“As to that . . .” Charlotte hesitated. An idea had come to her as she had tossed and turned in the hours of darkness just before dawn. But it would require the help of their friends and was not without risk.
“Yes?” urged Alison, her eyes alight with curiosity.
“I will wait until Wrexford arrives to explain,” she said. “Though I have a feeling he won’t agree to the idea.”
“What idea?” asked the earl as the dowager’s butler led him into the parlor.
Charlotte waited for his escort to withdraw before replying, “One that concerns retrieving the Argentum documents from Lord Copley.”
“The situation has changed,” announced Wrexford.
She edged forward in her seat. “How so?”
“Copley just sent me a note requesting a meeting at noon.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you think he wants?”
“It seems pointless to speculate,” he replied. “From the very beginning of all these intertwining mysteries, nothing has been what it seems. So, we shall just have to wait and see.”
* * *
With steady, light-footed steps—not too fast, not too slow—Raven wove in and out of the sun and shadows dappling the street, just another tiny flicker of movement in the vast tapestry of London’s unruly daily life. Up ahead, his quarry marched along at a purposeful pace, head down, preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Like all the highborn aristocrats, Lord Copley appeared oblivious to the world around him, observed the boy. Never a wise decision. Trouble didn’t give a rat’s arse as to whether one possessed pedigree and privilege.
The way grew more crowded as Copley turned onto Piccadilly Street, heading for St. James’s Street. Fancy carriages and high-perch phaetons clattered over the cobbles, cheek by jowl with drab dray carts and hackneys. Up ahead at the corner, people were clustered at the curb, waiting for a brewery wagon filled with barrels to squeeze past a barouche. Through the press of bodies, Raven caught a glimpse of Skinny holding his broom in readiness. This was his regular street-sweeping spot, and business looked to be good.
Tapping his stick to his boot in impatience, Copley maneuvered his way to the edge of the street. Ducking and dodging elbows, Raven quickened his steps, not wishing to be caught up in the crush of people waiting to cross when the way cleared.
Out of the corner of his eye, the boy saw someone else start to move....
The two drivers began to shout at each other, sparking the pedestrians to add their own voices to the curses. A whip cracked. The agitated ring of iron-shod hooves echoed off the stones. And all at once, the wagon broke free.
Seizing the opening, a curricle pulled by a matched pair of muscled chestnuts shot forward.
Copley hesitated....
Raven saw the pearly-white flash of a gloved hand—
And then suddenly a blur of well-tailored wool was tumbling into the path of the oncoming horses.
A scream rose above the sickening crunch of bone and splintering wood. Wheels skittering, the vehicle swerved drunkenly and came to a halt halfway up the street.
As the onlookers jostled in shock and confusion, a gentleman waved them away from the gruesome sight.
“Stand back, stand back!” he ordered, taking care to avoid the puddles of blood as he approached the unmoving body.
Raven wriggled through the press of bodies, his eyes locking for an instant with Skinny’s before shifting to the dark-clad figure who had taken charge.
Crouching down, the gentleman flexed his long fingers—another flash of pearly white—before turning Copley face up.
The boy crept across the cobbles, close enough to hear the breath rattle in Copley’s throat.
“Blue Peter.” It was hardly more than a whispery rasp. Copley’s eyes fluttered open for an instant and then fell shut. A shudder racked his broken body. “T-tell Wrexford to watch for Blue Peter.”
Shifting slightly, the gentleman pressed a palm to the baron’s windpipe and then calmly crushed the life out of him. Without batting an eye, he slipped his fingers inside Copley’s coat.
Searching, searching . . .
