When she made no retort, Wrexford added, “An even more pressing practicality is the damage it would do to your reputation. As Lady Charlotte Sloane . . .”
“Yes, yes,” she snapped. “Of course, you’re right to remind me that my life has changed.” A sigh. “And not all of it has been for the better.”
“It’s a matter of compromise,” he murmured. “You’ve gained advantages, as well as given them up.”
“That’s true,” she conceded. “I’m being churlish.”
“And besides, I would feel more at ease if you travel with the others and help Tyler keep an eye on things.” He touched her hand, a fleeting caress that lasted only an instant, but the warmth seemed to linger on his fingertips. “Just promise me you won’t do something appallingly brave and try to beat the devil on your own.”
“Even I’m not that appallingly foolish,” she replied with a twitch of her lips. “I’m well aware that the dastards we face likely wield more influence and power than any of the villains we’ve faced in the past.”
And yet the steely glint in her eyes gave her words a suspiciously hollow ring.
CHAPTER 20
Wrexford cursed as a brewer’s wagon clattered through a turn, splashing his boots with muck. “Oh, to be an indolent aristocrat,” he grumbled, dodging a dray cart to cross the street, “whose only thoughts are of earthly pleasures, rather than bloody abstractions like right and wrong.”
It had been past midnight by the time he arrived back in London, and though he had managed a few hours of sleep, a sense of urgency had roused him from his bed to seek out first Griffin and then Henning.
Alas, the note he had dispatched to Bow Street had come back with the unwelcome news that the Runner was presently occupied with a robbery on the south side of the river. Which accounted for his current foul mood. Deciding that there was time for a quick visit to the surgeon before seeking out Griffin, he had left his townhouse without breakfast.
After turning down a muddy lane, he followed it to the end, where a ramshackle dwelling stood beside a fenced-in patch of bare ground, with a small stone outbuilding pressed up against its far end. The wooden stairs groaned as he took them two at a time, and then began thumping a fist on the front door.
“The devil take it! Stop that infernal pounding!” came a querulous cry from inside after a minute or two had passed. The door flung open, revealing the bleary-eyed surgeon, who looked even more disheveled than usual. “Are you trying to wake the bloody dead?”
“Apparently yes.” Wrexford stepped inside and eyed his friend’s unshaven face and rumpled attire. “You look like a corpse—save that a dead man is usually laid out in relatively clean clothing.”
“Stubble the witticisms. I’m in no mood for humor at this hour of the morning,” said Henning, gesturing for the earl to take a seat in the small parlor off the entrance foyer. “Itismorning, isn’t it?”
Seeing the satchel filled with medical instruments that had been dropped by the doorway, Wrexford asked, “A long night?”
“An outbreak of influenza in one of the rookeries near Monmouth Street. Three children are dead, as well as their mother.” The surgeon ran a hand through his tangled hair and slouched into one of the chairs by the unlit hearth. “It’s decent food they need, not medicine. I’ve had a batch of nourishing broth sent to the sufferers. Perhaps that will send the Grim Reaper looking elsewhere.”
Wrexford nodded grimly, making a mental note to increase his donation to his friend’s clinic for the poor. “I’m sorry.”
Henning made a wry face. “I’m assuming death must have crossed your path, too, else you wouldn’t be here at such a god-benighted hour.”
“Correct.” He took the knife from his pocket and unwrapped it. “Any chance you might remember the corpse Griffin sent to you last week? I’m curious whether this blade might have been used to slit the poor fellow’s throat.”
“It would have helped to have this when I had the body at my disposal,” groused Henning.
“It was discovered only recently.”
Expelling a snort, Henning examined the fancy hilt and then had a close look at the blade.
“There’s a bit of dried blood embedded in the silver chasing,” offered the earl.
“I have eyes, laddie.” The surgeon tested the knife’s sharpness against his thumb. “No, this isn’t the murder weapon. The death slash cut cleanly through muscle and sinew. This blade is far too dull. It feels to me like it’s been used as a letter opener. Paper has a certain way of taking the edge off of steel.”
“Thank you.” Wrexford rewrapped the weapon. “I thought as much, but I wished to have you confirm it.”
“I can’t help but wonder why both you and Griffin are interested in the murder of a clerk. From what I’ve heard, he was an ordinary fellow.”
“An ordinary fellow who happened to work in accounting for one of the directors of the East India Company,” replied the earl.
The surgeon’s jaw tightened as he ran a hand over his bristled chin. “Is there mischief afoot among those pompous prigs?” Henning had very revolutionary ideas about wealth and the ruling class.
“More than mischief, Baz. Lady Charlotte and I have reason to believe there’s a diabolical scheme of financial fraud and currency manipulation that reaches the very top. We’re looking for proof—”
