A sudden wood-against-wood thud jarred them apart.
“Ah, I was hoping you would all still be awake!” Henning kicked the door shut behind him. “Thank God there’s still a bit of whisky left.”
Wrexford’s sigh—along with a wry oath—tickled against her flesh as he released his hold. “Is there a reason you’re here at this hour?” he called to the surgeon. “Other than to drain my wine cellar?”
“Yes.” A noisy slurp. “Kindly tell Griffin to stop sending your dead bodies to my mortuary.” Another splash, another slurp. “By the by, who killed Lord Copley?”
“It’s a lengthy story,” replied the earl, moving out from behind the Engine. “Suffice it to say, the culprits have been caught, and the murders involving us are over.”
Henning chuffed a skeptical sound. “For now.”
Bereft of Wrexford’s touch, Charlotte hugged her arms to her chest, feeling the shadows darken and turn cold as ice as they swirled around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She took a moment to shake off the sensation, then followed him out into the light.
Only to find the intensity of her emotions had left her utterly spent.
“I-it’s late . . . and there’s much to be done in the coming hours, so I had better take my leave,” she announced. “Mr. Fores needs a drawing from me, and first thing in the morning, Alison must be informed of all that has happened.”
The note in her voice roused the others. The boys came instantly awake and scrambled to their feet. Sheffield edged back from his tête-à-tête with Cordelia and cleared his throat.
“Indeed, I ought to be going, as well,” he said, retrieving his hat from the side table.
“So should I,” added Cordelia hastily. “I’ll find Jamie and we’ll make our way home.”
Wrexford said nothing, and his face was impossible to read.
“Hmmph, I seem to have blown in like a storm cloud and cast a shadow over the celebration,” observed Henning. “But before you all go, allow me to offer a toast.”
He picked up the near-empty bottle and splashed the rest of its contents into his glass. “To peace and quiet . . .” A whisper of amber-gold liquid swirled in a slow spinning vortex. “Though with this group, that’s likely wishful thinking. But you never know. Miracles do happen.”
CHAPTER 31
“Peace and quiet . . .
“Ha!” muttered Wrexford, wincing at the clatter of traveling trunks being maneuvered down the curved staircase and carried out to the waiting carriage.
The previous day had passed in a whirlwind of activity—breakfast with Griffin . . . a meeting with Sir Darius to put together a story for the public that would minimize embarrassment for the good of the country . . . logistics arranged to transport the professor and his precious Engine back to the cottage in Cambridge. . . .
And now dawn had barely tinged the horizon with its rosy glow and already the morning was alive with the well-oiled bustle of his staff preparing for a journey.
Sheffield came out of the breakfast room, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, a roll of thick paper in the other. “Why did Tyler just leave the mews with your unmarked carriage? I thought Lady Charlotte, along with the Weasels and McClellan, are going to travel with Lady Peake.”
Mention of Charlotte stirred a silent oath of frustration. What with all the humble-jumble, Wrexford hadn’t had a moment alone with her since the night of nearly losing his head to the admiral’s naval cutlass. Granted, the dowager had deserved a detailed account of how good had triumphed over evil.
But much as he cared for all his friends, at the moment, he wished them all to the devil.
“They are,” he answered through gritted teeth. “As for Tyler, he is handling a few errands for me before heading north.”
“Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia are accompanying the professor,” mused Sheffield through a sip of coffee. “So, it seems we shall have a jolly little gathering at your estate come evening.”
The thought didn’t improve Wrexford’s mood.
“By the by, I stopped by Fores’s printshop on the way here. Charlotte’s latest drawing was published this morning.” Sheffield set aside his empty cup and unrolled the paper.
Despite his foul temper, Wrexford couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter.
The drawing depicted Sir Charles, dressed in full naval regalia, down on all fours, sinking in an ugly ooze of muck, with a demonic black hellhound biting his arse. The bold headline read—DOGGED BY FORCES OF JUSTICE, A TRAITOROUSADMIRAL IS BROUGHT TO HIS KNEES!
“The Home Office should be pleased,” said Sheffield with a grin. “For once, A. J. Quill is making the government look halfway clever.”
