“Being the ruler of his realm, I daresay he would choose Imperial,” replied Alison.
“While I,” cut in a voice from the doorway, “would welcome a wee dram of good Scottish malt, if given my druthers.” Wrexford moved past the dowager’s butler before the fellow had a chance to announce him. He favored Alison with a smile, but Charlotte knew him well enough to read the underlying tension in his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, quelling her own impatience to tell him what she had just discovered.
“Alas, the lead on Alston led nowhere.” He explained about his meeting with the baronet.
She heard the frustration in his voice—a mirror of her own—though he sought to temper it as he finished with a wry observation. “Kit is acquiring a knack for sleuthing. He asked some astute questions, though they came to naught.”
“There’s a bottle of malt on the sideboard,” said Alison. “As well as an excellent French brandy—from before the Revolution, I might add, so it’s not smuggled goods.”
“Thank you,” replied Wrexford. “Much as it’s tempting, I prefer to keep a clear head.” He looked to Charlotte. “Dare I hope you’ve learned something?”
“Yes,” warned Charlotte. “But it only adds more urgency to the mystery we’re trying to unravel.”
“Sit,” ordered Alison.
Wrexford perched a hip on the arm of the facing chair. “Go on.”
“As you suspected, Annie Wright scarpered . . .” Charlotte recounted her conversation with Squid and the cryptic message the barmaid had left with Alice the Eel Girl.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” she added, seeing his mouth tighten to a grim line. “Raven and Hawk accompanied me to the docklands and made the rounds of their friends to gather the latest scuttlebutt while I met with Alice. While they were talking with Strings, the boy who picks apart old rope to make oakum for caulking, two gentlemen passed close by on their way to an East India merchant ship about to depart.”
Alison edged forward expectantly, having not yet heard this part of the story.
“They paused behind a stack of crates, and the boys overheard their conversation,” continued Charlotte. “The older of the two was adamant that his companion had to leave the country immediately for his own safety.”
Wrexford looked about to speak.
“And yes,” she went on quickly, “the boys caught a name. The man being ordered to sail on the ship was Mather. As you know, they have sharp ears and sharp memories and recalled it from our councils of war.” Her voice tightened. “And the two gentlemen were then joined by a woman who fits Annie’s description, and she accompanied Mather onto the ship. It seems she was in league with the dastards, after all, and betrayed her old friend.”
Charlotte paused for just an instant. “Clearly, the conspirators are aware that their activities have come under scrutiny. Which will make the ringleaders even more difficult to discover.”
“Damnation.” However, the earl didn’t waste time in recriminations. “What about the other man’s name?” he demanded.
“Unfortunately, Mather didn’t say it,” she answered. “But the boys did get a description of both gentlemen.” Charlotte quickly described the one called Mather, and the earl nodded a confirmation that it fit the banker.
“As for the other gentleman,” she went on, “he was older, with dark hair silvering at the temples and combed à la Brutus. Medium height, average build, and dressed in expensive clothing, fashioned by Weston or Stutz, guessed Hawk.” The boy had developed a frightfully discerning eye for detail. “Though the muted shades of navy and charcoal grey offer no distinctive clue that either tailor might use to identify the man.”
Charlotte shifted her stance. “He did, however, have one unusual item—a walking stick covered with an exotic-looking black leather. Hawk got close enough to see the pattern—you know how interested he is in the natural world—and identified it as snakeskin. And he saw that the knob was carved from a dark reddish translucent stone, which he thinks might be carnelian.”
Wrexford was suddenly on his feet.
“Does that help?” asked Charlotte.
“I shall have a better idea later this evening,” he answered.
Their eyes met.
“After I have a private word with Lord Copley.”
CHAPTER 22
Twilight was fading to darkness by the time Wrexford returned to his townhouse. He had spent the afternoon making inquiries, including confirming with the head porter at White’s that the admiral’s regular backgammon partner was still ill.
Copley would likely serve again as a surrogate, he thought, a smile touching his lips, as he crossed the black-and-white checked tiles of the entrance foyer. The board game was considered by many to be a metaphor for war, but the real battle would begin in earnest once the dice and the counters were put away.
Laughter—along with a series of deep-throated rumbles—interrupted his thoughts as he approached his workroom. It seemed his sacrosanct study space had become . . . a playground.
