Her heart lurched. The boys she remembered were bright, generous-spirited souls, full of laughter and kindness. But people changed. Saints became sinners. Goodness turned to greed.
Hugging her arms to her chest, Charlotte wrenched her thoughts back to the present. “Has Griffin taken Nicky to Bow Street?”
Wrexford shook his head. “Newgate.”
“Newgate!” A surge of outrage lifted Charlotte to her feet. “That putrid, pestilent bastion of depravity! He’s from a wellborn family—”
“And accused of murdering his brother,” he pointed out, “in a shockingly foul way.”
“Nicky didn’t do it!” She was shouting, and didn’t care. “Be damned with Griffin and his evidence. I tell you, he’s made a dreadful mistake.”
The earl drew in a measured breath and released it without making a sound. His air of stoic calm was infuriating.
“I must see Nicky.” She started for the door. “Now.”
Wrexford’s reaction was panther-quick. He was out of his chair in a blur of black and caught hold of her arm.
“Let go of me,” demanded Charlotte, trying to pull free.
His grip tightened. “Mrs. Sloane, you aren’t thinking with your usual clarity. What do you think the chances are of an unaccompanied woman arriving unannounced and being let through the iron-banded portal of London’s most formidable prison?”
Nil, she mentally conceded.
“Exactly,” he murmured when she said nothing. “Even if I were to come with you, it would be a waste of time without arranging for the proper permissions—and the requisite bribes.”
Charlotte knew he was right, and at that instant hated him for it.
“You needn’t bother with all that. I shall ask Jeremy to help me.” Her childhood friend, now Baron Sterling, was a better choice—not simply out of spite, but because he, too, had been a playmate with the two brothers.
Wrexford’s brows notched up in sardonic reaction. “It’s understandable that you would prefer Sterling.” The two gentlemen had come to know each other during the investigation of Elihu Ashton’s murder. But to call them friends would be exaggerating the connection. “However, if you recall, he’s away in Yorkshire, helping to work out the ramifications of the last murder we investigated.” Jeremy had been very good friends with the victim and his two assistants. “Even if you send an urgent summons, it will take a number of days for him to return. And time is of the essence.”
He was right—she wasn’t thinking straight. Even if Jeremy could arrive quickly, it would be wrong of her to call him away from those who needed his expertise.
“I’ll go see Griffin now and work out all the arrangements to visit the prisoner tomorrow,” he went on. “I’ll send around a carriage, if that is acceptable to you.”
Her blood still at a boil, Charlotte was tempted to throw his well-reasoned offer back in his face. But sanity quickly reasserted itself.
“Thank you.” Suddenly ashamed of her earlier outburst, Charlotte lifted her gaze to meet his. “Forgive me, Wrexford. It’s not you. I’m simply angry at . . .”
At what? The fickleness of Fate?
“I’m simply angry at the whole bloody cosmos, I suppose.”
“I’m aware of that, Mrs. Sloane,” he said softly.
“Damnation.” She felt the skin tighten over the bones of her face. “I thought you said the universe ran on orderly, scientific rules—the Earth circles the Sun, the tides rise and fall, the seasons come and go in an unchangeable pattern.”
“The laws of Nature do have a natural cycle for our life and death,” Wrexford replied. “It’s we ourselves who muck it up with our unholy attraction to the Seven Deadly Sins.”
Nodding absently, Charlotte shifted her stance, suddenly desperate to be alone. She knew he was trying to help, but her emotions were too jumbled for rational conversation. She needed to think.
The earl waited another few moments, and when she still didn’t reply, he moved to the doorway. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll send word once I’ve arranged the final timing.”
She waited until he left the house before returning to her workroom. Time seemed skewed—it felt like it took forever to climb the stairs and take a seat at her desk. The colors on her palette looked all wrong. Her mind felt numb, a deadweight detached from her body, floating within an impenetrable black cloud.
One swift slice of steel, and her carefully constructed world had been knocked to flinders.
A minute ticked by, and then another. “And I can either cry while every drop of hope spills out,” she whispered, “or find a way to salvage what’s left.”
The thought of Nicky in prison roused her from the stranglehold of despair. He would likely swing from the gallows unless she could find a way to prove him innocent.
Charlotte sat unblinking, unmoving. To do so might require her to sacrifice her own hard-won life in order to save his.
Which, of course, she would do in a heartbeat.
CHAPTER 3
It was late, a spitting rain deepening the night shadows to an impenetrable gloom by the time Wrexford tracked Griffin to a seedy tavern near Covent Garden.
“Milord.” The Runner looked up from a plate of pickle and cheddar. “What brings you to these humble environs—other than the magnanimous urge to gift me with a joint of roast beef and an apple tart for the rest of my supper.”
The earl took a seat at the rough-planked table. “A favor.” He signaled for the barmaid to bring two tankards of ale. “Given your prodigious capacity for consuming food when I’m paying for it, I daresay you’re getting the best of the bargain.”
“Indeed?” Griffin took a small bite of cheese and chewed meditatively. “To what do I owe such good fortune?”
“The misery of others,” shot back Wrexford. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’d like you to arrange for me to meet with Nicholas Locke.”
The Runner’s heavily lidded gaze suddenly sharpened. A big, chunky man, Griffin’s slow movements and taciturn manner fooled many people into thinking he was a beef-witted sluggard. They quickly learned their mistake.
“You told me earlier that you didn’t know the fellow from Adam. Why the sudden interest?”
“Call it scientific curiosity.”
Griffin snorted a low sound that sounded suspiciously rude. “There’s nothing scientific about murder, milord. It’s all about pure primal passions.” He paused as the barmaid set down the drinks, then took up one of the tankards and quaffed a long swallow. “But since we’re talking about curiosity, I can’t help wondering why you’re so interested in Mr. Locke.”
Wrexford took a swallow of his ale and quickly set it down. “You have execrable taste in taverns. This is horse piss—if not something worse.”
A chuckle rumbled in the Runner’s throat. “Flossie brought you the cheapest brew, to save your purse.”
“I’d rather save my gullet.”
The quips didn’t distract Griffin from his original question. Like a mastiff with a bone between his teeth, he never let go of any evidence that might affect his investigation of a crime.