The half-collapsed roof let in a dribble of moonglow. Jagged shadows gave the interior a menacing look. Wraithlike shadows loomed in the vaporous murk, setting off ripples of dark and light. Moving stealthily, they made their way to the charred hellhole where the fire had started.
“Careful,” said Hawk as Raven sidled closer to the back wall. A glance up showed that the beam above them was tilted at a precarious angle. “What are we looking for?”
“You heard Carrot-Top. Whatever flammable substance was used to start the blaze, it was far more powerful than lamp oil. If we can find the bits of bottle glass, Wrex and Tyler may be able to identify the chemical residue on them. And that might give us a clue as to who is behind the arson.”
Hawk crept around a slew of broken bricks and crouched down beside his brother. They both began poking through the debris.
“We should hurry,” added Raven. A gust shivered through the dangling shingles, dislodging a crumbling of ashes and burnt bits of tar. From deep in the gloom came the groan of iron hinges swinging in the wind.
“Before what’s left of the building comes crashing down around our ears.”
CHAPTER 5
Charlotte awoke the next morning, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep as she squinted at the flickers of sunlight playing over the tangled bedcovers. Once again, an unsettling nightmare had plagued her fitful slumber, but unlike her reveries on the fire, this one had been on a far more personal level....Mac fleeing into a dark forest, and when she tried to follow, she had become tangled in a maze of vaporous shadows and thorny vines, the spiky points tearing at her flesh—
“It was just a bad dream.” She sat up in bed and chafed at her chilled arms, acutely aware of the empty space on the bed beside her. Strange how Wrexford’s absence felt like an integral part of her was missing. Fiercely independent, even as a child, she had always imagined that letting someone take hold of her heart would make her weaker, not stronger.
And that, Charlotte decided, was the magic of Love. It was a beautifully inexplicable contradiction.
She smiled. Not even Wrexford, with his incisive logic and scientific genius, could offer a rational explanation for how it defied all the clockwork laws of the universe.
Buoyed by that thought, she rose and dressed, determined to keep her blue devils at bay.
After a simple repast of coffee and fresh-baked sultana muffins in the breakfast room—McClellan had bustled in and out, acting as if nothing was amiss between them—Charlotte retreated to her workroom.
Decisions, decisions.
She sat down at her desk and pondered her next piece of art for Fores’s printshop.
“My pen has power,” Charlotte reminded herself. She knew that her drawings influenced public opinion. To her that was a solemn responsibility, one that weighed heavily on her conscience. “And I have promised myself that I will never wield it recklessly.”
Her gaze moved to the rough sketch for a drawing that lay on her blotter from the previous day—the first in a series that she planned to do on the plight of soldiers returning from the wars and unable to find employment. It was an important subject. Now that peace reigned and the army was reducing its ranks, the streets of London were filling with ragged men—many of them with injuries to both body and mind from serving their country on the brutal battlefields of Europe—who had nowhere to go. The cost of bread was rising, begging was rampant . . . and the government seemed stubbornly determined to ignore the growing crisis.
Even though they were sitting atop a powder keg, and a single spark could ignite a conflagration.
Charlotte paused. The idea of an innovative marine propulsion system and how it would change the world still tickled at her consciousness. From what Sheffield had said, it was a hugely important topic. However, she reminded herself that to do it justice, she needed to know far more about it. Not just the technical complexities but also the conflicts and ramifications of who would ultimately control such a revolutionary invention.
It was just the sort of challenge that quickened her pulse. The elemental reason for taking up the pen of her late husband, who had created A. J. Quill, was to bring such important issues to the attention of the public.
Pursing her lips, Charlotte began to think about how to begin her investigation. But the ticking of the mantel clock soon drew her back to the present moment. She had a drawing due today, so for now . . .
Charlotte picked up her pencil. “The public needs to care about our discharged soldiers and the fact that they need help and support in returning to their former lives,” she murmured as she set to work, refining the visual elements of the drawing and carefully composing the captions.
* * *
Tired and frustrated by a day spent searching for any clues that might shed light on Greeley’s murder, Wrexford returned to his rooms at Merton College and poured a glass of brandy from the decanter that the porter had supplied. Its fire, however, did nothing to warm his inner chill.
The visit to Greeley’s spartan abode had been dispiriting. He had discovered nothing to shed light on why the poor fellow had been murdered. Indeed, aside from his books and academic journals, Greeley’s life seemed depressingly empty. No sign of hobbies or hidden vices, no sign of romance or friends . . .
Save for ghosts from the past.
Wrexford took another mouthful of brandy, letting its burn trickle down his throat before reaching into his coat pocket for the miniature portrait he had found propped up on Greeley’s desk. It was painted on an oval of ivory and fitted into a silver case that closed like a pocket watch to protect the delicate brushwork.
He drew a shaky breath and willed himself to flick open the clasp.
And felt his heart clench.
The artist had captured the three young officers in a light-hearted moment. It was an excellent likeness of his brother, who was flanked by Greeley and an Oxford friend from the King’s Regiment of Dragoons. The artist had caught the gleam of good-natured humor that always seemed alight in his brother’s sky-blue eyes . . . and the curl of his lips, where a smile looked about to burst into bloom at any moment.
