Murder on Threadneedle Street

Book 10: Wrexford & Sloane Mystery

by Andrea Penrose

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Regency Romance; Mystery

Synopsis

Not all that glitters in Regency London is quite what it seems, as Charlotte and Lord Wrexford discover when a counterfeiting scheme draws them into a deadly web of murder and manipulation in USA Today bestselling author Andrea Penrose’s masterfully plotted mystery for readers of Victoria Thompson, C.S. Harris, and Deanna Raybourn.

Lord Wrexford and Charlotte’s growing family ensures that life is a source of constant adventure. The addition of Wrexford’s half-sister to their household is proving an unexpected delight. But some surprises are less welcome—and trouble strikes when Hawk, one of the young boys in their care, arrives home distraught after learning that his new drawing teacher has been found murdered on Threadneedle Street.

Fletcher Campbell’s death could be dismissed as a random robbery turned violent. But as an artist herself, Charlotte suspects there’s more to the case than meets the eye. Closer examination reveals that a distinctive ring was taken from the victim’s finger. With Hawk pleading for the family to help solve the crime, Charlotte and Wrexford suddenly find themselves entangled in a fiendish mystery that harkens back to a decade-old scandal that nearly brought down the government.

It seems Campbell’s brother was the infamous leader of a counterfeiting gang that swindled the Bank of England. Most were apprehended, but forged banknotes remain a problem. Now, the Bank of England has offered £20,000 to anyone who can use the newly-invented engineering technologies to create the Inimitable Banknote—a complex design that cannot be counterfeited.

It’s a prize that could tempt anyone, and Wrexford and Sloane’s investigation turns even more fraught when one of their closest friends falls under suspicion. The deeper they probe, the more treachery comes to light. For when a lie so easily masquerades as truth, danger may be much closer than they think . . .

Release date: September 29, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

How strange that Beauty could come in so many unexpected guises.

A smile touching his lips, the man—the fissures gouged into his face and the crooked bones of his slumped shoulders made him look older than he really was—paused on the cobblestones to look up at the perfect crescent moon and savor the moment.

“I suppose the mystery lies in its chameleon-like nature,” he mused aloud to the stars winking down at him from the black velvet sky. He had once seen the exotic little lizard from the tropics at a traveling display of curiosities, and had been astounded at its ability to change its appearance to fit into its surroundings. “For I have come to realize that Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

A chuckle, rusty from years of disuse, rumbled in his throat. Laughter was not a sound that came easily anymore. He had been too long in a place where emotions were best kept hidden.

But now …

Another smile. Emotions were slowly coming back to life. He inhaled a lungful of the night-chilled air, enjoying the sweetly pure and innocent scents of the gardens he helped tend before locking the iron gate behind him and shuffling off to the south, toward Threadneedle Street and the long walk home.

A fluttery leaf, a rose-pink petal, the flight of a bee from plant to plant—he had come to realize that these little everyday things carried in them the seeds of the Sublime.

The gentle breeze caressed his cheeks, and the pearly moonlight teased a path over the stones for his muddy boots. Even the noxious smells of decay drifting out from the alleyways sparked a certain odd gratitude.

“Freedom,” he murmured. Ten years of confinement in a dark, dank hole of a cell made any sensory experience—even less than pleasant ones—something to be cherished.

He paused yet again to count his blessings. Peaceful. His days and nights were blessedly peaceful now. Weeding the specimen beds at the London Institution’s medicinal garden was physically hard on his aching bones, but there was something elementally soothing about soiling his fingers in the rich earth and coaxing the myriad different plants into bloom.

Life was precious …

Pulling a pipe from his jacket pocket, he struck a spark to the bit of tobacco left in its bowl.

As the pale puffs of smoke drifted upward in sinuous curls, he smiled in awe at all the little beauties that had eluded his eye for so long. He saw things so differently now—

An abrupt shove from behind jarred him from such reveries. Off-balance, he turned, only to find the point of a knife pressed up against his throat.

“My dear fellow, I’m afraid you’ve picked a sorry target,” he said. “I assure you, I have nothing of any value. But if you wish my purse, which contains naught but a few pence, there’s no need for violence. You are welcome to it.”

In response, the sharpened steel pricked into the man’s flesh, drawing a drop of blood, and a snarl cut through the night. “Where is he?”

The gentle breeze suddenly felt like a slap of ice, sending shivers down the man’s spine. But he managed to mask his reaction with a puzzled shrug.

“Who?”

His accoster pressed closer, overwhelming him with a myriad of split-second sensations—finespun wool, smooth as silk; bay rum shaving soap, rich with spice; buttery leather gloves, soft as a baby’s bottom. “Don’t diddle with me.”

But the voice was that of a devil from Hell.

“I’ll repeat the question. Where. Is. He?”

The knife cut deeper. A trickle of blood was now sliding down the man’s throat.

“I haven’t a clue,” he answered, abandoning any pretense of confusion. “I was arrested on the same night as the rest of my friends. For all I know, he was hanged with the others or transported to the Antipodes.” His eyes closed for an instant. “Or, like me, perhaps he was imprisoned in some hellhole workhouse to rot into an early death.”

“No. The authorities never found him. And I have reason to think that you had him spirited away.”

The man had always wondered whether his desperate plan had worked—and perhaps this was evidence that it had. The thought provoked another chuckle, this one far less tentative than the first one. “Then it seems he could be anywhere.”

The response drew a vicious slap.

“You think to play me for a fool?” snarled the Devil. “He was a bloody child. He couldn’t have eluded capture on his own—”

“A child, perhaps, but a bloody clever child,” interjected the man. “He was smarter than most of the adults around him.”

That earned the man a nasty punch to the gut, but he had suffered enough beatings over the years that the pain simply washed over him.

His accoster grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up. “Do you know who I am?”

“I can guess.” The man had once inadvertently overheard his brother Archie conversing with the Devil and his partner in crime. Archie had, at heart, been a good soul, but ambition and greed had silenced the better angels of his nature and seduced him into making a pact with Evil. “You are the mastermind of the deceit and lies that have destroyed my family.”

“So you know it’s not wise to provoke my ire,” replied the Devil. Then, like a chameleon, he softened his expression and flashed a coaxing smile. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll allow you to walk free.”

Ha—and pigs may fly, thought the man. There wasn’t a chance that he was going to walk away from this encounter.

“Go to hell.” He lifted his chin. “I will meet my Maker with a clear conscience. While your God-benighted carcass will roast in the hottest pit of red-hot flames, damned for all eternity.”

A laugh erupted from the Devil, and all at once, the air seemed to turn foul with the stink of sulfur and brimstone. “Surely you’re not so naïve as to believe that there is actually a God or such things as Right and Wrong?”

The man raised his hand in mock salute. “I’m merely an ordinary fellow, not a philosopher, so such abstractions are beyond my ken. But what I do know is that you’ll never find him without my help. So do what you please. I will go to my grave with no regrets.”

Silence. And then a low laugh. The knife flashed in the moonlight, its blade moving quick as a serpent as it cut through the flesh and sinew of the man’s throat.

“Which only shows that my intellect is far superior to yours.” The Devil crouched down beside the still-twitching body. “It turns out that I don’t need your verbal help at all.”

After peeling off a glove, he reached out, careful not to sully his well-manicured fingers with blood. “In your defiance, you just unwittingly reminded me of exactly how I can go about finding the damn brat.”

Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford, put down her pen and contemplated the half-finished ink drawing on her desk.

“Have I gotten Wellington’s nose quite right?” she muttered under her breath. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t drawn the distinctive appendage—the duke was called “Nosey” for good reason, though heaven forfend that anyone say it to his face—countless times since his momentous victory over Napoleon’s army several months ago near the village of Waterloo. Still, Charlotte was striving to create a caricature of him looking both bemused and horrified at the antics of Russian soldiers, who along with British and Austrian troops were occupying Paris under his supreme command.

Wrexford had just received a letter from a military friend currently stationed in the French capital, and in it had been a very amusing sketch of an extraordinary “Sliding Mountain” built by the Tsar Alexander’s troops to provide leisure entertainment—

BANG!

For an instant, the sound of the explosion had her frozen in shock. But then Charlotte was up in a flash and sprinting for the stairs leading up to the schoolroom.

McClellan—nominally her lady’s maid but recognized by their entire household as the unofficial general-in-chief of the Berkeley Square townhouse—was two steps ahead of her.

“Is that smoke?” gasped Charlotte, as a few ghostly tendrils of vapor floated down from the floor above.

McClellan’s reply was muffled by the sound of their pounding steps … which was for the best, as the few words Charlotte caught should never be uttered in front of children.

Not that the Weasels were normal children—

“Sorry! Sorry! No cause for alarm!” called Raven, one of the three orphan boys who were officially part of their unconventional family.

But the sight of his soot-streaked face and the frizzled forelock of singed hair as she and McClellan barreled into the schoolroom belied the assertion.

“It was all my fault,” said Peregrine in a rush. “Raven warned me that it wasn’t a good idea to see if coal gas could increase the pressure inside our mechanical horse’s steam engine and thus make it flap its wings fast enough to rise a few inches off the ground.”

“No it wasn’t,” countered the Raven. “I was the one who suggested igniting—”

Charlotte released a sigh. “I know very well whose idea it was!”

Both boys stared down at the tips of their boots.

“But you both have been told in no uncertain terms that fire is strictly forbidden in the house, and for good reason,” she continued.

“It was only a little spark,” began Raven. “Just a quick test to determine—”

“Well, then, it will only be a little punishment for the egregious transgression of the house rules,” interrupted McClellan. “Just a quick fortnight of forgoing ginger biscuits—and all other sweets.”

Raven and Peregrine looked up, eyes widening in horror.

Harper, the wolf-sized grey hound who had slept through the commotion, came awake at the mention of biscuits and gave a low woof of commiseration from his favorite spot by the hearth.

“And don’t slant any puppy dog looks of innocence at m’lady,” growled McClellan.

Charlotte bit her lip. True, she was a soft touch for the boys.

“I expect this mess to be cleaned up in a trice,” added the maid. “And then you will also report to Josiah in the mews and begin a week of mucking out the stalls.”

Raven and Peregrine were already gathering up the singed metal bits and pieces that had broken off from the small mechanical horse.

“Come to the kitchen when you’ve finished carting out the manure, so that I can trim the burnt frizz from your forelock,” said McClellan to Raven as he trudged past her.

“What were they thinking?” Charlotte shook her head in consternation once the boys were out of earshot. “They aren’t usually so reckless.”

“They are getting old enough to think themselves invincible,” answered McClellan.

She allowed a deliberate pause. “I also happened to overhear Raven ask Peregrine for his help in constructing a mechanical horse with flapping wings as a birthday present for Eddy. You know how smitten she is with the idea of flight, and how she waxes poetic about what it would be like to soar through the heavens like her pigeons.” Her brows gave a twitch. “Apparently, he wishes to surprise her.”

“Ah.” Charlotte felt a rueful smile curl at the corners of her lips. Family life had become infinitely more complicated during the past spring, when secrets within secrets concerning her husband’s father, the late earl, had unraveled, revealing that Wrexford, to his utter shock, had a much younger half-sister who was about the same age as the Weasels.

Misunderstandings in the past had led to a rift between father and son, and there were still many complications and questions to be sorted out. But Eddylina—who preferred to be called Eddy—had been brought to Berkeley Square by her dying governess and was now settling in as a full-fledged member of the family …

Happily, hoped Charlotte. Peregrine and Hawk, the youngest of their three boys, had immediately bonded with the girl. But Raven’s relationship with Eddy wasn’t quite so easy to discern.

McClellan seemed to read her thoughts. “Don’t worry, m’lady. I plan on rescinding both punishments after they’ve finished today’s drudgery in the mews. But it’s good for them to sweat a bit so that they understand the seriousness of their transgression.”

“Perhaps Tyler could make some room for them in the area of Wrex’s laboratory where the stone tiling has been installed to guard against fire,” suggested Charlotte. She understood Raven’s desire to create an impressive surprise. During their last investigation …

She quickly forced herself back to the present, refusing to dwell on that fraught time, when danger had threatened from so many angles. The mere thought of how close she and Wrexford had come to losing everything they held dear made her blood run cold …

“An excellent idea. I’ll ask him now,” murmured McClellan as she pulled her daily checklist from her pocket and began reading it. “By the by, shall I have supper pushed back by a half hour? His Lordship and Eddy have gone for a ride in Hyde Park, and knowing how loath that little hellion is to rein in her love of galloping over the trails, they are bound to be late in returning.”

Looking up, she made a face. “Cook has threatened to give notice if one more of her special roasts ends up burned to a crisp.”

“Heaven forfend that we put Cook’s nose out of joint,” muttered Charlotte, her thoughts on more important matters.

“You are very fond of her crème brulée,” pointed out the maid.

“Pragmatic, as always, Mac.” Charlotte sighed. Cloaked in her nom de plume A. J. Quill, London’s most popular satirical artist, she seemed to have an unerring knack for spearing right to the heart of a controversial social issue or government scandal that affected the public’s welfare. But coping with all the new family dynamics sometimes had her questioning her own judgment.

Given that Wrexford was an expert in science and understood the fundamental working of the cosmos, perhaps he could give her a rational explanation as to why—

“M’lady?” McClellan was now tapping her foot in impatience. “Is that a yes or a no?”

Damnation—dithering was becoming a bad habit. “Without you, all semblance of rule and order in this household would go to hell in a handbasket,” she quickly answered. Another sigh. “Which you may translate as a resounding yes.”

“Thank heavens. I, too, am very fond of crème brulée.”

Charlotte glanced at the schoolroom clock. “I had better come down to the kitchen with you. Hawk will be home shortly from his drawing lesson, and given that he’s been at the London Institution for much of the afternoon, he’ll be in dire need of sustenance to tide him over until the delayed supper.”

However, the sound of steps thumping over the black and white tiles of the entrance hall announced that the youngest Weasel had already arrived.

Smiling, Charlotte hurried down the stairs and into the main corridor, eager to see his latest sketches. The boy’s skill at depicting the delicate nuances of botanical subjects was blossoming under the tutelage of Mr. Campbell, his kindly new drawing tutor. A chance comment from a dear friend had led to the recent connection of teacher and pupil. It was, perhaps, an unconventional choice, but she was pleased with how well things were going.

But as Hawk flew around the corner, empty-handed and clearly in great distress, she felt her heart clench.

“What’s wrong, sweeting?” she asked, opening her arms and enfolding him in a hug.

Hawk drew in a ragged breath as if to answer—and then burst into tears.

“Ho—that’s far enough!” Wrexford reined his horse to a halt and waggled a gloved finger at his half-sister. “It’s time to return home. As it is, I fear we’ll be late for supper.”

“But the light is still gloriously bright at this time of day,” protested Eddy, her face flushed from the slap of the wind against her cheeks as she had crossed the last half of the meadow at full gallop. “In another month, it will be dark at this hour— and cold as a witch’s tit!”

Wrexford closed his eyes and silently counted to three. Ten would have been wiser, but his patience was already frayed. “As you well know,” he scolded, “tit is a word that must be permanently expunged from your vocabulary.”

“I thought that rule applied only when I am in the company of stiff-rumped sticklers of Polite Society,” she replied with a saucy smile. “And by the by, Aunt Alison says that phrase. Quite often, in fact.”

“Aunt Alison is old enough to be considered an Original rather than a Disgrace to Society,” he pointed out. “While such language slipping from your young lips will have you branded as an incorrigible hoyden by the beau monde.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, you damn well should.”

Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Is not damn also a forbidden word?”

The earl bit back a further retort. This wasn’t the first conversation they had engaged in concerning the proper decorum demanded of a highborn young lady. But alas, highborn was a rather sticky part of his argument …

And being a very bright and clever girl—as well as worldly beyond her age on account of her unconventional upbringing— Eddy immediately pounced on it.

“We both know that there’s a question as to whether I was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” continued Eddy, lifting her chin in challenge. “If I’m a bastard, the beau monde won’t give a damn about what I say or do.” She blew out a very unladylike sound. “Thank God.”

Torn between amusement and dismay—he sympathized with her dislike of the many silly strictures imposed on females, but being ostracized from society was no laughing matter—Wrexford studied her profile for a long moment.

He guessed that the lion’s share of her bravado was sparked by uncertainty. And an underlying vulnerability. Her upbringing had been unorthodox, to say the least. He still didn’t understand all the nuances of the relationship between their father and Eddy’s mother. However, from what he had pieced together, the Irish firebrand had possessed a fiercely independent streak and didn’t think twice about cocking a snoot at conventional rules.

But given his own notoriously eccentric reputation, criticizing such freewheeling attitudes would be akin to the pot calling the kettle black, he admitted. In truth, he felt completely out of his depth in trying to guide his stranger-of-a-sister through the labyrinth of Polite Society. Charlotte was much better at reading people than he was—

Seeing that Eddy was eyeing him expectantly, the earl shook off such musings and mustered a confident smile.

“Put such questions about legitimacy aside, Eddy. I am quite certain that we shall find the official marriage documents. Our father was the very soul of honor. He would never have been so remiss as to put your future in jeopardy.”

“H-How …” The flutter of her lashes cast skittering shadows over her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

Because if the documents don’t exist, there are ways of snapping one’s fingers and conjuring them out of thin air.

However, he would prefer that it didn’t come to that.

“As I said, I know how much our father valued family.” He glanced around at the autumn-hued leaves, their colors deepening in fading sunlight. “Come, we really mustn’t dawdle any longer.”

With a subtle flick of the reins, Eddy turned the big black stallion she was riding and called out a challenge as she spurred forward. “In that case, I’ll race you back to Stanhope Gate!”

Shocked by Hawk’s uncharacteristic show of raw emotion, Charlotte held him close, waiting for his sobs to subside. He and his brother never cried, so a myriad of grim scenarios as to why were already clawing at her consciousness. But she kept them at bay. At this moment, he needed comforting, not questions.

Smoothing back his tangled hair, she pressed a kiss to his brow. “Whatever the trouble is, my love, you are not facing it on your own.”

His bony shoulders finally stopped quaking, and Hawk slowly lifted his tear-stained face. “M-Mr. Campbell …” His voice faltered for an instant. “M-Mr. Campbell was murdered last night.”

A gasp slipped from her lips.

“Somebody c-cut his throat on Threadneedle Street.”

She touched a palm to his still-wet cheek. “How terrible, sweeting. No wonder you are so upset.”

“He was a w-wery nice man,” mumbled Hawk, the mispronunciation further evidence of his extreme distress. He only mangled his consonants when he was upset.

“Indeed, he was,” said Charlotte. However, she had sensed there were shadows lurking beneath the gentle twinkle in the gardener’s eyes. Life, she guessed, had not been overly kind to Mr. Campbell. His gnarled stoop and misshapen fingers had given hints of some interlude of great physical hardship. Perhaps he had been one of the unlucky fellows caught by the Royal Navy’s press gang and forced into life as a sailor …

But whatever his past story, his present situation as a humble gardener at the London Institution made him a very poor target for a footpad. She couldn’t help but be puzzled—

“We must find who did this.” Hawk’s shaky voice drew her back from her musing. “And see that the culprit answers for the crime. Mr. Campbell deserves justice.”

“Sweeting, all souls whose lives are taken from them before their time deserve justice.” Charlotte hesitated. Before their paths had crossed with hers, Hawk and his brother, though only young orphans, had somehow managed to survive the brutal wolf-eat-wolf world of the London slums. So he knew better than most that justice was a luxury that was rarely bestowed upon the lower classes.

“But much as it pains me to say it,” she continued, “the sad truth is that the killer has likely melted away into the stews, and unless a witness steps forward and offers up some clue …”

“But Wrex and you have never been daunted by the fact that a crime doesn’t appear easy to solve!” he interrupted. “And Wrex is a patron of the London Institution. Surely with that personal link, he will wish to honor Mr. Campbell’s memory by learning the truth.”

A watery sniff. “Won’t he?”

Charlotte forced herself to meet his beseeching stare. “I—I didn’t say we wouldn’t try.” Though in truth, she had dismissed it as a lost cause. “We will speak with Wrex when he returns. But you must understand that despite our best efforts, the truth may never be discovered.”

“Oiy.” Hawk gave a solemn nod. “I know that Life isn’t fair.” Tears were still pearled on his lashes. “But as you always tell us, the battle between Good and Evil is never-ending, and even when things look grim, we must never stop fighting to keep Darkness at bay.”

He was being followed.

It was a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck, a sixth sense that the young man—he had a name, but it wasn’t his real one—had somehow acquired during childhood. And it has saved my neck on more than one occasion.

After crossing the harbor square of Bristol’s bustling port— the city was a hub of commerce between America and Britain— he slowly picked up his pace, then turned down a busy market street. As the young man wove his way in and out of the stalls, he kept his gaze moving, searching, searching …

Quick as a flash, he darted into a sliver of an alleyway and took cover in a recessed niche. His deliberately colorless clothing allowed him to blend into his surroundings, a precaution that had become second nature, even though the threats of long ago had faded to naught but fuzzy memories.

Perhaps he was being spooked by old grudges that had long since given up the ghost. His life had changed. In truth, the young man barely remembered his old self.

He was, as his mentor liked to say, a tabula rasa. A slate wiped clean. The New World had given him a new beginning. And he meant to make the most of it.

But perhaps the Old World did not forgive and forget …

Crunch … crunch.

The approaching footsteps were slow and deliberate. As if someone was seeking something—which was why they stood out from the rest of the ambient sounds.

A shadow passed over the alleyway entrance.

A pause. And then a query. “Anyone seen a cully with brown hair and wearing a mud-colored coat pass by here?”

No response.

“I’m willing to pay for information.” The muffled clink of coins hitting up against coins within a leather purse punctuated the announcement. “But only if I find him.”

Murmurs and shuffling greeted the offer, but still, none of the vendors or shoppers responded.

That was the beauty of being unremarkable.

After a long moment, the footsteps moved on. But the young man was in no hurry to abandon his hiding place.

Patience.

He had patience in spades, and it had always served him well. Hunching closer to the sooty brick, he pulled his hat down lower and retreated into his own thoughts to pass the time. There were always interesting things to contemplate, and when he finally chose to slip out and be on his way, nobody would notice the nondescript fellow blending into the crowd.

And then, he could continue with his mission. He must find a way to get himself to Bath. From there, his choices on how to reach his ultimate destination would become easier …

“A murder?” Wrexford leaned back his chair and longingly eyed the tray of crystal decanters on the sideboard of his workroom before expelling a sigh.

So much for the idea of an interlude of solitary peace and quiet.

He had been looking forward to savoring a glass of Scottish whisky and reading the latest scientific journal from the university at St. Andrews after supper. But when Charlotte and Hawk had followed him to his lair after the meal and announced that death had once again cast a shadow over their family, such thoughts quickly evaporated.

“Such news is always saddening,” he continued. “I take it the victim is someone we know?”

“Yes, it was Hawk’s drawing tutor, Mr. Campbell,” replied Charlotte, and quickly recounted the few details that Hawk had told her about the crime.

“Presumably it was a robbery,” mused Wrexford, “and Mr. Campbell must have tried to resist.” He glanced at her. “Footpads don’t normally cut someone’s throat, especially if their victim is clearly not an affluent target.”

“Whether or not he had wealth, his attacker didn’t have the right to take his life, as if nobody cared if he died,” said Hawk in a small voice. “I care. He was my friend.”

“Of course you care, sweeting,” responded Charlotte. “As do I.”

Wrexford understood what was expected of him—and gladly offered it, though he knew the chances were virtually nil of finding the culprit. Such random acts of violence occurred far too often in the city …

A frown momentarily furrowed between his brows. Though not usually in an area like Threadneedle Street.

“I will, of course, speak to the head administrator at the London Institution,” he assured Hawk, “and see what more I can learn about the crime—”

“No need for that, laddie.” In the next moment, their dear friend Basil Henning shouldered open the door without knocking. “I can answer all of your questions better than any muckety-muck at the Institution.” Henning paused for a moment to ruffle Hawk’s hair—it was he who had suggested Campbell as a drawing teacher for the boy—before heading to the tray of decanters and pouring himself a drink.

In answer to the earl’s raised brows, Henning added, “When I heard the news earlier today, I had the local mortuary transfer the body to my workplace.” A skilled surgeon, he taught medical students at several of London’s hospitals as well as ran a clinic for the poor in the slums of St. Giles. “I will see to it that Campbell has a decent burial at St. Stephen’s Church rather than be tossed into some unmarked pauper’s grave.”

Hawk flashed a grateful smile. “With a headstone, just like all the high-and-mighty toffs?”

“You and I will design one decorated with his favorite flowers and have it carved in marble,” said Charlotte quickly.

Wrexford had already thought of several questions for Henning regarding the murder, but given the expected answers, he preferred that Hawk not be part of the conversation.

“You’ve suffered a great shock, lad. I suggest you fly up to your eyrie and get some rest. Be assured that with Baz’s help, m’lady and I will map out the next steps for investigating the crime.”

Hawk looked about to argue, but a whisper from Charlotte sent him on his way without any brangling.

“Damnation,” muttered the earl once the boy’s footsteps faded away. “I don’t feel entirely right about giving him false hope.” He made a face. “But perhaps it’s kinder than telling him there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of solving a crime like this one.”

“Hawk is no stranger to the grim realities of the slums,” replied Charlotte. “He knows as well as we do what the likely outcome of an investigation will be. What matters is that we try.”

“The two of you might want to refrain from making assumptions about the likelihood of solving the mystery …” A noisy slurp sounded, and then Henning put his empty glass down. “Until I’ve told you what I learned from the corpse.”

Charlotte couldn’t help but recall the Greek myth about Pandora and the perils of opening a box containing unknown secrets. But it was too late for such thoughts. Whatever serpe. . .