“Yes, I have been thinking about that, and I have an idea,” answered Wrexford. “Dress as an urchin.” He plucked up his coat from the back of the dressing-table chair. “I’ll explain when you come down to the breakfast room.”
Charlotte hurriedly donned a set of her well-worn rags—thank heaven there was no need to make herself presentable to appear in Polite Society—and smeared her face with a special soot-and-grease concoction that McClellan had created for her.
She stared at the grimy face reflected in the looking glass and added a few more smudges under her eyes.
“Like Tyler,” she said to herself, “Mac is required to perform a number of awfully unconventional duties in this household.”
After lacing up her boots and grabbing up her floppy hat, Charlotte made her way down to the breakfast room, where their inner circle was already assembled and partaking of a hearty breakfast.
Wrexford called for order as soon as she had filled her plate from the chafing dishes and taken a seat at the table. The first dappling of dawn was just beginning to tinge the horizon.
Light overpowering dark. Charlotte hoped it was a metaphor for the coming day.
“You had better have a plan,” called Henning through a mouthful of shirred eggs. “Otherwise, I shall not be pleased about being roused at this godawful hour, despite the excellent breakfast.”
“Hold your water, Baz,” growled the earl, which set the four boys to giggling among themselves. However, his basilisk stare quickly silenced their hilarity.
The clink of cutlery also ceased.
“It seems that we finally hold the advantage over the villains,” said Wrexford, “and we must make full use of it to strike before they take to the river and try to make their escape.”
“What if . . .” began Sheffield, only to let the question trail off without finishing.
“Then we’ll improvise,” answered the earl. “Three carriages are waiting outside. We shall divide our forces . . .”
As Charlotte listened to him explain his strategy, the knot in her chest loosened. In the darkest depth of her heart, she had secretly admitted to herself that the chances of rescuing the dowager were not good. Jarvis was a cold-blooded killer . . .
But the Eel—Horatio had told them that Jarvis was called Eel by one of his henchmen—was now up against Wrexford.
And as the earl continued speaking, the odds suddenly seemed to be shifting in their favor.
* * *
Wrexford turned in a slow circle, surveying the cobbled courtyard and wharves of the King’s Dockyard, where naught but the night sentries were on duty, waiting in yawning impatience for the change of the watch to happen and the daily activities to begin.
He had sent Horatio to change into his uniform before seeking to wake Samuel Tilden, the head of the research laboratory, and explain about Jarvis’s treachery. The midshipman would gain them access to Tilden without delay. Then it was up to him to be convincing.
The earl’s gaze drifted to the river, where pale skeins of mist were floating up from the swirling waters. He tried not to let doubts cloud his mind. The plan wasn’t ideal, but they had been forced to move quickly. With luck, all the pieces would fall into place.
Luck. Wrexford much preferred to trust logic. But there had not been a choice. Drawing a deep breath, he made himself review his decisions, looking for any flaw.
Tyler had been dispatched to find Griffin in order to inform him about Jarvis and pass on Wrexford’s request that the Runner bring a band of his cohorts to Isle of Dogs as soon as possible. Once there, they would join forces with Sheffield and his gang of urchins—which numbered four with Charlotte and Peregrine added to the Weasels.
Thank heaven Griffin had experienced how useful a band of ragged guttersnipes could be in keeping an enemy under surveillance, reflected the earl. The Runner wouldn’t question their presence.
McClellan and Henning were waiting in the carriage just outside the walls of the King’s Dockyard in case Alison required any medical attention after her ordeal as a hostage.
As for his own part—
The sudden clatter of hooves on the cobbles echoed like gunfire off the surrounding stone building. Thrusting a hand into his coat pocket, Wrexford gripped his pistol and whirled around.
“Lord Wrexford!” A rider, his wind-snarled garments coated with dust from a hard gallop, slid down from the saddle of his lathered stallion. “Danke Gott.” He tilted back his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I feared that I might arrive too late.”
The earl kept his weapon hidden but quietly thumbed back the hammer. “Too late for what, Herr von Münch?”
“To warn you about Colonel Jarvis!”
“Indeed?” Wrexford narrowed his eyes. “And what nefarious news have you miraculously discovered about him?”
