CHAPTER 13
The stench and shrieks within Newgate seemed to grow worse with every visit. Keeping her head down, Charlotte stayed close on Wrexford’s heels as he followed their gaoler escort through the winding stone corridors. Thank God the blackness hid the filth beneath their boots. If only it could deaden the pitiful cries coming from the cells. Even at this ungodly early hour—she had climbed into the earl’s carriage just after dawn—the prison pulsed with desperation.
The primal misery of the place was like an iron fist, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs.
At last, the gaoler halted. A lock released with the rattle and groan of rusty metal and then the door clanged shut behind them.
Charlotte let out a silent breath, and steeled her nerves for the coming confrontation. During the ride to Newgate, Wrexford had given her a terse explanation of his meeting with Hollister. He had seemed tired and snappish, his temper dangerously frayed. She sensed he was in no mood for self-pity and prevarications.
Which didn’t bode well for her cousin. But they needed more than mumbled half-truths if they were to save his neck.
Locke was awake, and sitting at the small table set in the center of the cell. Charlotte was gratified to see that he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt. Looking around, she saw that the earl’s purse had provided more amenities—blankets, clothing, a hamper of decent food, and even a few bottles of brandy and wine. Hardly luxurious, but a world of difference from the terror of bare stone and starvation.
“Thank you for your generosity, Lord Wrexford—” began Locke.
“Stubble the pleasantries,” snapped the earl. “Now that you scrubbed off the initial stink of terror, I expect to get more than irrational blatherings from you.” He pulled a stool over to the table and took a seat facing the prisoner.
Charlotte was too jumpy to join them. She moved a few steps to her left, where the lamplight allowed her a better look at Locke’s face.
“I’ve told you what I know—”
“The devil you have.” The earl smacked a fist to the tabletop. “Decide now—do you wish to live, Mr. Locke? Or are you happy to dance the hangman’s jig as the rope slowly strangles the life out of you?”
“Nicky,” began Charlotte.
“Let him answer for himself, Mrs. Sloane.”
She fell silent. Never had Wrexford’s expression looked so grim.
To Locke, he added, “Your cousin is about to sacrifice everything she holds dear in life in order to try to save your miserable neck. You had better prove to me that you are worth it at this meeting, or, by God, I won’t let her do it.”
To his credit, Locke faced the earl’s wrath without flinching. “I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of me, sir. I’ve given you no reason to think otherwise.” He turned his gaze to Charlotte and she saw his eyes were no longer glazed with confusion. “I’d rather die than see you hurt in any way, Charley. If I can’t save myself by my own wits, then so be it.”
“Then, bloody hell, show you have some,” growled the earl.
“Let’s all try to use our heads,” interjected Charlotte. “Stop bellowing at him, Wrexford, and start asking him your questions.”
He shot her a scowl, but thankfully the murderous fury had softened from his features. “Very well, but warn your dear Nicky that my patience is perilously close to snapping.”
“I daresay he’s aware of that.”
Wrexford shifted, his boots scraping against the stone. “Westmorly—tell me more about Westmorly, Locke. Beginning with your gambling debts to him.”
“We played occasionally at a gaming hell in St. Giles—Lucifer’s Lair,” answered her cousin without hesitation. “As did some of the other members of the Eos Society. I’m a decent card player, but I had a run of bad luck one night, and Westmorly won more than I should have wagered, given the amount of brandy I had imbibed. But as I told you, the amount wasn’t more than I could afford.”
“Cedric knew about your losses?” asked Charlotte.
“That’s what puzzles me—I have no idea how. Or why.” Before Wrexford could comment, Locke added, “I wasn’t misleading you, Lord Wrexford. I don’t care what your witnesses say they saw, my brother and Westmorly were not on good terms. Granted, the breach was a recent one, and while I don’t know the exact reasons, I recall Cedric muttering something about the fellow being a yellow-livered snitch.”
“And you’ve no idea what that means?”
“No.” Locke blew out his breath. “Have you asked Hollister? As I told you, whatever bad blood had arisen between Cedric and Westmorly, for a time the three of them were spending time together experimenting with electricity.”
“I intend to question Hollister again. Despite his avowal, I think he’s not telling me everything.”
“His explanation of the romantic rivalry may not have been truthful,” said Charlotte. To Nicholas, she explained, “He told the earl that Lady Julianna had chosen him over Cedric because she felt they connected on a spiritual plane.”
“He’s a bloody liar,” said Nicholas. “Cedric was entranced by Lady Julianna, and from what I saw of them together, she felt the same way.” A pause. “Though to be honest, I found her intensity a little frightening. It . . . well . . . it worried me.”
That a twin might resent anyone interfering with that special bond of blood was understandable, mused Charlotte. Which was all the more reason why she needed to be able to talk to Lady Julianna herself.
The earl’s unhappy expression indicated he knew what she was thinking. “As I said, I’ll question Hollister again.”
She didn’t envy Hollister the experience.
“And I’m also anxious to have a chat with Westmorly,” continued Wrexford. “I asked Sheffield to delve a little deeper into the fellow’s affairs, so perhaps he’s already uncovered something useful.”
The earl then turned his attention back to Locke. “Now, let’s talk about some of the gentlemen scholars at the Institution who have been serving as mentors to the Eos Society—starting with Justinian DeVere.”
Locke appeared puzzled. “Mr. DeVere? I don’t know what to tell you, sir, save that he encouraged us to express our opinions on the various lectures we heard, and was very patient in answering questions and providing further guidance on what books might be of interest.”
“It was DeVere who first spoke to your group about electricity, wasn’t it?” asked Wrexford.
“Yes.”
“And he talked about von Humboldt’s experiments on his own body?”
“Yes,” confirmed Locke. “Along with mention of Aldini experiments and Galvani’s work in medical electricity—that is, electrical current and the human body. At the end of his lecture, he provided a list of scientific readings on the subject.”
Charlotte frowned. She had heard of Aldini and Galvani, but it was her impression that their ideas were on the cusp of quackery.
“At our next meeting,” continued Locke, “Cedric raised a number of questions about Galvanism, which DeVere answered in great detail—and proceeded to explain why he thought both theories, while intriguing in the abstract, were fundamentally flawed.”
“So DeVere didn’t encourage further experimentation with medical electricity?” asked Wrexford.
“On the contrary, sir. As we were all leaving the study room, I heard him advise Cedric that it was a waste of time and intellect to delve any deeper into readings on Galvani.”
The earl fingered his chin, and took a moment to consider what he had just heard. “What about Lord Thornton?”
Locke appeared nonplussed. “You mean the marquess?” He pursed his lips. “He gave a lecture to us several weeks ago, but to be honest, I don’t recall the subject matter—though I’m certain it wasn’t electricity. To my knowledge, Cedric wasn’t acquainted with him.”
“John Children says otherwise,” replied Wrexford.
Charlotte watched her cousin lift his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Then he knows more than I do, milord.” A pause. “I swear it.”
She believed him. He seemed to have shaken off the fuzzy-witted lethargy of the previous visits and now understood that his life depended on finding the real murderer.
The clack-clack of the gaoler’s hobnailed boots announced their visit was nearly over.
“You must think more about Westmorly and Thornton,” she counseled as the steps grew louder. “Anything you heard or saw of their interactions with Cedric, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you, might be a clue we can follow.”
“I—I shall try, Charley.”
Keys jangled, sending a shiver down her spine. The lock released.
Wrexford turned and left the cell without a further word, forcing her to hurry after him.
She wanted to think they were making progress, but the reptilian blackness of the corridor seemed to wrap around her like a serpent and squeeze such optimism from her bones.
They needed more than hope. They needed proof.
* * *
Lost in thought, Wrexford was unaware of Charlotte’s fidgeting until a jarring bump of the carriage wheels drew him back from his brooding. He watched her twitch at her cap and then her coat before beginning to pick at the loose threads of her cuff.
“Is something on your mind, Mrs. Sloane?” he inquired. “Or is it just that your clothing is now crawling with lice?”
“That’s not humorous, sir.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. Newgate is a cesspit of pestilence—and that’s only one of the many dangers that lurk within its walls.” Dressed in urchin clothing, she looked smaller and more vulnerable than usual. “You’re taking your life into your hands every time you go there.”
“Then just imagine how Nicky feels, trapped within its terrors and with no hope of escape until I can find a way to prove him innocent,” replied Charlotte.
“We,” corrected Wrexford. “Until we find a find way to prove him innocent.”
Her expression softened, betraying a flicker of uncertainty. “My sense is, you don’t really believe he’s innocent. So why are you helping me?”
“You know why.” He met her gaze and held it for a moment. “Because we are friends, Charlotte.”
She jumped at the intimacy.
He hadn’t called her by her given name since the strange interlude after solving their last murder investigation, when in the heat of the moment . . .
Neither of them had made mention of the kiss since it had happened.
Perhaps because neither of them wished to admit what it might mean.
“Friendship doesn’t mean you have to put your life in danger,” said Charlotte. “Yet again.”
“Have a care what you say. For you know, I will throw it back in your face at the first opportunity.” He smiled. “After all, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
“Impossible man,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yes, well, we’re two birds of a feather.”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “I’m grateful for your tolerance of my quirks, Wrexford. I . . .” She hesitated. “I haven’t yet sent the letter to Lady Peake. I know you think me impulsive, but on occasion, I do take time to think over the ramifications before I act.”
“Have you changed your mind?” The earl knew it was a decision fraught with complexities.
“No.” She sighed. “Perhaps, as you counseled, the wiser decision would be to wait until I feel ready. God knows, it would certainly be the easier one. But I think I would eventually have to make the step, if only to give the boys more opportunities in life. So there’s no point in delaying the moment, especially as I may be able to help Nicky.”
“Spoken from both the heart and the head,” murmured Wrexford. “I find no fault with such reasoning.”
He waited, but got no reply.
“So, what is it that’s bothering you?”
Her gaze remained glued to her lap. “I must tell the boys, of course, and McClellan. And Sheffield and Henning.”
“I think it’s right that they hear it from you before it becomes public knowledge,” he agreed.
“I . . . you . . . that is . . .”
Her very un-Charlotte-like dithering might have been amusing, had the subject matter not been so serious.
He remained silent.
“I would like for you to be there, too—that is, if you don’t mind,” she said in a rush.
The request took him by surprise. “No, I don’t mind,” Wrexford answered, suddenly aware of an odd little spurt of warmth inside his chest. To cover his reaction, he added, “Just don’t ever ask me to escort you to Almack’s. Not even for friendship will I don knee breeches and white silk stockings.”
“No Almack’s,” agreed Charlotte. “Are the lemonade and cakes they serve there really so wretched? And is Lady Jersey really so loquacious?”
“Silence well deserves her sobriquet,” he said dryly. The Countess of Jersey, one of the patronesses of the exclusive assembly rooms and a leader of the ton, was called ‘Silence’ behind her back because she was notorious for her endless talking. “Don’t tell me you never disguised yourself as a servant and sneaked in for a look. Your drawings have it down to perfection.”
“I’ve contrived to see it empty,” she replied. “But however unlikely, I didn’t wish to take the chance of being recognized.”
The earl leaned back against the squabs. “I daresay you’ll soon have a chance of seeing it in all its hideous splendor. Lady Peake is a great favorite of Lady Jersey, and I’m sure she’ll be intent on introducing you to all the eligible gentlemen of the ton. It is, after all, the premier marriage mart in London for those of pedigree and title.”
“Marriage?” Her face screwed into an expression of horror. “God perish the thought!”
“I hadn’t realized you were so opposed to the idea of a leg shackle,” he said dryly.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Wrexford. What aristocratic gentleman in his right mind would want me as a wife?”
“There are some fellows with an open mind about the intellect and abilities of a lady.” Watching her eyes, he was struck once again by what a luminous intelligence rippled beneath the sea-blue hue. “Granted, they’re not as thick as fleas on a stray mongrel, but they do exist.”
Charlotte looked away. “Now you’re truly making my skin crawl. Even if what you say is true, you’re forgetting my own feelings about life within a gilded cage.”
Wrexford glanced out the carriage window. The recent revelations about her past life were still very fresh in his mind, but they had yet to delve into them in any detail, or what the future might hold for her. With her emotions already in a tangle, this didn’t seem the right moment to begin.
“We’re getting close to your neighborhood,” he observed. “I assume you’ll want to slip out when we turn down one of the side streets.”
She gave a curt nod.
The wheels clattered over the cobblestones, the rough-edged sounds giving voice to the war of emotions playing across her face.
As the carriage drew to a halt, Charlotte slid across the seat and took hold of the door latch.
Her hand, so sure and steady when holding her satirical pen, betrayed a tiny tremor.
“Have you plans for the evening?” she asked abruptly.
“I had thought to begin making inquiries into Westmorly and his activities,” answered the earl.
“Might you consider delaying that until tomorrow? I would like to reveal my secret to the boys and our friends tonight. Now that I’ve made up my mind, there seems little reason to wait.”
“Of course.”
“The usual hour, and the usual means of entrance,” she murmured. “Now more than ever, I have a reputation to protect.” Raven and Hawk had constructed a hidden entrance into her small back garden from the back alleyway, which allowed clandestine comings and goings to proceed under the cloak of darkness.
“I’ll alert Sheffield to be there,” said Wrexford.
“And I shall send the boys this morning with a note for Henning.” Charlotte clicked the door open. And yet, her fingers kept hold of the latch. “I’m terrified, Wrexford.”
“Understandably so,” replied the earl.
She gave a wry grimace. “Oh, fie. You’re supposed to snarl one of your usual sarcastic comments, so I can feel angry rather than cowardly.”
“You’re the bravest person I know.” Wrexford paused. “So, bloody hell, stop your self-indulgent sniveling . . .” He flicked out his foot and booted the door open. “And go do what’s needed to be done.”
Charlotte drew in a harsh breath.
“I always hated Hamlet,” he added. “All that blathering and whinging.”
The door slammed in his face, but not before her laugh slipped through the crack.