Page 106 of Murder on Black Swan Lane
“That’s not good enough! She must do better,” began the earl, but the faint jiggling of the door latch caused them all to fall silent.
A hand signal from Wrexford sent his two friends to flank the inner doorway. Grabbing his pistol from his coat pocket, he moved swiftly into the entrance foyer.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlotte flinch at theclickof the hammer cocking. It was followed a moment later by a faint scrape of metal as he eased the bolt open.
Every muscle tensed, Wrexford waited for a moment, ear pressed to the blackened oak.
More scrabbling at the outside latch, iron rasping against iron.
Wrenching the door open, he pivoted, aiming in that instant of surprise to strike the intruder with the butt of his weapon.
“Hell’s teeth,” swore Wrexford, dropping to his knees just in time to catch Raven as he stumbled over the threshold.
CHAPTER 24
The boy’s clothes were torn, his face bloodied.
“I tried . . . I tried . . .”
Repressing a cry, Charlotte dropped down beside Wrexford and tried to push him aside so she could reach for Raven.
Evading her grasp, he rose and carried the boy into the main room.
With a brusque swipe, Henning cleared a section of the table, scattering papers and several plates, which shattered on the floor. Sheffield hurriedly stripped off his coat and cushioned the rough planking.
“I . . . I . . .” Raven tried to speak but he appeared dizzy, disoriented.
“Hush, lad,” said the surgeon, taking charge as Wrexford gently lay the boy down on the makeshift blanket. “Just lie still.”
Charlotte had lingered at the open door to look up and down the street. She turned, her face rigid with dread. Wrexford could guess why.
“H-How badly is he injured?” she whispered.
Henning didn’t answer right away. His callused hands worked with surprising gentleness as he removed Raven’s jacket and shirt, then carefully examined his head and neck.
The boy’s pale, scrawny body looked so small and vulnerable against the dark wool. And what of his younger brother? Wrexford felt his jaw clench.
“Hmmph.” Henning leaned down to listen to the boy’s chest, then made a quick check of his limbs. “Aside from a nasty lump on the back of his head, the lad seems to have suffered no real injury. He’s woozy, but he’ll sleep it off.”
Charlotte expelled a sigh of relief, but a look of agony remained etched on her face. “I’ll take him upstairs and put him to bed.”
“Let me help.” As Wrexford picked up the boy’s jacket from the floor, a folded piece of paper fell out. It was addressed to A. J. Quill in an elegant copperplate script. For an instant he was tempted to conceal it. But no—he knew she deserved better and wordlessly handed it over.
Her fingers were cold as ice.
She hesitated. He could almost feel the air shiver as fear tried to break her will.
Paper crackled. The wax wafer snapped.
The dastard, he noted, had chosen a blood-red color.
Charlotte read over its contents and looked up. “He has Hawk,” she announced in a toneless voice. “He’ll release him if I inform the Runner that Lord Wrexford has been bribing me to withhold evidence that proves he’s the murderer.”
As she paused to brush an errant curl of hair from her cheek, the earl took the note from her. “Our adversary gives Quill until nightfall to decide whether the boy lives or dies,” he said. “And goes on to provide the location of the weapon he used to murder Drummond.”
“Clever,” conceded Henning. “Who better to convince Griffin that you’re guilty than the artist who’s known to have eyes and ears in every corner of London.”
“Mrs. Sloane,” began Wrexford.
