CHAPTER 30
The silence was terrifying.
Wrexford pressed his ear to the closed door, praying to any god who would listen for a hint of Charlotte’s voice. A whisper, a sigh—anything. His throat was suddenly so tight, he could barely breathe. He couldn’t imagine his world without her.
Swallowing his fear, the earl cocked his pistol and eased the latch open.
The lamp flames—two white-hot spots of gold, unwavering within their glass globes—blazed with a blinding intensity. It took an instant for his eyes to adjust. Then his gaze was drawn down to the pooling light on the floor.
Crumpled silk . . . a slender ankle . . .
His heart stopped dead. And yet, somehow, he managed another step. And then another.
Relief slammed into his chest, releasing his pent-up breath in a rush of air. Mahogany-colored hair—not Charlotte’s. As he crouched down, the acrid scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. He looked away from the ugly burn on Julianna’s hand to the porcelain perfection of her face, looking so peaceful in death’s repose.
A beauty that was only skin deep.
After taking a moment to close her eyelids over her sightless orbs, Wrexford rose, hoping against hope . . .
“Charlotte?”
No answer.
His boots crunched over broken glass. “Charlotte?”
Through the tangle of light and shadows, he spotted a flutter of movement. Charlotte was seated amidst the shadowed wreckage, head bowed, arms crossed and clenched tightly around her chest, as if holding herself together.
She didn’t look up at his approach.
He slowly leaned down and touched his fingertips to her cheek. Her skin felt cold as ice.
“I’m here, sweeting. Come back to me.”
A whisper of air—the first stirring of life. Wrexford dared to take it as a good sign. He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. Beneath his palms, he felt a shiver spasm through her body.
After brushing a kiss to her brow, he lifted her up and drew her close.
Thump-thump. The erratic thud of her pulse shuddered through the layers of wool and linen as their bodies fitted together.
“Charlotte.”
At last, a reaction. The earl felt her hands slide up the slope of his shoulders and clasp at the back of his neck.
Thump-thump. They stood together, still and silent, as her heartbeat slowly steadied.
“Oh, Wrexford,” whispered Charlotte, her fingers twining in his hair. “Thank you . . . Thank you for being . . . for being you.” Her breath fluttered against his cheek. “A beacon of light in the unbearable darkness.”
“When you’re not facing them alone, things are never quite as black as they seem,” he murmured.
Charlotte looked up, her lips quivering in a ghost of a smile before she made herself look at Julianna’s lifeless body. “I cannot regret that she’s dead.” A swallow caught for an instant in her throat. “But no matter that a venomous evil was coursing through her veins, I didn’t mean to . . .” She shuddered. “Lady Julianna came at me with a scalpel. I grabbed up the rod attached to the trough battery to warn her off. But she slashed out at me and hit . . .” It took a moment for her to go on. “You were a soldier. D-Did you ever kill—”
“More than once,” he replied. “It’s a profoundly wrenching experience, even when the act is done to save innocent lives. I thank God that it never became easier. But I also felt no guilt in doing what had to be done to defend right from wrong.”
The color was returning to her cheeks. He hugged her closer, aware of how all his own sharp edges seemed to soften against her. “Come, let us sit.” Wrexford perched himself on the fallen cart and settled her on his lap. Be it an hour or an eternity, he would keep her in his arms for however long she needed for the shock to subside.
* * *
Charlotte buried her cheek in the rumpled linen of his shirt, reveling in the warmth and the earthy scent of bay rum and male musk.
Wrexford. Somehow, all the little details—his shape, his textures, the rhythm of his breath going in and out of his lungs—had become so intimately familiar. It was almost as if he had become part of her being.
The thought was comforting beyond words.
Closing her eyes, she let herself drift away . . .
She wasn’t sure how long she was lost in such reveries, but the sound of footsteps suddenly wrenched her back to the present.
“Wrex?” It was Sheffield’s voice, she realized.
“Is . . . Is she hurt?”
“Just a little shaken,” replied the earl.
“Thank God,” uttered Sheffield. He came closer and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “You gave us all quite a fright, Lady Charlotte.”
She looked up. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to.” A wry grimace tugged at her lips. “‘The best laid plans schemes of mice and men’ . . . Speaking of which, how did you know where I was?”
“A Weasel,” answered Wrexford. “Luckily for us, they are far cleverer creatures than mice.”
“Hawk—”
“He sensed you were straying into danger,” interjected the earl, “and followed you here. When he saw a light appear in the upper windows of the villa just after you entered the conservatory, he thought it best to come inform me.”
“Apparently, he and his brother fought tooth and claw to come along with Griffin and his men,” added Sheffield. “But Tyler convinced them that it might endanger your secret.”
“Griffin is here?” she asked.
“He and his men just arrived and are dealing with DeVere,” answered Sheffield. To the earl, he added, “In the commotion, I was able to spirit Lady Cordelia out of the villa. She insisted she was perfectly capable of finding a hackney, garbed as she was in men’s clothing.” He drew a breath. “And we both agreed you might need me.”
“What was Lady Cordelia doing here—” began Charlotte, and then fell silent on hearing the clatter of hobnailed boots on the stone stairs.
A long shadow fell across the room.
“Hmmph!”
Charlotte winced as heavy steps scraped across the tiles.
“More dead bodies, milord?” drawled Griffin. “I’ve discovered Sir Kelvin Hollister’s corpse in the conservatory. And now this.”
“Be grateful for the courage of Lady Julianna’s kidnap victim, else there would have been more.”
“Indeed.” The Runner turned from his examination of Lady Julianna and fixed Charlotte with a gimlet gaze. “Might someone explain to me what the devil is going on here?”
“It’s a long story and will have to wait until tomorrow,” shot back Wrexford. “Lady Charlotte is in a state of shock. I need to escort her home as soon as possible.”
“It was Lady Julianna who stabbed Sir Kelvin,” offered Charlotte, feeling the Runner deserved the skeletal facts. “They were behind the Bloody Butcher murders, but apparently they had a falling-out when Sir Kelvin lost his nerve about killing Lord Chittenden. She performed the grisly deed on her own, and then she murdered Westmorly when he tried to blackmail them over some incriminating evidence that he had overheard from Sir Kelvin. He, too, had to die because she feared he was about to crack under interrogation and ruin their momentous plan.”
“What plan?” demanded the Runner.
“You’ll have all the gory details in the morning,” interrupted the earl. Before the Runner could form another question, he added, “Trust me, Griffin. I shall make you look good to your superiors.”
The Runner considered the request. “Very well.” Another glance at Charlotte. “I’ll agree to wait—but only if you promise to meet me for breakfast at the Hanged Man before the magistrate makes his appearance at Bow Street.”
“And buy you enough shirred eggs, fried beefsteak, and broiled kidneys to sicken an ox,” muttered the earl.
Griffin’s mouth quirked at the corners. “But of course. A man in my position can’t live on patience alone.”
“I—and my purse—will be there,” said the earl as he helped Charlotte to her feet.
She didn’t need to pretend her legs were wobbly as aspic.
“Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .”
The Runner stepped aside to allow them to leave.
“This case gets more curious by the minute,” he growled to Sheffield, once they were alone. “Who is Lady Charlotte? And how is she involved in all this?”
“It’s a mystery to me,” answered Sheffield with a straight face. “I believe she’s a relative of Lady Peake and the late Lord Chittenden, but I really can’t say any more than that.”
“Hmmph.” Griffin stared into the murky stairwell. “You’ve no idea why she’s wearing men’s boots?”
“Was she?” Sheffield assumed a look of surprise. “I’m sure Wrexford will have an explanation.”
The Runner’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you also didn’t notice that she’s the same height and build as Phoenix, that elusive imp who seems to know about every bloody crime in Town before it’s happened.”
Sheffield rolled his eyes. “Are you suggesting an aristocratic lady dresses as an urchin and possesses the eyes and ears to learn all the hidden secrets of London?” He made a face. “Ha, ha, ha—why, that’s absurd.”
Griffin let out a low belch. “Yes, isn’t it?”
“Come, aren’t we wasting time with wild speculations?” murmured the earl’s friend. “Shouldn’t we be hauling DeVere’s worthless carcass to Newgate? He knew his ward was guilty of murder.”
The mention of DeVere diverted the Runner’s attention from Charlotte. “Unless His Lordship has proof of DeVere’s involvement in the murders, he will likely escape any prosecution.”
“But he knew,” protested Sheffield. “He told us as much.”
Griffin’s expression hardened. “That may be. However, to me, he claims he had no idea that his ward was engaged in anything but serious scientific research.”
“The man’s lying through his teeth.”
“I don’t doubt it. But without evidence to the contrary, there’s nothing we can do.”
“But that’s bloody unfair,” exclaimed Sheffield. “Four people are dead because of his spineless silence. And a fifth was perilously close to shuffling off her mortal coil.”
“Aye, but much of life isn’t fair, Mr. Sheffield,” pointed out the Runner. He looked around and blew out his breath. “You and His Lordship, along with your various shadowy friends, have achieved no small measure of justice—Locke will be exonerated, the murderers have met with a suitable punishment for their crimes.” He paused. “It may seem imperfect, but sometimes, despite our best efforts, we must be satisfied with that.”
* * *
For a moment, Charlotte felt herself drifting away again. The hackney—Wrexford had somehow found a conveyance, though she couldn’t remember how—was jolting over the cobbles and the darkness seemed alive, tugging at her consciousness with mist-chilled fingers . . .
The earl shifted and his shoulder pressed up against hers, the solid warmth of him bringing her back from the void.
Still, the oddest thoughts seemed to be spinning like whirling dervishes inside her head. “Tell me, Wrexford,” she murmured. “Do you think it’s possible to bring the dead back to life?”
He took his time in replying. “Science is all about seeking rational answers to the mysteries of Life. That does not mean they exist.”
A very Wrexford-like answer, coolly dispassionate, brilliantly analytical.
But then, he surprised her by going on. “And perhaps that’s for the best. Uncertainty challenges us. It keeps us from becoming too complacent.” He drew in a breath. “If we knew we would live forever, I can’t help but wonder whether it would rob us of our essential humanity. That our existence is finite allows us to feel emotions—joy and sorrow, loss and redemption. . .” His breath seemed to catch in his throat. “And, most important, love.”
Charlotte leaned into him. It was strange, she mused, how his hard muscles and chiseled contours had come to feel so comfortable. A steadying presence, when her own equilibrium turned a little shaky.
“But love doesn’t fit into a clockwork universe that runs with unerring precision,” she pointed out. “It wreaks havoc with order and logic.”
A chuffed laugh. “I suppose I’m learning from you that the unexpected or unpredictable adds a certain dash of color to the dull metallic turning of gears and levers.”
“Now you are sounding like an artist, not a man of science.”
“We’ve talked about this before—perhaps the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Charlotte curled closer to him, and slid her hand down to find his. Their fingers curled together.
“I hope not, because love . . .” She drew in a breath. “Love transcends all philosophical abstractions about Existence. This terrible ordeal has reminded me that Life—no matter the jumble of good and bad, of hope and fear—is so very precious.”
“Indeed. Perhaps because life and love are inextricably intertwined.” Starlight winked through the tiny window, tangling with the shadows. “You took on dauntingly difficult challenges because of love.” A pause. “All of those who care about you did as well—the Weasels, Lady Peake, Sheffield, Henning, McClellan, Tyler . . .”
“And you?”
He tightened his hold, sending a rush of welcome warmth pulsing against her palm. “And me,” he agreed. “Most definitely me.”
“Are you saying—”
Wrexford silenced her with a gossamer touch of his lips. “There’s time enough for talk later, when your emotions are on a more even keel,” he murmured. “For now, let’s simply celebrate that we’re alive at this very moment, with the past behind us and the future lying ahead . . .” A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “Filled with all manner of surprises to bewitch and bedevil us.”