“The thing is, sir, I haven’t had a chance to go back yet. But it occurred to me that it may be where the miscreants are holding Auntie Peake.”
“By God,” muttered Wrexford as once again, everyone began to talk all at once.
“Wait—here’s one other key piece of information you should all know!” The note of command in the midshipman’s voice caught everyone’s attention.
The room quieted at once.
Horatio’s gaze was once again focused on the earl. “Milord, I know that you’re aware of the Royal Navy’s experiments with propeller-driven steamboats. One of our prototypes is kept at Isle of Dogs, in a secluded stretch of the shoreline just where the river takes a sharp bend upward after Greenwich Reach. The opposite shore is deserted, so it’s a place where we can make test runs without drawing attention.”
He drew in a hurried breath. “If Colonel Jarvis and his co-conspirators are looking to escape from England, the steamboat gives them a distinct advantage over traditional boats in the unpredictable eddies and tidal currents of the river as it opens into the sea.”
“I think you’re exactly right, Midshipman Porter.” Wrexford acknowledged Horatio with his official title, no longer thinking of him as a mere boy. “It stands to reason that Jarvis will see his secret lair and prototype steamboat as all but guaranteeing his escape.”
“And he thinks himself fiendishly clever in having a hostage,” muttered Henning, “just in case his brilliant plan goes awry.”
“Well, we are going to prove him wrong on all counts,” said Sheffield. He looked expectantly at the earl. “So, Wrex, what—”
“Enough talking for now, Kit.” Wrexford held out his hand to help Charlotte rise from her chair. “It’s late, and we all need to be sharp for the coming confrontation. We’ll reconvene just before first light and head to Isle of Dogs.”
He cracked his knuckles. “Where we will rescue Alison and finally put an end to the villains and their horrific litany of murder and betrayal.”
CHAPTER 29
Alison’s silvery hair gleamed for an instant against the dark-as-Hades waves before the swirling current dragged her under—
Charlotte awoke with a scream quivering on her lips. A glance out the window showed that it was still dark. Still, she sat up in bed and pressed her palms to her brow, trying to get her bearings.
“I was going to let you sleep a little longer,” came Wrexford’s voice from the gloom of his dressing room. He moved out of the shadows, the glimmer of the waning moonlight catching the white of his dress shirt as he knotted a cravat around his upturned collar.
“You are looking very . . . lordly,” she observed.
“As I have no official credentials to flaunt if questioned by anyone from the Royal Navy, I may have to depend on appearing every inch the aristocrat in order to convince Tilden to do as I ask.” His jaw tightened. “But don’t worry, no amount of well-tailored finery will constrict my ability to beat the miscreants at their evil game.”
He took a seat on the side of the bed and studied her face. “A blow to the head is not to be taken lightly. How are you feeling?”
Like hell, thought Charlotte. But she wasn’t about to admit it.
“It’s an irrelevant question,” she answered. “Surely you don’t really think I would consent to stay in bed while Alison is in mortal danger.”
A sigh. “It was worth a try,” he said. “I was hoping against hope that the cudgel might have knocked some sense into you.”
Softening his words with another sigh, he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss to her fingers. “Just promise me you won’t attempt any heroics that are beyond your current capabilities. That could put you—and all of our loved ones—at risk.”
Charlotte conceded the wisdom of his words with a reluctant smile. “I may be bullheaded at times, but I’m not a reckless idiot. In this particular situation, my heart will listen to my head.” A tiny wince. “Which in all candor is feeling a trifle sore.”
Before he could respond—or change his mind about the coming confrontation—Charlotte threw back the bedcovers and sat up. And felt a wave of dizziness. Taking a moment to steady herself, she gingerly swung her legs over the side.
Wrexford didn’t miss her tiny grimace, but refrained from comment.
“I had better begin dressing,” she said, the thought of McClellan’s strong coffee a strong incentive to shake off her lethargy. The question was, what persona to assume?
The earl was apparently thinking the same thing. “It seems to me that you have two choices—assuming the role of the Countess of Wrexford or that of a street urchin.” He smoothed the tails of his cravat into place. “In this particular situation, neither is ideal.”
“I’m aware of that.” Charlotte considered the dilemma. “If I accompany you as your wife, it corsets both of us in too many conventional rules of Polite Society.”
“It would be a distraction,” he agreed. “The Royal Navy would think me mad.”
“And I would find silk skirts a cursed encumbrance if called upon to chase after the villains.” She frowned. “However, I’m not quite sure that your having several street urchins tagging at your heels doesn’t create just as many problems for you.”
