Charlotte thought for a long moment. “But clearly you have your doubts about Carrick’s guilt, despite the evidence. As do I,” she said. “So for now, let us trust our instincts and hope they will lead us to the truth.”
“Choices, choices,” murmured Wrexford, and chuffed a reluctant laugh. “In truth, it was Raven who at a key moment had to make the most important choice of the night.”
“While she was serving me tea, McClellan told me about what happened after he stowed away on the steamboat,” mused Charlotte. “He showed great steadiness and maturity in handling a very dangerous situation and ended up making an excellent decision.”
Her words sparked a sudden realization. “Good heavens, our little Weasel is growing up in every sense of the word, isn’t he?” She blinked away a nascent tear. “I—I don’t know whether to feel happy or terrified.”
“I imagine that we shall be experiencing an equal measure of both in the days that lie ahead.” Wrexford pressed a kiss to her brow. “It is the natural cycle of life.” A smile. “The young make their elders go prematurely grey. No doubt we will be butting heads with him—as well as with Hawk and Peregrine—more frequently than we would like.”
Charlotte shuddered, recalling her clashes with her parents.
“But we have done our best to set a good example of how to react to the vagaries of Life with both compassion and honor.” He watched the flicker of red and gold flames rise up in the hearth, bright against the blackness of coals. “We have lit a spark. It will be up to them to carry the torch.”
He extinguished the lamp on his desk. “Come, we need a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow is already here, and we will have much to organize over the coming day.”
CHAPTER 23
Darkness had swallowed the last glimmer of twilight, bringing with it a chill wind. A wave slapped against the hull of the wherry, drawing a grunt from the waterman as his oars caught in one of the river’s swirling eddies.
The first part of the plan to ensure that Jasper Milton’s plans did not pass into the hands of the French radicals was now in motion.
Charlotte tightened her grip on the gunwale and ducked away from the spray, keeping her gaze on the opposite shore. She and the Weasels had hired a boat to take them to Vauxhall Stairs, and from there they would make their way up to the riverside gate of the pleasure gardens while Wrexford and Sheffield arrived by carriage, as befitted gentlemen on the prowl for revelry.
The waterman had looked askance at their motley appearance, but the flash of silver in Charlotte’s hand had silenced any thought of refusing them passage. Money spoke louder than the cut of one’s clothes or the color of one’s skin.
The boys, she noted, were enjoying the trip over the choppy water, with Raven explaining in a low voice to Hawk and Peregrine how a steamboat overpowered such currents with the ease of a hot knife cutting through butter.
Charlotte feared that their upcoming mission wouldn’t prove quite so easy. But she pushed aside such brooding as the wherry bumped up against the landing stairs and they scrambled out onto the wet stones.
“This way,” she whispered, starting up the footpath to Vauxhall Walk. She and the Weasels were tasked with arriving early at the rendezvous place deep within the wooded area of the gardens and keeping a lookout for the conspirators. But first she had to contrive a way to get the boys inside the grounds . . .
“I’ve an idea.” Charlotte paused as they reached the top of the path and explained what she had in mind. “Stay close and be ready to move fast.”
A few moments later, she sauntered up to the attendant manning the side entrance to Vauxhall Gardens—an unadorned iron gate which catered to the working classes. After fumbling in her pocket, she purchased a ticket and waited for her change.
“Oiy, Ox Brain—I gave ye a bloody shilling!” she cried, after looking down at the coins he had dropped into her outstretched palm.
“Count ’em again, Piss Breath!” came the snarled reply. “I gave ye the right amount.”
She staggered, deliberately knocking into one of the cullies guarding the gate. He grunted and shoved her back a step, cursing at the foul smell emanating from her jacket.
“What is that stink?” he growled, only to spit out another curse as the Weasels and Peregrine seized the moment to dart through the tiny gap in the gate and race past him.
“Stop the little gutter rats!” he cried to his comrade, who was busy flirting with one of the doxies trying to get in for free.
Too late.The boys had already disappeared in the tangle of starlight and shadows.
Steadying her footing, Charlotte made a show of re-counting the coins in her palm. “Hmmph. Next time, keep a civil tongue in your head or ye’ll be sorry,” she said after a loud belch.
“Be off wid ye,” warned the ticket attendant with a disgusted snort, “or I’ll toss yer sorry arse into the river.”
She waggled a very rude sign with her fingers and scampered away as he roared in fury. Nobody paid her any attention. Vauxhall Gardens was a world unto itself, a notorious pleasure garden spread over several acres that offered dining, concerts, and all manner of frivolous entertainments. Within its walls, high and low society mingled without constraint, and under the cover of night the rules of Polite Society gave way to secret desires—an evening visit allowed both men and women to seize an interlude of naughty pleasures.
After cutting through a cluster of shrubs to reach the adjoining walkway, Charlotte stopped for a moment to get her bearings. The infamous Dark Walk, a lanternless path leading through a maze of trees and thick shrubbery where no respectable lady would dare risk being spotted, was on her left. Its stillness seemed to thrum with the crisscrossing currents of hidden passions.
She had once done a series of drawings on the stiff-rumped government ministers who were known to take illicit pleasures within the swath of overgrown foliage. The gossip it stirred in the drawing rooms of Mayfair had resulted in several changes within the Privy Council.
A sultry laugh drew Charlotte back to the moment as a demoiselle with rouged cheeks and dressed in a provocative gown approached a tipsy gentleman and whispered something in his ear. They moved into the shadows . . . And then another figure, a man lounging against a lamp post, a pocket sketchbook in hand, caught her eye. Charlotte recognized him as Thomas Rowlandson, one of London’s most famous gadfly satirical artists, whose work she much admired. He was also one of her chief rivals for the public’s attention, though thank heaven he did not have a clue as to what A. J. Quill looked like.
