Murder at King’s Crossing

Book 8: Wrexford & Sloane Mystery

by Andrea Penrose

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

For fans of Miss Scarlet and the Duke and Bridgerton—a masterfully plotted mystery that combines engaging protagonists with rich historical detail and “an unusually rich look at Regency life,” (Publishers Weekly), plus a touch of romance that readers of Amanda Quick and Deanna Raybourn will savor.

Celebration is in the air at Wrexford and Charlotte’s country estate as they host the nuptials of their friends, Christopher Sheffield and Lady Cordelia Mansfield. But on the afternoon of the wedding, the festivities are interrupted when the local authorities arrive with news that a murdered man has been discovered at the bridge over King’s Crossing, his only identification an invitation to the wedding. Lady Cordelia is horrified when the victim is identified as Jasper Milton, her childhood friend and a brilliant engineer who is rumored to have discovered a revolutionary technological innovation in bridge design. That he had the invitation meant for her cousin Oliver, who never showed up for the wedding, stirs a number of unsettling questions.

Both men were involved in the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society, a scientific group dedicated to making radical improvements in the speed and cost of transportation throughout Britain. Is someone plotting to steal Milton’s designs? And why has her cousin disappeared?

Wrexford and Charlotte were looking forward to spending a peaceful interlude in the country, but when Lady Cordelia resolves to solve the mystery, they offer their help, along with that of the Weasels and their unconventional inner circle of friends. The investigation turns tangled and soon all of them are caught up in a treacherous web of greed, ambition, and dangerous secrets. And when the trail takes a shocking turn, Wrexford and Charlotte must decide what risks they are willing to take with their family to bring the villains to justice . . .

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“Disaster has struck!”

Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford, looked up from the half dozen checklists spread over the parlor table. “If that is a jest, it isn’t remotely amusing.”

“Would I jest over something as momentous as the impending nuptials of our dear friends?” replied her great-aunt Alison, dowager Countess of Peake. “Ye heavens, it has taken Kit and Cordelia long enough to admit that they are perfect together.”

It was true, conceded Charlotte with a wry sigh. Her husband’s best friend, Christopher Sheffield, had dithered and dithered, thinking that the brilliant Lady Cordelia Mansfield would have no interest in leg-shackling herself to a rakehell fribble. However, Cordelia had been smart enough to see Kit’s true colors—

Alison thumped her cane on the parquet floor, drawing Charlotte’s thoughts back to the present moment. “And so, I’m not about to let any last-minute tempest in a teapot bollox the wedding.”

“Tempest in a teapot?” repeated Charlotte, her eyes widening in alarm. “Good Lord, has something gone awry with plans for tonight’s welcoming supper in honor of Cordelia’s family?”

“No, no, McClellan has the kitchen running like a well-oiled machine. It’s the flowers for the ceremony!” replied the dowager.

“But the Weasels are in charge of the flowers, and Hawk is so very clever at designing the perfect combinations of colors and texture . . .”

Hawk and his older brother, Raven, had been wild orphan urchins living in London’s toughest slum until Charlotte had taken them under her wing several years ago, even though she had barely been making ends meet at the time. They in turn, had deemed themselves her protectors, and had been dubbed “the Weasels” by the Earl of Wrexford for assaulting him during his first fraught encounter with Charlotte because they thought he was threatening her. The initial clash of wills had turned to a wary friendship between the four of them, and then...

A smile touched her lips. Funny what strange twists Life could take. She was now married to Wrexford, and the boys had long since been forgiven. Indeed, through some clever sleight of hand by her husband, the boys now had fancy papers giving them a respectable pedigree and had become the earl’s legal wards, though their unofficial moniker had stuck, much to everyone’s amusement—

Thump-thump.

“Charlotte! Do stop woolgathering!”

“My apologies.” She was usually practical and pragmatic, but the upcoming nuptials had stirred all sorts of sentimental thoughts about family and friends—and how over the last few years the lines between the two had become blurred beyond recognition. “I was just musing on how Love is an even more elemental bond than ties of blood.”

Alison’s gimlet gaze gave way to a softer twinkle. “True. How else to explain what binds together our exceedingly eccentric group?”

Their eyes met for a moment . . .

And then the dowager cleared her throat with a brusque cough. “Be that as it may, let us return to the subject of flowers. Because despite Hawk’s best efforts, the plans for the wedding flowers have gone to Hell in a handbasket!”

“We are very good at improvising,” soothed Charlotte. “But first, what is the problem? After all, we have a large hothouse here on the estate, and I know the head gardener has it filled with all manner of lovely blooms.”

“Yes, but Hawk had designed a lovely bridal bouquet for Cordelia featuring hydrangea,” explained Alison.

Charlotte was knowledgeable about a great many subjects, but botany was not one of them.

On getting naught but a blank look, the dowager rolled her eyes. “It’s a blooming shrub, and a certain mophead variety produces exquisite blue flowers which are a perfect match with the silk sash of Cordelia’s wedding dress.”

“It sounds lovely,” murmured Charlotte. “But I take it that something is amiss?”

“The wind and rain of last night’s dratted storm knocked off every last petal from the hydrangea shrubs,” intoned Alison. “Blue flowers aren’t easy to come by.” A pause. “Unless we organize a raiding party to break into the Duke of Devonshire’s conservatory at Chatsworth. Word is, there is a whole section devoted to the color blue.”

Charlotte didn’t like the martial gleam in the dowager’s eye. “The duke has no sense of humor—and larceny is not a trifling crime. Would you and the Weasels rather spend the wedding day in a cell in Newgate Prison instead of Wrexford Chapel?”

A sniff.

“I thought not,” she said dryly. “And so, I suggest that we improvise.” The corners of her mouth twitched in humor. “Perhaps I could use my paintbrushes to tint a selection of white roses the exact shade of blue to match Cordelia’s sash.”

Charlotte was a highly accomplished artist, though her skills were usually put to use poking fun at the peccadilloes of Polite Society, as well as making sure that the leading politicians and those who possessed wealth and influence did not abuse their power. Working under the nom de plume A. J. Quill, she was London’s most infamous—and popular—satirical gadfly.

“Oiy, oiy!” Hawk rushed into the parlor, followed closely by Cordelia and McClellan, whose official title as lady’s maid to Charlotte did not begin to describe the full measure of her position within the family. Trusted confidante, occasional sleuth, firm-handed taskmaster of the Weasels, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—McClellan was, in a word, the glue that helped bind their household together.

“No need for worry, Aunt Alison,” added Hawk, once he had caught his breath. “As m’lady often says, we are very good at improvising!”

Charlotte felt another sweet stirring of nostalgia. The boys had taken to calling her “m’lady” during the first days of their acquaintance, and though the relationship had undergone a number of profound changes since then, they all felt comfortable with it.

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” drawled the dowager.

“Lilacs!” He looked expectantly at the maid. “It was Mac who came up with a very clever idea.”

“Watered silk,” explained McClellan. “I recalled seeing a length of lovely lilac-colored watered silk in the sewing room. As you know, the sheen is slightly iridescent and in sunlight its shimmer turns into a beguiling mix of lilac and steely blue.”

“It was Mr. Sheffield who asked me to include blue hydrangea in the bridal bouquet,” offered Hawk, “because their petals would bring out the blue of Lady Cordelia’s eyes.”

Alison batted her lashes, setting off flashes of sapphire. “Men find blue eyes very alluring.”

“So we had Lucy, who is the best seamstress of the house maids, replace the sash on my wedding dress,” interjected Cordelia, “and just tested the effect with a bouquet of lilacs and white dahlias, and—”

“And Sheffield will swoon on the spot when you walk down the aisle,” finished McClellan.

“Let us hope not!” said Alison with a mock shudder. “At least, not before the vows are said.”

“If he’s having second thoughts,” replied Cordelia lightly, “I do hope he’ll choose a less dramatic way to evade the parson’s mousetrap than keeling over in the chapel.”

“Oh, you know me, I seem to have a knack for making a mull of the best-laid plans.” Sheffield appeared in the doorway, his wind-tangled hair damp from the morning’s recent rain squall.

Cordelia’s eyes took on a sapphire-bright light as she looked at her fiancé. “Yes, but I rather like your mulls.” A pause. “They make life infinitely more . . . interesting.”

“Interesting?” repeated Sheffield as the two of them exchanged a very intimate smile.

Charlotte repressed a laugh. “Speaking of making a mull, how bad was the damage to the road leading into town?” Wrexford and Sheffield had ridden out after breakfast to survey the damage done by the fierce winds and heavy downpours of the previous evening.

“Several large trees fell, blocking all access,” answered Wrexford, who finished toweling his hair dry as he joined Sheffield in the doorway. “But we set a group of the tenant farmers to clearing the way, so the wedding guests coming from Cambridge tomorrow will have no difficulty getting here.”

“It was a truly hellish night,” added Sheffield, his expression turning serious. “The locals have heard that there is extensive damage throughout the area.”

“Perhaps that explains—” began Cordelia.

“The two of you look chilled to the bone,” observed McClellan before Cordelia could go on. “I’ll go fetch some tea—as well as some good Scottish whisky.” She ruffled a hand through Hawk’s hair. “Why don’t you take the silk sample back to the sewing room and go find your brother.” A wink. “There may be a platter of ginger biscuits waiting for you two Weasels when you join us.”

“Whisky would be very welcome, Mac,” said Wrexford as the boy scampered off. “Come, let us decamp to the comfort of the drawing room and its blazing fire.”

“I would make a jesting remark about today being the calm before the storm,” said the earl after pouring a wee dram of malt for himself and Sheffield. “But there is nothing humorous about the destruction that Nature can unleash when it’s in a foul temper.”

“Indeed,” agreed Sheffield. “But we mere mortals could do a much better job about being prepared for it. The state of our roads and bridges is shameful, and that’s because our thinking about transportation is, for the most part, still mired in the Dark Ages.”

“Don’t get Kit started,” counseled Cordelia. “Our shipping company is doing quite well, but as we’ve recently learned, it will be a while before technical innovations in steam power replace sails. And as he’s impatient to be involved in Progress, he has turned his gaze from water to land.”

“Yes, well, we have so much potential for economic growth right here on this speck of an island, if only we put our minds to improving transportation through hill and dale,” responded Sheffield. “Think about it! Opening up the northern reaches of England and all of Scotland to commerce would be a boon to the country.”

Wrexford thought for a moment about the challenges, which were more daunting than they might seem at first. “I imagine you are thinking of steam-powered locomotives, which travel at great speed and smoothness over roads made of rails.” Sheffield had been an early investor in Puffing Billy, the prototype locomotive designed by their mutual friend William Hedley.

“However,” added the earl, “our island’s geology—the mountain ridges running up the spine of England, the steep gorges, the many rivers and isolated valleys tucked among the rocky hills—all present a very difficult engineering challenge for creating a network of roads, rails, and bridges to link our towns and cities together.”

“The fact that it’s difficult should be motivating our brightest scientific minds and forward-thinking politicians to solve the challenges,” countered Sheffield.

“From what I hear, that fellow from Scotland, John McAdam, is doing some good work around Bristol in his position as commissioner of paving,” pointed out Charlotte. “I did a series of drawings on his innovations a while back—”

“McAdam’s efforts are hamstrung by a lack of funds,” interrupted Sheffield. “Now that the wars in Europe are over, we should be investing government funds in—”

A sharp rap of the dowager’s cane signaled for silence.

“Enough hot air about business and technology,” ordered Alison as McClellan carried in a large tray of refreshments. “We are gathered here at Wrexford Manor to eat, drink, and be merry in celebration of a joyous occasion. Solving the ills of the country can wait for a few days.”

“Oiy!” called Raven from the corridor. “At least none of us have stumbled over a dead body.”

Wrexford repressed a shiver as a quicksilver chill slid down his spine. Logic and empirical evidence were the backbone of his beliefs. Superstitions were based in ignorance and fear.

And yet . . .

“Don’t spit in the Grim Reaper’s eye, lad,” he muttered, tempted to sprinkle a libation to Eris, the goddess of chaos, on the expensive Axminster carpet. “And don’t let Harper eat all the ginger biscuits.”

The huge, iron-grey hound, who had already loped across the room and taken up a position by the tea table, turned his shaggy head and fixed the earl with a baleful look.

“One would think you were fed naught but bread and water,” growled Wrexford.

“Sweets are not good for you, Harper,” explained Hawk. Seeing Sheffield turn to exchange a private word with Cordelia, he quickly filched a slice of ham from the soon-to-be-bridegroom’s plate. “Here, have some gammon.”

Once the laughter died down, the talk quickly turned to lighter topics. Cordelia told a number of amusing anecdotes about past gatherings of her family, which prompted more chuckles, and Sheffield recounted a number of self-deprecating stories about his clashes with his imperious father.

“I think he’s still rather shocked that someone as smart as Cordelia actually agreed to marry me.”

“So am I,” quipped Wrexford.

As the dowager began a long and slightly naughty story about her own wedding, the earl took another sip of his whisky, savoring the mellow warmth of the spirits and flickering fire. A quiet interlude in the country was a welcome respite. The recent murder of an old family friend had forced him to confront his own fraught relationship with his late father. And though the crime had been solved and justice meted out, allowing a number of lingering wounds to heal, Wrexford was intent on making final peace with his conflicted emotions.

Better late than never, he thought with a pang of regret. Perhaps the fact that he was now the official guardian to a pair of headstrong boys had made him far more understanding of the complexities of father-and-son relationships . . .

The chiming of the case clock on the mantel brought a sudden halt to the merriment around him.

“Good heavens!” said McClellan, shooting up from her chair. “Cordelia’s brother will be arriving shortly with her aunt and cousins! You must all hurry and dress for our gala pre-wedding supper.”

“What a lovely evening.” Charlotte entered the study chamber off the main room of the library and settled into one of the leather armchairs by the hearth. It was late, and while the others had all retired to their quarters in the guest wing of the manor house, Wrexford had chosen to stay up a little longer in order to continue sorting through some crates of books that had recently arrived from one of his minor estates in the north.

“Cordelia seemed pleased with the evening’s festivities,” said the earl absently. He turned the page of the book he was perusing without looking up.

“Relieved is perhaps a better word,” replied Charlotte. “Apparently her aunt can be prickly, but with both her parents gone, she wished very much to have her mother’s sister attend the wedding.”

He closed the book and picked up another from the worktable at which he was sitting. “Families are complicated.”

An understatement if ever there was one. Charlotte reflected for a moment on her own tumultuous relationship with her parents. The terrible rift in her family had been repaired now that her kindhearted brother was the pater familias. But Wrexford was still struggling with recent revelations about his younger brother’s death in the Peninsular War, which had forced him to question certain assumptions about his own relationship with his father.

The books her husband was perusing had come from the late earl’s personal library, as he had chosen to live at the small family estate in the north rather than Wrexford Manor after his two sons had left home to pursue their own lives.

“Anything interesting?” she asked lightly.

Wrexford hesitated, his gaze on the printed page. “I hadn’t realized that my father read poetry—much less made annotations in the margins about his reactions to the sentiments.”

“Wrex—” she began, only to be distracted by the click-click of canine claws on the oak flooring.

Harper appeared a moment later in the doorway. Nose to the ground, the big hound ignored both her and the earl as he crossed the room and paused in front of the French doors leading out to the back terrace.

“If you need to piddle, you could have woken the Weasels,” said Wrexford, as he rose to undo the latch.

“He did wake us,” announced Raven as he and his brother padded in from the main room. “But not for a call of nature. He seems . . . unsettled.”

“Perhaps he ate too much this evening,” drawled Wrexford, “and his stomach is feeling bilious—”

A sudden growl cut him off.

“I don’t think it’s his stomach,” said Hawk. “Oiy, Harper! What’s wrong?”

In answer, the hound pricked up his ears. Another growl. Hackles rising, Harper turned abruptly and left the room.

Charlotte followed the others as they hurried to catch up with the hound. Wrexford, she saw, had grabbed Harper by the collar to keep him from bolting into the corridor that led from the back of the manor house to the guest wing.

“Hold your water, laddie. Let’s not wake the entire house,” murmured the earl, ruffling a calming caress to the hound’s shaggy head. After a look up and down the unlit passageway, where there wasn’t a flutter of movement among the slumbering shadows, he shrugged. “I daresay he’s not yet reacquainted with all the creaks and noises of the manor.”

A rumble rose in Harper’s throat.

Hawk crouched down beside him. “Shall I fetch you a nice, meaty bone from the kitchen to gnaw—”

“Sshhh!” Raven edged halfway out the doorway and cocked an ear. “What was that?”

Charlotte had heard it, too. A faint scuffing sound coming from the first-floor landing of the West Wing staircase. Repressing a smile, she touched Wrexford’s arm. “It’s likely Kit paying a visit to Cordelia’s room,” she whispered. “Let us not embarrass—”

But in the same instant a shrill shout—it was Cordelia—shattered that surmise.

“Intruder! There’s an intruder in the house!”

Wrexford reacted in a flash. “Stay in the library and shut the door!”

Charlotte nearly tripped as he thrust the agitated hound at her and pushed the boys back through the doorway.

“And don’t let the Weasels and Harper follow me,” he added.

She nodded and managed to retreat just enough for him to slam the door shut.

In protest, Harper began barking, the throaty rumbling punctuated by indignant protests from the Weasels.

“Quiet!” she commanded.

The cacophony ceased.

“You’re right,” said Raven. “We need to make a plan.”

“We have one,” replied Charlotte. “You heard Wrex. He told us to remain here and stay out of trouble.” Though in all honesty, she was no happier about the order than they were.

“But he needs our help to ensure that the intruder doesn’t escape!” countered Raven. “There are any number of ways for the varlet to slip out of the house.”

That was true . . .

Charlotte drew in a measured breath and glanced back at the closed door, weighing her options.

A furtive scuff and click.

She spun around—just in time to see the tip of Harper’s tail disappear into the reading area.

“Wait!”

Too late. She heard the French doors open, and by the time she stepped out to the back terrace, the Weasels and the hound had disappeared into the midnight shadows.

“Drat,” muttered Charlotte, after stepping back inside and closing the doors. She hesitated for a long moment, then picked up the wrought-iron poker leaning against the hearth and hurried for the corridor.

Wrexford skidded through a sharp turn and sprinted down the darkened corridor leading to the West Wing, mentally gauging his chances of catching the intruder as he came down the main stairs.

The odds were good, decided the earl, thanks to Raven’s batlike hearing. Unless the intruder was unnaturally fleet of foot, the fellow was likely in for a rude surprise. No doubt he had expected everyone to be sound asleep, their slumber deepened by copious amounts of celebratory champagne.

However, the thud of racing steps descending the stairs urged Wrexford to quicken his pace.

Damnation, the fellow is faster than I thought.

He rounded the corner just as a dark-clad figure leapt over the two remaining treads and hit the floor running. With a well-timed swerve, the intruder narrowly avoided a potted palm and then headed for the back entrance by the mud room for riding boots and oilskins.

Intent on catching the fellow before he escaped from the house, Wrexford accelerated—only to collide with Cordelia as she came flying down the stairs. Her flapping wrapper tangled around his foot, causing him to stumble.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, grabbing his arm and somehow keeping both of them upright.

The earl regained his balance, just as the sound of more footsteps echoed in the corridor. He pulled free from Cordelia’s hold and spun around, shielding her with his body.

“Lower that damn poker,” he said to Charlotte. “The intruder has fled, and the house is safe.”

“What—” began Charlotte.

“Keep our guests calm if any of them have been awoken by the ruckus.” Wrexford was already moving. “I’m going after him.”

Given the fellow’s speed, he doubted there was any chance of catching up to him after the unfortunate delay. However, he was not yet ready to give up the chase.

The back door by the mud room was swinging in the breeze. The earl barreled through the opening and jumped from the raised terrace down to the sloping lawns. Catching sight of his quarry in the moonlight, he threaded his way through a narrow orchard of apple trees and scrambled over a low stone wall.

The intruder was halfway across the back pasture and heading for a swath of woodland.

Wrexford set off in pursuit, only to catch a glimpse of a four-footed shadow running through the meadow grass, followed by two wraithlike figures, pale as ghosts in their white nightshirts.

“Raven! Hawk! Stop at once!” he bellowed, hoping his words weren’t blown away in the wind.

The Weasels showed no sign of slowing. The intruder, however, came to halt just as he reached the trees and turned around. Spotting the boys, he fumbled with something in his pocket and then raised his arm.

A wordless cry tore from Wrexford’s throat as the Weasels, suddenly alert to the danger, dove for cover.

He saw a flash and a puff of silvery smoke, which was gone in the blink of an eye. An instant later, the crack of the gunshot swirled through the night, dulled to naught but a whisper by the fitful breeze.

Heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib, the earl abandoned the chase and ran as fast as he could to where he had seen the boys fall.

“Ouch.” Raven was on his knees, rubbing at his wrist. “There are nettles down here.”

“Oiy. And prickers.” answered his brother, gingerly plucking a thorn from his thumb.

Wrexford crouched down beside them. No sign of blood. Which drew a sigh of relief. “Hell’s bells, I ought to birch your bottoms for disobeying my orders.”

” We didn’t disobey, Wrex,” replied Raven. “It was m’lady you told to stay in the library.” A pause. “Nor did we follow you.”

“And besides, you don’t believe in corporal punishment,” pointed out Hawk.

“In this particular case I might make an exception.” He scowled . . . and then pulled them both into a fierce hug. “Don’t ever do that again. You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry.” Both boys apologized at once.

Harper, who was standing guard beside the earl, let out a low whuffle and butted his head against the earl’s arm.

“Harper is sorry, too,” said Hawk softly.

Wrexford helped the boys up. “You could have been killed.”

“Naw, he wasn’t aiming at us,” responded Raven. “I saw his arm rise at the last instant and heard the bullet whistle high overhead.”

“You were lucky,” replied the earl. “But we all know from our previous brushes with trouble that Lady Luck can be awfully fickle.”

Seeing Hawk wince from a thorn in his bare foot, he lifted the boy into his arms. “Come along, the three of you need to get some sleep.” A glance at the hound, whose paws were now black with mud. “You’ll need to rise early in order to bath Harper and comb every last bramble out of his fur before the wedding ceremony.”

The tall grasses shivered in a gust of wind.

“Or Aunt Alison will cut off your supply of ginger biscuits for the foreseeable future.”

“Thank heaven,” muttered Charlotte as Wrexford and the runaways emerged from the night’s gloom and trooped up the terrace stairs.

“Indeed,” he replied, as she and Cordelia stepped aside from the open door to let them enter the library.

“Was that a gunshot I heard?” she pressed.

“We dodged a bullet,” admitted the earl. “But I’m fairly certain it was only meant as a warning.”

“That’s not amusing,” replied Charlotte.

Raven and Hawk avoided meeting her gimlet gaze.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Wrexford.

A single chime from the mantel clock—sounding loud as gunfire in the fraught silence—announced that the midnight hour had passed and a new dawn was not far off.

“Good Lord, the wedding day is here!” Cordelia forced a smile, trying to lighten the tense mood. “Let us hope that it will bring no more surprises.”

Charlotte released a pent-up breath, which ended in a reluctant laugh. “Deo volente,” she said in Latin, glancing up in mute appeal to the Almighty before turning her gaze back to the Weasels.

“I should ring a peal over your heads.” Her expression softened as she eyed their bedraggled clothing and scratched hands. “However, I would rather that you head up to your beds without further delay.”

They wisely made no peep of protest and hurried away. Ears drooping, Harper was quick to follow.

Wrexford moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky. “Sláinte,” he said, lifting his glass in salute. “The first of many toasts to be raised on this special day.” He pursed his lips. “I’m surprised Kit wasn’t roused by the commotion.”

“He and my family enjoyed several more bottles of your excellent champagne after the two of you excused yourselves from the postprandial celebration,” said Cordelia dryly. “I am hoping that he’ll be able to walk down the aisle without falling flat on his face.”

“Ha! He wouldn’t dare.” A moment later, the dowager came into the reading area from the main room of the library. She was wearing a flame-red silk dressing gown over her night-rail, the embroidered fire-breathing dragons rippling in the lamplight as she took a seat in one of the armchairs.

“If he does,” she added, “we’ll just have to pick him up and carry him to the altar.”

A grim smile touched Cordelia’s lips. “As you said, he wouldn’t dare.” A pause. “I do hope my shout didn’t wake any of the others.”

“No, like Sheffield, they were all three sheets to the wind when they finally retired to their quarters,” answered Alison. “But just to be sure nobody had any cause for alarm, I stayed upstairs. If necessary, I would have created a diversion by claiming that I had a bad dream and cried out in my sleep.”

She raised a brow at the earl. “I take it you didn’t catch the miscreant?”

“No.” He took a swallow of his whisky. “However, we scared him off.”

“We?” Her eyes narrowing in suspicion, the dowager raised the quizzing glass hanging around her neck and took a look around the room. “Where are the Weasels?”

“Upstairs in their beds,” replied Charlotte. “That is all you need to know.”

Before Alison could respond, she turned to Cordelia. “I take it nothing is missing from your rooms?”

“The fellow didn’t really have a chance to make any mischief. I was only half asleep, and the click of the door latch opening brought me instantly awake. . . .