Not many people had the mettle to match his thrusts and parries.
Narrowing his eyes, Wrexford replied, “Allow me to point out that this isn’t the most salubrious of neighborhoods.”
“All the more reason that a lordly peer would keep his carriage, and the bantling with him would hare off on his own.”
She was right, a fact that only exacerbated his darkening mood. The meeting with Locke had unsettled him. He wasn’t sure whether the prisoner’s evasiveness was due to fear and shock, or whether the cause had a more sinister root. Regardless, the fellow seemed an unworthy cause for Charlotte. Involving herself in a scandalous murder investigation would be dangerous in any number of ways. Secrets had a way of slipping free.
He didn’t like to think of her being forced to make elemental decisions about her own life before she was ready to do so, all because . . .
Because Locke had some emotional hold on her.
“Keep your head down and move quickly,” he muttered in grudging reply. “You heard the gaoler—a sweet young morsel like you would be devoured by the ravening beasts around here.”
“I’m no stranger to the stews, sir. I can take care of myself.”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
Her mouth quirked. “You must truly be in a hellish temper to quote the Scriptures at me.”
Before he could react, Charlotte added, “I’m going to take a roundabout route home and make some inquiries as to whether my sources near Kensington Palace have heard anything suspicious about the night of the murder. As for the brothel—”
“Leave the brothel to me. I’ll visit there this evening,” he growled.
She raised a brow, the clouded look in her eyes giving way to a momentary flash of amusement. “A late-night assignation coupled with this early-morning meeting? I fear the demands of this investigation will exhaust your . . . patience.”
“It’s you who must be tired,” shot back Wrexford. “Your wit is usually capable of cleverer sarcasm than that.” Their gazes locked, and he found himself adding, “If I were looking for fleshly pleasure, I would seek it in a more inviting setting.”
“Is Boudicca’s Bosom not a pleasant place? I’ve heard it caters to an exclusive clientele.”
Wrexford didn’t rise to the bait. “If I learn anything worthwhile, I’ll send word to you in the morning. I trust you’ll do the same.”
A brusque nod. “Of course. Now kindly step down and let me be off.”
He did so, silently cursing her devil-benighted sense of stubborn independence.
“My thanks for your help, Wrexford. I’m aware this is not your fight.” Her words were almost lost in the whisper of wool as she brushed past him.
Steel and silk. Hard and soft. Charlotte had the infuriating ability to keep him off balance.
A frown momentarily formed between his brows as he watched her dart across the cobbled square and disappear into the maze of narrow alleyways. Like a cat. Or rather, a lioness. All feline grace, ferocious courage, and a hunter’s instinct for tracking down its prey.
Turning away, he slammed the carriage door shut and headed off in the opposite direction. The question, he asked himself, was how many of her nine lives did she have left?
* * *
Charlotte wove a sure-footed path through the slanting shadows, keeping alert to all the little sounds around her. She didn’t need the earl’s warning to know that the scum of humanity was drawn to the environs of Newgate and Old Bailey. Misery loves company—or perhaps it was more that depravity begets depravity. The prison housed some of the most deranged and dangerous of London’s criminals.
Including the new Lord Chittenden.
A sudden crunch-crunch sounded behind her. She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, but saw nothing within the dark-as-Hades gloom beneath the overhanging roofs. Feeling the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end, Charlotte quickened her pace. She was feeling jumpy as a cat on a griddle. Cedric’s murder had cut like a knife to the heart, reminding her of how cruelly and casually a loved one could be ripped from the here and now.
Raven and Hawk . . . the irascible Basil Henning and devil-may-care Kit Sheffield . . . the mysterious McClellan.
And the enigmatic Earl of Wrexford.
She had somehow gathered a mismatched circle of friends around her during the past few years. They had become very dear to her.
Once again, she was aware of how frighteningly vulnerable she felt because of it.
A solitary existence was far safer, uncomplicated by the complexities of emotions. Danger now held more consequences than the question of her own measly survival. The boys depended on her . . .
Charlotte shook off her brooding. She couldn’t afford such distractions when she was on the hunt.
After weaving her way through the putrid maze of passageways, she skirted around Lincoln’s Inn Fields and made her way up to High Holborn, where she joined the flow of traffic heading west onto Oxford Street. No one paid the least attention to yet another ragged urchin as she cut into Hyde Park and hurried on into the neighborhood surrounding Kensington Palace. The boys had their sources for information—the urchins who swept the dung from the streets, the flower girls, the night soil men. But she had her own set of contacts. Men and women whose shady dealings depended on knowing everything that went on within their little world.
Her first stop was a curio shop on Church Lane, just several streets away from the main entrance to Kensington Palace. A dreary-looking front room stuffed with nondescript flotsam and jetsam masked a hidden basement filled with purloined treasures from Mayfair. Broad Billy had the reputation for running the best flash house in London.
Charlotte squeezed through one of the narrow aisles and approached the bored-looking clerk at the back counter. Fisting a hand, she waggled a quick signal.
A jerk of his head indicated she should pass through a closed door set halfway down a short corridor. It led into a tiny chamber where the rug had been thrown back, revealing a trapdoor that now stood open. A flicker of weak light wavered within the murky depths below.”
“Billy,” hissed Charlotte, careful to disguise her voice.
She heard the shuffling of boots and the sonorous chiming of crystal. A chandelier by the sound of it. Quite an expensive one.
“That you, Magpie?” A pudgy face appeared an instant later, the eyes two beady black dots nearly swallowed by the doughy folds of flesh.
Woe to anyone who assumed they didn’t see much. Charlotte was of the opinion that Billy could count the hairs on a flea’s arse from ten paces away.
A lamp, held aloft by a meaty hand, shifted slightly, illuminating the figure’s near-bald pate streaked with a few greasy strands of black hair.
“Aye,” answered Charlotte, quickly pulling a purse from her pocket. She had come prepared.
Broad Billy’s hearing was just as acute as his vision. He must have heard the faint chink of gold against gold for he quickly humped his massive bulk closer to the ladder. “Whacha need?”
“Whatever you might know about the murder that happened in the Palace gardens several nights ago.”
“Nasty business, that,” remarked Billy, though a low chuckle punctuated his words. “Say what they will, but the highborn swells are far more savage than us unwashed.”
Her ears pricked up. “You have reason to think it was a swell who did it, and not the madman they call the Bloody Butcher?”