walk.”
“What if Oliver isn’t there?” said Mademoiselle in a shaky voice. “What if he’s been arrested? How will we ever manage to help him—”
Raven had to make a rapid-fire decision.
“Oiy,” he called. “If you are looking for someone to trust, you need to come with me.”
* * *
All we can do is wait.
Charlotte had sat down at the earl’s desk and taken up a sketchbook—Wrexford had suggested that they move from the parlor to his workroom, which offered distractions to keep their minds off brooding—and was now intent on working out a preliminary idea for her next satirical print. But as the minutes slid by with agonizing slowness, she couldn’t keep her imagination from conjuring up all sorts of hideous possibilities for why Raven hadn’t yet returned.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, she slipped off her shoes and moved as quietly as she could to the far end of the room in order to pace without rousing the others.
Despite their sleepy protests, Hawk and Peregrine had been sent up to bed, but Cordelia was dozing on the sofa, her head pillowed against Sheffield’s shoulder. He was passing the time by reading a weighty report from Lloyd’s of London on revised insurance offerings for commercial shipping ventures.
Charlotte noted that he hadn’t turned a page in quite a while.
McClellan had put aside her mending and was now knitting. As for Wrexford . . .
He appeared in the doorway of the adjoining library with several books in hand.
A reminder that yet another mystery—a very personal one—hung over their family.
Charlotte felt a stab of guilt at having put aside the recently discovered letter written by Wrexford’s late father and all the questions it had raised. Murder had a way of shoving every other concern into the shadows. However, she knew how much Wrexford longed to turn his attention to unraveling the conundrum of the person known as “A”—which might help him to understand the complexities of his relationship with his father.
“Have you found anything helpful?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” he answered. “Though I confess that I’m surprised by what excellent taste my father had in poetry.”
“I haven’t forgotten about your personal quest, my love. We will find the answers to the questions about your father’s mysterious correspondent as soon as we solve this present conundrum,” promised Charlotte. Her heart ached for him. Putting the needs of his friends before his own was simply part of who he was. But she knew it was taking an emotional toll.
“I hope . . .” Though they had kept their voices low, she saw that the sounds had roused both Cordelia and Sheffield. Leaving the rest of her thought unsaid, she quickly turned her attention to the present moment.
“You two really should return to your residence.” Charlotte moved back to the desk. “You need not wait here all night. We will send word as soon as Raven returns.”
Assuming he . . .No, she wouldn’t even consider the alternative.
“We’ve no intention of leaving,” announced Sheffield. He patted back a yawn. “Mac serves a far better breakfast than our cook.”
McClellan stuffed her knitting into the sack by her feet. “Speaking of which, I had better go and put a batch of muffins into the oven.”
But before she could move, the clatter of fast-approaching footsteps exploded in the corridor.
Wrexford spun around and reached for the pistol case on the bookshelf behind him, while Sheffield rushed to lock the door against attack.
The latch rattled, and then a fist thumped against the paneled oak.
“Oiy, oiy! Let us in!”
CHAPTER 21
