The earl wasn’t sure whether the professor was referring to banking matters or Hawk’s arrival with a platter of freshly sliced ham and a loaf of crusty bread.
Cordelia, however, appeared less certain. “Even if we do discover where the dastards are stashing the money, I don’t see how it will do us much good. Without the official documents to prove he’s the legal owner, Jamie won’t be able to touch it.” A humorless smile thinned her lips. “So unless you possess a magical scrying glass to tell us where the dratted papers might be . . .”
“Magic is beyond my power,” cut in Charlotte. “However, I do have an idea.” She didn’t elaborate. “I’m hoping you have one key piece of information that may help indicate the spot. Have the dastards given you a date for completing your arbitrage trading?”
“They have,” replied Cordelia. “It’s Friday.”
Four days, thought Wrexford.We have four days to piece together the puzzle before the money sails for India. Likely taking with it all proof of the evils done to possess it.
A prodigious yawn from Sudler forestalled any further questions. The elderly professor’s shoulders had slumped, and his eyelids were beginning to droop.
Cordelia patted his arm. “Come, let me take you up to your bedchamber. It’s been a long night, and you need your rest.”
“As do you,” observed Sheffield. “However ungentlemanly it may be to remark on it, you look exhausted. And fatigue makes one prone to making mistakes.” He eyed her urchin’s garb. “The Weasels will escort you home.”
Cordelia opened her mouth as if to argue, but whatever words she was intending surrendered to a sigh.
“We’ll meet you in the scullery,” said Raven.
She nodded. “I’ll just be a moment in seeing the professor to his quarters.”
Sheffield waited for the boys to follow her and Sudler out of the workroom before clearing his throat and looking to Wrexford and Charlotte. “So, now that’s it’s just the three of us, tell me—do you really have an idea on where the documents Woodbridge signed are being kept?”
His gaze shifted to Charlotte’s paper, on which she had been scribbling some notes. “And even more importantly, does that mean you have a plan for getting them back?”
“My intuition tells me there’s one logical place for them to be,” she replied. “The dastards will be keeping them somewhere safe. And what better place than East India House, the Company’s headquarters on Leadenhall Street? Its imposing stone façade gives it an aura of invincibility, and it’s well guarded at all hours of the day.”
Wrexford saw that she had done a quick scribble of the massive Doric columns of East India House’s main entrance portico as she spoke.
“And now that we know Lord Copley is involved, however reluctantly, I would guess that it’s in his private office,” Charlotte added.
“But what if he’s telling the truth and someone else is in charge?” asked Sheffield. “Then it could be anywhere.”
“I think Lady Charlotte is right,” interjected Wrexford. “These men have shown themselves to be clever in avoiding any personal connection to the illicit activities. A place like East India House provides ironclad security, but it also offers a perfect alibi if the documents somehow come to light. They could easily claim they were hidden in Copley’s files by someone else. After all, clerks and junior administrators must come and go constantly through that section of the building.”
“Very well, let’s assume the surmise is correct.” Sheffield frowned. “I’m not sure why you’re looking like a cat who knocked over the cream pot. We haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting those papers out of the devil’s own lair.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Charlotte. “As a matter of fact, Idohave a plan, and I am quite confident it will work. Here’s what I have in mind . . .”
“Ye gods.” Sheffield let out a low whistle once she had finished. “You’re either mad or brilliant.”
“Sometimes the difference between the two is less than a hairsbreadth,” murmured Wrexford.
“It’s bold, I give you that,” said Sheffield. “But there are so many things that can go wrong.”
“That can be said for most endeavors,” pointed out Charlotte. “If we wish to save Lord Woodbridge and Lady Cordelia from ruin, we must strike quickly. Time is growing short, and we can’t afford to be fainthearted.”
“No one would ever accuse you of being fainthearted, m’lady.” Henning paused in the doorway to slap the raindrops from his hat. “Thank heavens you weren’t jesting about the whisky,” he added, heading straight to the bottle and pouring himself a glass.
“Ah.” The surgeon let out a blissful sigh after quaffing a long swallow. “That warms the cockles.”
“There’s food here, as well, though the choices are rather limited,” said Charlotte with a rueful look at the nearly empty platter. “The boys are like locusts.”
“As is the hound,” groused Wrexford.
Harper continued his gusty snores.
“Malt is sustenance enough,” replied Henning as he refilled his glass. Turning, he caught sight of the massive machine. “What the devil isthat?”
