Have I somehow assumed the airs and graces of a pompous aristocrat and Mac no longer trusts my moral compass?
The thought made Charlotte’s stomach churn. “I’m grateful that you at least felt I merited an honest reply,” she said, striving for a light note, “rather than being fobbed off with a tarradiddle about rotten fish.”
McClellan’s expression turned even more stony, though for an instant a hint of emotion seemed to ripple beneath her lashes.
Unable to bear another moment of the stilted silence, Charlotte rose and forced a brittle smile. “Well, I had better go and have a word with the boys. I need to tell Peregrine that I’ve purchased his books for school and remind Raven that Cordelia is coming this afternoon for his mathematics lesson.”
“And I should head to the sewing room,” replied the maid as she began gathering up the tea things. “I should check that Nancy is making the necessary repairs to several of Peregrine’s jackets so they will be ready for him to take to Eton.”
Mac withdrawing, Peregrine leaving. . . it felt to Charlotte like her close-knit family was suddenly unraveling before her very eyes.
Tears prickled against her lids. And for a mutinous moment, her thoughts strayed back to her old life, where the fears were at least simpler . . .
Charlotte stopped short in the corridor, shadows flitting around her as if trying to swallow her in darkness. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned up a flash of images—Wrexford’s smile, Hawk’s gap-toothed grin, Raven’s fierce scowl of concentration as he puzzled out a mathematical problem.
“As if I wouldeverwant my life to be any different,” she whispered, and then to her infinite relief began to feel her heart swell with light and love. “Family, friends . . .”
Ashamed of her mental whinging, Charlotte headed for the stairs, determined to set aside her worries over McClellan, at least for now. She and Wrexford had solved far more daunting conundrums. They would do the same with this one.
A sigh slipped from her lips. Though she couldn’t help hoping that the earl would deal with Greeley’s problem swiftly and return from Oxford soon to help smooth the waters here at home.
* * *
“Wrexford,” repeated the earl.
“Yes, I’m quite sure of the name,” said the gentleman without hesitation. “Greeley said it several times.”
“Bloody,bloodyhell.”
“Do you know him?” Eyes suddenly widening, the gentleman let out a gasp. “Ach du lieber—are you thinking that he may be the killer? Shouldn’t we summon the authorities to—”
“Iam Wrexford,” growled the earl. Seeing the other man shrink back, he hastily added, “And no, I didn’t kill Greeley.”
Which raised the question . . .
He rose abruptly. “Who the devil are you? And why shouldn’t I consideryoua suspect, since you’ve just admitted to sneaking back into the library late at night?”
To the gentleman’s credit, he stiffened, looking more affronted than frightened. “I, sir, am a respected scholar, not a cutthroat barbarian who would foully take the life of a worthy man like Neville Greeley.” He blinked, and belatedly added, “As for my identity, I am Ernst von Münch, librarian to King Frederick of Württemberg.”
Wrexford raised his brows. “You work for Fickle Freddie? That’s hardly a mark in your favor.”
Von Münch maintained a dignified silence.
The earl felt a grudging respect for the librarian’s reticence. King Frederick was a highly controversial fellow. A larger-than-life monarch—quite literally, as he stood nearly seven feet tall and had a prodigious girth that made him the butt of satirical drawings—he was loathed by a great many people for the self-serving switching of alliances he had made during the Napoleonic Wars. For a time he had sided with the French, despite his close ties to the British royal family.
“I take it that your king came to London to help celebrate the centennial of his father-in-law’s family serving as the rulers of Britain,” he continued. After the death of his first wife, King Frederick had married King George III’s eldest daughter, Charlotte, and his first wife’s sister was Caroline of Brunswick, the Prince Regent’s estranged wife.
“Yes,” replied von Münch tersely. “I have accompanied King Frederick to England, but not as part of his entourage for the celebrations. I’m here to do research at Oxford and Cambridge.” He glanced at the bookshelves, his expression softening. “I am a historian as well as a librarian, and as part of my official duties I am writing a detailed history of King Frederick’s life and ties to the British monarchy.”
“It will require a very clever pen to cast your subject in a favorable light,” drawled the earl.
Von Münch finally allowed a twitch of his lips. “It is the victorious who usually get to write history, so yes, I understand that I may feel compelled to use some artistic license.”
A pause. “Allow me to say that I rebuffed the attempts of King Frederick to hire me until he ended his alliance with Napoleon and switched sides to join with Britain and its allies. I have no love for tyrannical despots.”
Wrexford was liking the librarian even more. But he quickly turned his thoughts back to the murder.
“Our political philosophies align, Herr von Münch. However, at the moment, I’m more interested in solving a crime than meditating on abstract ideals,” he replied. “Think hard—can you recall any other detail about Greeley and his routine, no matter how small, that might help shed light on why he was killed?”
