“Your pardon, milord.” His butler appeared in the doorway. “But a message has arrived from—”
“From Lady Charlotte,” announced Raven, darting past Riche and slapping a folded missive on the table. Hawk was right behind him.
The earl eyed the muddy fingerprints—or were they paw prints?—on the once-pristine paper. “If your hands were cleaner, I’d invite you to have a muffin.”
Raven wiped his filthy palms on the seat of his pants, drawing a muffled laugh from Tyler. “Consuetudinis magna vis est,” he replied with a shrug.
Old habits die hard.Wrexford’s mouth twitched. “Be that as it may, whatever is smeared on your fingers is robbing me of my appetite.”
“But it’s only—” Hawk swallowed the rest of his words as his brother kicked his shin.
The earl unfolded the note and skimmed the contents. “As luck would have it, Lady Charlotte is taking tea with Lady Peake this morning and requests my presence. That will allow me to tell her of our thoughts concerning Mather.” He looked up. “Weasels, kindly fetch paper and pencil from my workroom. I need to write a response, and then I also want to send a message to—”
“Your pardon, milord.” The butler reappeared in the doorway. “But another missive has arrived.” This one, a fancy piece of folded stationery fixed with an ornate wax seal, he passed to the earl himself.
“The devil be damned,” muttered Wrexford as he read the note.
Tyler came alert. “What is it?”
“Lord Copley is requesting a meeting with me at White’s on a matter of utmost urgency.”
“When?”
“At noon,” replied the earl.
“Hmmph, in broad daylight on St. James’s Street,” mused the valet. “I daresay it’s not a trap. Still . . .”
“Weasels!” The earl snapped his fingers. “Paper and pencil, along with some sealing wax!”
The boys were back in a flash. He quickly scribbled out two notes and used his signet ring to add his official imprimatur. “Leave this for Mr. Griffin at the Bow Street magistrates’ office,” he said, handing one of them to Hawk. “But first, go tell Lady Charlotte I will meet her at Lady Peake’s residence at eleven. Then head to Sheffield’s room and ask him to meet me there, as well.”
The earl turned to Raven. “And you—you take this to Lord Copley. But listen carefully, lad . . .” He leaned in closer, coming nearly nose to nose with the boy. “I want you to linger around his residence, and when he leaves, stick to him like a cocklebur until he arrives at White’s. I wish to know whether he makes any stops or meets anyone else. However, do it carefully, understand? He may be a murderer.”
Raven gave a solemn nod. “Oiy, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Then off you go, Weasels.” He watched them dart away and disappear into the corridor. Raven’s task wasn’t dangerous, he told himself, and the boy was too clever and agile to come to any grief. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry.
“He’ll be fine,” counseled Tyler. “Urchins are invisible to men like Copley.”
It was true. The raggle-taggle children who roamed the streets were beneath the notice of the beau monde—save when they weren’t there on the street corners to sweep the manure aside so the fancy aristocrats didn’t soil their elegant footwear.
Wrexford pushed back his chair. “Let us fetch our coats. We both have much to do before the clock strikes twelve bells.”
* * *
Alison’s brow furrowed in concern as Charlotte entered the parlor and took a seat beside her. Light winked off the lens of her quizzing glass as she raised it to her eye. “My dear, you look like death warmed over.”
Charlotte winced, finding both the worddeathand the scrutiny of a much-magnified sapphirine orb unnerving. “It’s rather unpleasant to stumble over a man who has just had his heart pierced by a knife.”
“Another murder?” The dowager gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. “What a ghastly shock for you.”
Charlotte refrained from enumerating all the dead bodies she had tripped over since taking up A. J. Quill’s pen from her late husband. Some secrets were better left unsaid. Instead, she quickly explained about the foray to East India House.
“However uncharitable it is of me,” said Alison, “I find it hard to muster any sympathy for Fenwick Alston. He was a scoundrel who dedicated his life to corrupting good into evil.”
“He’ll foment no more trouble in the world,” said Charlotte. She, too, found it hard to feel any pity.Vives in gladio in gladio mori. Live by the sword, die by the sword.“But let us leave off speaking ill of the dead. It’s the living who concern me.”
“Copley,” said the dowager, her expression grim. “It seems there’s no chance now of getting the documents Woodbridge signed.”
