“And remember, no hijinks,” added Charlotte. The boys had recently begun taking fencing lessons at Angelo’s Academy and were being taught by the illustrious Harry Angelo himself. The famous fencing master had confided to Wrexford that he much preferred teaching such clever pupils rather than his usual clientele of overfed aristocrats.
“Peregrine is far too well-behaved to make any mischief. But let us pray that the Weasels don’t think it a funny jest to prick some starchy lord in the arse with their blades,” said McClellan after watching the boys race helter-pelter through the front door.
“That’snotamusing, Mac.” Though in fact it was. Charlotte began to imagine a drawing of half-clad aristocrats fleeing in terror from a sword-wielding imp . . . then reluctantly forced her attention back to the long list of errands in her hand.
“Lud, we have a lot of shopping to do. There are a myriad things that Peregrine needs for the upcoming school term.”
They started walking.
“A half dozen new shirts, several books on Roman history from Hatchards, a cricket bat,” intoned Charlotte as she read over the items. “By the by, where do you think we should look for—” She turned, just in time to see McClellan’s eyes widen and the color drain from her face.
“Mac!” Charlotte stopped short for an instant, then rushed forward as the maid staggered and slumped against the storefront two doors down from Angelo’s Academy.
“Sorry, sorry!” McClellan steadied herself and gave an apologetic grimace. “I—I don’t know what came over me. I felt a sudden rush of—of nausea.” The maid drew a shuddering breath. “I must have eaten a bad kipper for breakfast.”
Charlotte gave a hurried look up and down the street but saw only the backs of three gentlemen walking leisurely toward Conduit Street. “Don’t move. I’ll summon a hackney so we may return home—”
“No, please! I’m perfectly fine now . . .”
To Charlotte’s eyes, McClellan still looked awfully green around the gills.
“As you said, we have a great deal to do, so we ought not lollygag,” added the maid.
“Good heavens, don’t be ridiculous—”
“Please! Let us not make a mountain out of a molehill. I’m quite recovered now and prefer to continue with our errands.”
Something in the maid’s voice made Charlotte swallow her objections. “Very well. If you are sure, we’ll go on to Hatchards.” The bookstore was quite close. “From there, we’ll decide how to proceed.”
On reaching the shop, Charlotte insisted that McClellan sit quietly in one of the reading nooks while she and the head clerk moved through the bookshelves collecting the titles on her list. The task done, she sent the fellow to find a hackney before rejoining the maid.
“Come, we are returning to Berkeley Square,” announced Charlotte in a voice that brooked no argument.
McClellan rose—a little unsteadily—and followed without a word. The short ride home also passed in silence. It wasn’t until the two of them were settled in one of the parlors and a pot of strong tea had been served that Charlotte spoke again.
“Mac . . .” She put her cup down untasted. “Now that a touch of color has finally returned to your face, why don’t you tell me what’sreallywrong.”
* * *
Cutting across the historic swath of grass—Mob Quadrangle was the oldest university courtyard in all of Britain—Wrexford approached the small group of silver-haired gentlemen in academic robes who were milling around the entrance to the library. Up close, their expressions were just as black as the somber-colored wool.
“Milord!” The Reverend Mr. Peter Vaughan, who was the Warden of Merton College, looked around in surprise. “Good heavens, the body was just discovered several hours ago. H-How did you know—”
“I didn’t,” Wrexford cut in. “Greeley sent a note asking me to pay him a visit. I left London early this morning.”
“You must have pushed hard to make such good time,” commented the rector, a big, beefy man whose ruddy complexion hinted at an overfondness for port. As part of his official college duties, he served as an advisor to the Warden.
The earl ignored the remark. Until he knew more about the crime, he had no intention of revealing anything about the contents of Greeley’s missive and why he had chosen to come so quickly.
“Well, I’m very grateful that you are here, sir.” The Warden blew out his cheeks. “What a terrible tragedy. Greeley was well respected by all who worked with him. I—I can’t imagine what provoked such a heinous crime.”
Another shaky sigh. “The murder at Magdalen College last month, and now this . . .” The Warden swallowed hard. “Ye heavens, do you think there is some madman on the loose with a grudge against academics?”
Wrexford had investigated the Magdalen murder for the government but wasn’t at liberty to reveal the details. “I think it best for me to have a look at the body before we let our imaginations run wild.”
“Yes, quite right, milord.” The Warden cleared his throat. “Greeley—that is, his mortal remains—are in his office, which is—”
“I do know where the librarian’s office is,” said Wrexford as he took a step toward the door. “Unlike many students, I actually read a great many of the books in our collections during my time here.”
