Murder at Somerset House
Book Nine—The Wrexford & Sloane Series
Beyond the gilded ballrooms and salons of Regency London lurks a sinister web of intrigue and deception,
and when a murder occurs during the monthly meeting of London’s most elite scientific community,
Wrexford and Charlotte find themselves entangled in the race unravel it before it’s too late . . .
A welcome interlude of calm has descended on Wrexford and Charlotte, though with three lively young boys in their care and an unconventional circle of friends and allies, quiet rarely lasts long. And sure enough, in the dead of night, an old acquaintance appears and asks for the earl’s help. The man’s brother-in-law has been accused of murdering a fellow member of the prestigious Royal Society at their London headquarters, Somerset House.
Wrexford agrees to investigate, and with a little unexpected help from their young charges, discovers that what seemed a simple case may in fact be part of a far darker and dangerous plot, where science, money, and politics collide. A mysterious new technical innovation threatens to ignite a crisis throughout Europe, with frightening consequences for London’s financial world.
In the midst of the investigation, there is also a sudden personal upheaval for Wrexford and Charlotte, when a shocking secret from the past brings a profound change to their family, testing the bonds of loyalty and trust as never before . . .
EXCERPT
Rolling her pen between her palms, Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford, huffed a sigh as she stared at the blank sheet of watercolor paper on her desk. It wasn’t often that she dithered over a subject for one of her drawings.
As London’s most popular—some might say infamous—satirical artist, she felt it was her solemn duty to keep the public informed about the important social and political issues of the day that affected their lives. Corruption, misuse of power, the personal peccadilloes of the high and mighty, laws that placed unfair burdens on the poor—her sharp-tongued commentaries spoke out for the masses who had no real voice of their own.
Of late, however, things had been awfully quiet in Town.
“No wars, no political crisis, no scandals,” Her lips quirked. “Which, of course, is a good thing.” The only bit of current news was the daring escape of an exotic monkey—a gift to the king from an Indian sultan—from the Tower Menagerie. Having taken Hawk, a budding artist and one of the three orphan boys for whom she and her husband served as official guardians, on a recent expedition there to sketch the famous lions, Charlotte had actually seen the creature.
Long, feathery silver-grey fur framed an ebony-black face, whose darkness was accentuated by a pair of luminous yellow eyes . . . After quickly dipping her pen into the inkwell, she began to doodle. Elongated arms and legs, curious fingers that seemed to be constantly exploring his surroundings . . . Apparently a keeper had left a key in the cage’s lock, and the clever monkey had let himself out—
“Are you perchance going to comment on the Maurading Monkey?” asked McClellan as she nudged open the workroom door and placed a tray replete with tea and pastries on the side table. Officially, her title was lady’s maid to the Countess of Wrexford, but that did not begin to encompass the full range of her duties. Taskmaster of the three Weasels, sometimes sleuth, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—she was, in a word, the cog who kept all the various gears of the admittedly eccentric household running smoothly.
“Apparently, the animal broke into the kitchens of Carlton House last night and ate all the special fruit and custard pastries that had been prepared for the Prince Regent’s supper,” added McClellan. “Which, of course, has captured the public’s fancy. They are all cheering for the monkey to remain on the loose and can’t wait to hear what havoc the rascal will wreak next.”
Charlotte pursed her lips in thought, and then let out a chuckle. “Ah, I have it—the Pirate Primate!” she announced, already envisioning a composition featuring a gleeful monkey eluding a crack regiment of the Coldstream Guards led by the apoplectic royal regent. “Prinny must be furious. Not simply because of the ridicule that is about to explode, but because he is a glutton for sweets.”
“Among other pleasures,” said the maid dryly. She poured two cups of tea and carried one over to Charlotte’s worktable. “Adding to the drama of the story, the palace had just announced that a very handsome reward of five gold guineas will be paid to the person who returns the fugitive to the Tower.”
“This gets better and better by the moment,” said Charlotte with an evil smile, mentally picturing the monkey in a fancy embroidered waistcoat and tossing gold coins to the pursuing soldiers. “But this is a perfect solution. I’ve been dawdling, but now I had better get to work, so Raven can deliver the drawing by midnight.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” murmured McClellan after taking a sip of her tea. “The Weasels had a decidedly worrisome gleam in their eyes after I told them the news of the reward.”
Charlotte was suddenly not feeling so amused. “Drat.”
“I heard them rummaging in the attics when I stopped to leave a plate of ginger biscuits in the schoolroom just now.” A cough. “The words “fishing nets” and “coils of rope” were repeated several times.”
Expelling a sigh, Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, trying not to picture the diabolically creative plans that three exceedingly clever boys could concoct for snaring the fugitive monkey . . .
“M’lady, M’lady!”
Hawk, the younger of the two brothers whom Charlotte had taken under her wing when she was a struggling widow, raced into her workroom.
Had it only been three years ago? It felt like a different lifetime. Her smile quivered ever so slightly, recalling both the sorrows and the joys of that fraught time when she had been an outcast from Society, trying to eke out a living with her satirical art after assuming the persona of A. J. Quill, her late husband’s nom de plume . . . until Fate in the form of a gruesome murder had thrown her and the notoriously short-tempered Earl of Wrexford together.
It had not been a match made in heaven. But strangely enough, their mutual antipathy had turned to grudging respect . . . and then friendship.
And then—
Her musing were wretched back to the present moment by a loud chortling from Hawk’s older brother Raven and Peregrine, the recent addition to the band of fledglings, as they appeared in the doorway
An orphan, though because of the death of his aristocratic father, he was now Lord Lampson, Peregrine had come to be involved with their family during the murder investigation of his uncle, a brilliant inventor who had been working on a secret project for the government. Due to a number of complexities within his own family—his aunt bitterly resented the fact that the family’s title had gone to a boy whose mother was of African descent—she and Wrexford had offered him a loving home, and his kindly cousin had agreed to transfer legal guardianship to her husband.
Ha! I’m willing to wager we’ll have the monkey in our sack by dawn!” crowed Raven as he held up several coils of rope and a bag of overripe fruit from the kitchen.
Peregrine shifted the two long-handle fishing nets cradled in his arms and nodded enthusiastically.
Charlotte noted that Raven was, like his fellow Weasels, also wearing a bulging rucksack strapped to his shoulders. She decided not to inquire what was inside it.
“The three of you must realize that the money—” she began.
“Oh, we are well aware that seeking the reward money would threaten our family secrets,” assured Raven. “If we catch the monkey, we’re going to give it to Scratch, the street sweep who took over Skinny’s corner, so he and his friends can claim the reward.”
“We are looking at the hunt as an educational experience, M’lady,” piped up Peregrine. “We’ll need to use geometry to figure out the angle of approach if the creature is hiding among the buildings, and I’m sure our tutor will applaud the reading we have been doing on monkeys.” A pause. “Did you know that the word “simian,” which is used to describe the broad family of monkey-like animals, derives from the Latin word for ape?”
She smiled. “Actually I did. But I give you high marks for creativity in trying to convince me that this expedition has any relation to your schoolwork.”
The boys all grinned.
“Don’t look too smug yet, Weasels” warned McClellan. “I have feeling that M’lady is about to lay down some rules before you hare off.”
“Correct,” replied Charlotte. She deliberately took her time in eyeing their urchin garb and the sooty filth streaked on their face. Raven and Hawk had spent their early years fending for themselves in the in the slums of London, so their rags were like a second skin. And Peregrine had quickly learned how to blend in.
“If you spot any official authorities while you are on the hunt, you are to immediately give up your chase and melt away into the shadows.”
“Oiy,” agreed Raven.
“If you corner the monkey, you must be extremely careful about being bitten or scratched. No attempting to approach unless you are wearing a pair of thick leather gloves.”
“Oiy!” answered Hawk. “I put three pairs in my rucksack.”
“One last thing,” she added. “You will have to put off your departure for an hour. I need to finish my drawing and have you drop it off for Mr. Fores before you set out on your great hunt.”
“Oiy!” The three of them looked a little disappointed at the delay, but they answered in unison without hesitation.
“There are ginger biscuits in the schoolroom, which should help sweeten the wait.” said McClellan, which had them jostling with each other to lead the way to the stairs.
“Well, then, I had better get to work,” murmured Charlotte, though her voice betrayed a flutter of uncertainty. “Though I do wonder whether this particular night is a wise time for them to be out in the city. Given the reward, I daresay a great many people who aren’t the usual denizens of the night will be on the prowl for the fugitive monkey.”
“Don’t fret.” The maid gathered up the tea things to take back to kitchen. “The boys are experienced in navigating all the ins and outs of the stews and know how to stay out of trouble. I don’t think there’s any danger of them getting into any serious mischief.”
Charlotte drew in a deep breath as she dipped her pen into the inkwell. “From your lips to the Almighty’s ears.”
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