And now, they had a snug little aerie in her attic, respectable clothing, and an Oxford-educated tutor giving them lessons several times a week. Ye gods, they even had fancy new names to go along with their avian monikers! Thomas Ravenwood Sloane and Alexander Hawksley Sloane. A smile touched her lips. However unconventional, they had become a family, tied together not by blood but by love.
Love. In that word lay the heart of her dilemma. It set off a tangle of conflicted emotions, and Charlotte wasn’t quite sure how to go about unknotting them. Over the years, adversity had shaped her to think that in order to survive, one’s core inner strength had to come from within. One couldn’t count on others.
Now she wasn’t so sure. And that was frightening.
Which brought her full circle back to Wrexford.
“Hell’s bells, I’m simply asking him for some information,” she muttered. “Neither of us is in any danger of being drawn into this murder.” Forcing aside further thoughts on the earl, Charlotte dipped her now-pristine pen into the inkwell. Finishing the drawing of the Prince Regent was something she could control.
And besides, it was her art that paid for her independence. Despite all fears and uncertainties preying on her mind, that wasn’t something she ever intended to give up.
Focused on her work, Charlotte lost all track of the time. It was the loud thump of the front door falling shut and a tandem shout from the boys announcing their return that drew her back to the present.
“Excellent,” she murmured, anxious to learn what Wrexford had told them about the scientific soiree. However, that sentiment was quickly revised when the Raven added, “His Nibs has come along with us.”
Repressing an oath, Charlotte glanced down at her paint-smudged cuffs before quickly tucking a few strangling strands of hair behind her ear.
“I thought I might as well come along and subject myself to your interrogation in person,” drawled the Earl of Wrexford as she entered the downstairs parlor. “Knowing your infernal attention to detail, it seemed likely you would have so many questions, the Weasels would wear out their boots running back and forth between our residences.”
“Weasels” was what Wrexford had dubbed the boys, much to their hilarity. They knew he had long ago forgiven Raven for sticking a knife in his leg during their first encounter.
“How very thoughtful of you, milord,” replied Charlotte, matching his note of dry humor. “Would you care for—”
“Tea?” said the plain-faced, middle-aged woman, who had hurried out from the kitchen. “I’ve just set the kettle on the hob, Mrs. Sloane. And a pan of ginger biscuits are about to come out of the oven.”
Ignoring the hungry looks from the boys, Charlotte raised an inquiring brow at the earl. As McClellan was still technically in his employ, she left the decision to him.
“Halloo, McClellan,” said Wrexford with an amused smile. “I trust Mrs. Sloane isn’t proving too terrible a taskmaster.” He had dispatched the woman—whose arsenal of skills apparently included being a crack shot with a pistol—to stay with Charlotte after an intruder had broken into the house during their investigation of Elihu Ashton’s murder. The arrangement had proved to have a number of practical advantages, and so she had remained as member of the unconventional household. Her somewhat nebulous duties included serving as a lady’s maid on the rare occasions when Charlotte was required to venture into Polite Society, but most importantly, her presence allowed the earl to call at the house without violating the rules of propriety.
“I’ve no cause for complaint, milord,” answered McClellan dryly. “No one has tried to kill us lately.” A pause. “Though the lads do their best to slay any semblance of cleanliness to the floors and their clothing.”
“Tsk, tsk,” clucked the earl. “I would say no biscuits for the wicked—”
Hawk’s grimy face pinched in horror.
“Except I happen to be famished,” he finished.
“Now that we’ve performed all the necessary social graces,” said Charlotte to McClellan, “might you kindly fetch the refreshments, so His Lordship and I can get down to business.”
Assuming an air of innocence, Raven and Hawk fell in step behind the woman as she headed off for the kitchen.
The earl settled himself on the sofa, all well-tailored broad shoulders and long-legged elegance. The room suddenly felt much smaller as Charlotte took a seat in the facing armchair. He seemed to crowd out all else.
“This is a very pleasant room,” he remarked, looking around with an approving glance at the simple but tasteful furnishings. “You were wise to make the decision to leave your old residence.” A tiny, tumbledown sliver of a house, it had been located in a far less savory part of London. “I trust you have no regrets?”
“No,” she replied a little testily, impatient to get to work. In her profession, time was money. She needed to have a finished drawing of the murder to Mr. Fores as quickly as possible in order to best the competition. “Now, might we put aside household matters and turn to what you know about the Bloody Butcher’s latest victim?”
His mouth quirked in amusement. “Likely not enough to satisfy your artistic sensibility, but I shall try.” He shifted and recrossed his booted legs. “To answer the question in your note, yes, I was present at the duke’s gathering. However, I left early as Tyler and I were conducting a complex chemical experiment that required precise timing.”
The earl was one of the country’s leading experts in chemistry, though his devil-may-care behavior and hair-trigger temper often overshadowed his intellectual accomplishments. Tyler, his nominal valet, had advanced scientific training and served as his laboratory assistant.
Charlotte blew out her breath. “Damnation, I was hoping you could confirm the ghoulish details. Raven and Hawk heard that the victim’s—”
“They heard right,” interrupted Wrexford. “Mr. Griffin had the same idea as you did. He came to see me early this morning to see if I had attended the soiree, and whether I had seen anything suspicious.”
Griffin, regarded to be the best of the Bow Street Runners, had been involved in investigating the earl when he had been a prime suspect in a murder. Despite a less than auspicious start, they had developed a grudging respect for each other.
“And did you?” she pressed.
“Alas, no. But I managed to squeeze some of the more intimate details of the crime out of him.” A wry smile. “If he knew I was passing them on to the infamous A. J. Quill, he’d likely slice off one of my bollocks.”
Charlotte winced. “So it’s really true.” She waited as McClellan entered and set the tea tray on the side table and discreetly withdrew. “Just, er, one is missing?”
The earl nodded in confirmation.
Taking a small notebook and pencil from the pocket sewn into her work gown, she looked up expectantly. “Did Mr. Griffin describe how the victim was situated when he was found, and what the state of his clothing looked like?”
“I thought you might inquire about that. The poor fellow was seated slumped, but still upright, on the bench in the Queen’s Alcove. Death was caused by a single knife thrust to the heart. The blade then sliced the fastenings on the left side of the trousers . . .” Wrexford gave a short, succinct summary of the corpse’s condition.