The first window had been broken in April, the last just the previous week. On May 15th, the earl’s birthday, a total of twelve windows had been smashed, but most weeks only three or four windows were broken.
Charlotte listed each date and, alongside it, the number of windows smashed. At the bottom, she tallied both columns. The totals were sobering. She looked up at Cosgrove. “Someone hates you, sir.”
“I know.” The earl’s face was grim.
“When were you attacked, sir?”
“Last week. The tenth.”
She added it to the list. “And the nightsoil?”
“That started in May. The fifteenth.”
“Your birthday.”
“Yes. It was the most noteworthy gift I received this year.”
“And the other times, sir? Was the, er, shit always left on the same nights windows were broken?”
“Sometimes.” Cosgrove shrugged. “At least, I think so. I wasn’t in London for all of it.”
“Would your housekeeper remember?”
“Perhaps.” The earl rang the bellpull. “Fetch Mrs. Maby,” he told the footman who answered the summons. “And tell Guillaume that Mr. Albin and I will dine in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed and withdrew.
Cosgrove turned to Charlotte. “After dinner we’ll visit my heir.”
She’d eaten lunch with the earl, but it had been daylight then. Dinner was a different matter entirely. The closed curtains and the candlelight made the meal seem much more intimate.
Charlotte swallowed a mouthful of veal and chased it down with some claret. The wine was smooth, expensive, all too drinkable. I must not have too much of this. She put the glass down. “Your heir, sir . . . how is he related to you?”
“Phillip? He’s my cousin’s son.”
“And why do you think he might be behind the attack?”
“Because he once told me he’d like to kill me.”
“He what?”
“Said he’d like to kill me.” The earl leaned back in his chair, wine glass held casually in one hand. “Said it to my face. In this very house. Not a twelvemonth ago.” He lifted the glass, as if in a toast, and drank.
“Why, sir?”
“Because I’d told him I wouldn’t pay any more of his debts.”
“Are you his guardian?”
“Thank God, no.” Cosgrove gave an expressive grimace. “His maternal uncles had that pleasure until he came of age.”
“He’s of age? Then why would he ask you to pay his debts?”
“Because he’s my heir.” Cosgrove put down the glass and pushed it away. “And unless I marry again, he will inherit the earldom. The estates, this house, everything. And that prospect, let me tell you, is the only reason I intend to remarry.” His mouth tightened. “I will not allow the earldom to pass to a spineless, drunken profligate.”
Charlotte laid her knife and fork on her plate. “Is he that, sir?”
Cosgrove nodded. “Phillip was still in swaddling clothes when my cousin died. He was indulged by his mother, cosseted, spoiled, allowed to do whatever he pleased. It ruined him.” He picked up his glass and frowned at the claret. “Phillip came down from Oxford last year. Since then he has distinguished himself by his drinking, his gambling, and his whoring.”
Cosgrove drained the glass in one swallow, poured himself another, and offered the decanter to Charlotte. She shook her head.
“The first time Phillip found himself in dun territory, he applied to me for funds. I extended him a loan. He is my cousin’s son, after all.” The earl picked up his glass, but didn’t drink. He turned the stem between his fingers. His frown deepened. “Edmund wouldn’t like the man his son has become.”
Charlotte met his eyes. She didn’t say anything.
“I told Phillip that when he applied to me for more money. Thought it might make him change his behavior. More fool me.”
“It would have made me change, sir.” Her father’s respect was something she’d treasured.
“Perhaps.” Cosgrove shrugged. “But you’re a different person from Phillip. And you knew your father. Phillip didn’t.”
Charlotte accepted this with a silent nod. She folded her linen napkin and laid it beside her plate. “Can you remember what date Phillip told you he wished you were dead, sir?”
“The exact date?” Cosgrove shook his head. “March, I think. I know it wasn’t long after we’d lost the slavery vote. I wasn’t in the best of moods.” He grimaced. “I don’t blame Phillip for hating me. No man likes to be told he’s a bloodsucking leech.”
“You told him that, sir?”
“That, and that he didn’t need my money; he needed to grow a backbone and take responsibility for himself. It was ill done of me.” He placed his wine glass on the table, undrunk from, and pushed it away. “He’ll break his shins against Covent Garden’s rails, if he’s not careful. In fact, I’m astonished he hasn’t done so already.”
Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“The Covent Garden ague.”
Charlotte shook her head to show her lack of comprehension.
“French gout.”
She shook her head again.
Cosgrove’s expression became bemused. “You truly don’t know?”
“No, sir.”
The earl leaned back in his chair and stared at her for a long moment before enlightening her: “Venereal disease.”
“Oh.” Charlotte felt her cheeks flush scarlet.
Cosgrove’s mouth twitched, but he was too polite to laugh aloud.
Charlotte fumbled to speak through her embarrassment. “So Mr. Langford is . . . er, he’s . . . a . . . a . . .”
“Phillip is a beard splitter, to put it crudely. And he’s none too careful where he finds his entertainment.”
Beard splitter. It was another term she’d never heard, but she could guess its meaning.
Charlotte fixed her eyes on her plate. Her knife and fork lay side by side. They were silver, with the Cosgrove crest stamped on them. She moved the knife handle a quarter of an inch, so that it was precisely parallel to the fork. She took a deep breath, mastered her embarrassment, and raised her head. “Mr. Langford is given to wenching, sir?”
“Addicted, would be more accurate.” Cosgrove glanced at her plate. “Are you finished?”
Charlotte nodded.
Cosgrove placed his hands palm-down on the table. “Let’s find Phillip. If I know anything of him, he’ll be in a bawdy house.” He pushed to his feet.
A bawdy house. That was a term she’d heard before. It meant a house where whores plied their trade.
Dread clenched in Charlotte’s chest. She pushed back her chair slowly.
Cosgrove strode to the door.
You chose this path, Charlotte told herself. This was what you wanted: to have a man’s career. She raised her chin and followed the earl from the dining room.
Phillip Langford’s manservant gave them the name of the brothel his master had been frequenting recently. “This will be an education for you, lad,” the earl said, as they clattered back down the stairs to the street.
He hailed a hackney and gave the jarvey an address.
“Is it in Covent Garden, sir?” Charlotte asked, as they climbed in.
“Worse.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until tomorrow morning, sir? When Mr. Langford is . . . isn’t occupied?”
“By tomorrow morning, Phillip will be too drunk to string two words together.” Cosgrove stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle.
“But wouldn’t that be the perfect time to question him, sir? When he’s unable to prevaricate?” Apprehension churned in her belly. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much for dinner.
“Chin up, lad. I won’t let Mrs. Henshaw’s girls debauch you.”
Charlotte’s cheeks burned in the dimness of the hackney carriage. “I am not afraid of whores,” she said stiffly.