Charlotte furrowed her brow, suddenly realizing she hadn’t yet seen her young wards.
The brothers had first come under her wing while her late husband had still been alive—two half-wild street urchins who ran errands in return for scraps of food and a place to sleep. But they had come to be a family, tied together by love rather than blood. In fact, she had recently become their legal guardian, though how that had come about was rather complicated....
She sighed. A maid proficient in wielding a pistol and picking a lock . . . two streetwise-beyond-their-years urchins . . . and herself, a lady with so many personas she sometimes feared her true self was becoming blurred beyond recognition.
Theirs was, admittedly, an exceedingly eccentric household.
McClellan’s brusque cough brought her back to the present. “I believe they went out before you awoke.”
“To do what?” she asked.
“As to that, I really can’t say.”
“Hmmph.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Well, I do hope Raven remembers that he has a mathematics lesson with Lady Cordelia later this afternoon.” Though whether his tutor was in any frame of mind to recall the appointment was another question.
However, she pushed that thought aside on hearing Skinny start to squirm. For her, adding up all the elements of a murder was a far more intriguing challenge than a page full of numbers.
* * *
Wrexford tightened the sash of his dressing gown and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I must be getting old,” he muttered. In the past, a night of dancing and drinking champagne wouldn’t have left him feeling as if a spike had been hammered through his skull.
Though in truth, he admitted after swallowing a sip of the scalding devil-dark brew, it was unlikely that the ballroom revelries were responsible for his throbbing head. They had been surprisingly pleasant. Dancing with Charlotte was . . .
He suddenly recalled her musings on how some things defied words. What a pair they were—conundrums wrapped in conundrums. And yet, strangely enough, that thought provoked a smile.
A mistake.The tiny facial movement sent another sharp stab through the back of his head.
Wrexford took another swallow of coffee and then began massaging at his temples. The fault for his present condition lay in his workroom, not the Countess of Lexington’s opulent mansion. On returning home from the ball, he had taken a moment to read over the books that Tyler had left out for him regarding Silliman’s experiments. One thing had led to another, and he had stayed up until well past dawn, working at close quarters among the fumes of some potent acids.
Ah, but science requires sacrifice.
After picking up his cup, the earl ambled out of the breakfast room and headed for the rear of the townhouse, curious to see how the experiments were progressing. To his surprise, he heard voices emanating from the workroom. One of them was Tyler’s. And the other . . .
“Ah, there you are, milord.” A big, beefy man turned from studying the esoteric objects displayed in the curio cabinet and eyed Wrexford’s sleep-tousled hair and unshaven jaw. “Apparently, there’s no truth to the old adage ‘No rest for the wicked.’ ”
“On the contrary, Griffin, I’ve been sleeping the sleep of the innocent,” Wrexford retorted. He and the Bow Street Runner had first met when Griffin had suspected him of a gruesome murder, but they had since become allies rather than adversaries and had worked together in solving several other deaths. “So please swallow any further attempts at humor. I’ve not yet had my breakfast.”
A smile curled at the corners of Griffin’s lips. “What are we having?”
“Bloody hell, how do you survive when you’re not feasting off my largesse?” grumbled Wrexford. Their meetings usually took place at a tavern, with the earl purchasing a very handsome meal in return for the Runner’s help in working through the conundrums of a case.
“Very poorly,” shot back Griffin. He gave an appreciative sniff as a footman discreetly knocked, then entered the room, bearing a large tray of covered dishes.
The earl blew out a long-suffering sigh. “You might as well set an extra place, Tyler. Otherwise he’ll stay for supper.”
The valet dutifully cleared a spot on the massive desk and carried over an extra chair.
“Much obliged, milord,” murmured the Runner.
Wrexford slouched into his seat and poured a fresh cup of coffee. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit—other than the need for you to fill your growling breadbox?”
“The fact that you’re the most learned man I know.” Griffin helped himself to a freshly baked muffin. “Does the wordargentummean anything to you?”
“Anyone who’s had the classical languages thumped into his head can’t help but know it,” the earl replied. “It’s Latin for ‘silver.’ ”
“Hmmm.” The Runner took a bite of the pastry and chewed thoughtfully.
