Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Maxham had assumed the most tedious part of his week would be placating Jack’s wrath at being left in prison for so long.
He was wrong.
Maxham had just returned to his snug apartments in Red Lion Square after showing Jack his new laboratory and living spaces.
Jack loved theaters, and his last laboratory and apartment had been above Lovey’s Boudoir, but in finding somewhere new for Jack, Maxham thought it best to avoid yet another theater.
However, to accommodate Jack’s tastes, he managed to buy a townhouse on Vauxhall Walk in Lambeth.
The townhouse was one story taller than its neighbors, so Jack could perform his experiments in the laboratory he set up in the attic without fear of being spied upon, nor could his chemicals cause other townhouses in the area to wonder where the strange smells originated from.
While the laboratory took up the entire top floor, dormer windows looked out the front of the house with a view of Vauxhall Gardens, and so Jack would be able to hear the merriment in the evenings.
It was not the same as when he could sneak into the (dubious) performances of Lovey’s Boudoir, but it would be only a short walk for him to partake of the Cyprian’s Ball or listen to the orchestra playing.
Jack complained that the laboratory was smaller, and indeed, his workspace at Lovey’s Boudoir had been quite spacious. Jack was not placated by the fact that his bedroom was larger, nor that he had a proper kitchen and pantry.
In fact, he complained that Maxham had been forced to hire an Oriental man to cook and clean for him and to act as his valet. Maxham was annoyed because he thought himself very clever to hire the young man from China.
Wang Fan had arrived in England only a few weeks earlier.
In broken Chinese, Maxham was able to convey the man’s duties, and because the servant spoke very little English, he would not spread any stories about Jack or Maxham.
There were hardly any Orientals in London, and even those who spoke English mostly kept to themselves, alienated by their foreignness and strange mother tongue.
Maxham had been anticipating a glass of French brandy beside a small fire in his grate—he found that unlike his peers, the Blood Nectar caused his body to feel cold even in the warmth of an approaching summer. Yes, he decided a fire would be a lovely indulgence on this June evening.
However, his mood was fouled as soon as he saw the letter on the floor, which had been slipped under his door while he was away. He recognized the handwriting that had written his address on the outside.
Maxham lit the grate, then unfolded the letter and sat in front of the fireplace to read.
Ward’s handwriting was dreadful—a hasty scrawl, as though he could not be bothered to properly form his letters because he was too busy with Very Important Work and could barely be bothered to send this missive, which happened to be extraordinarily long.
Maxham began getting a headache from trying to read the carelessly slanting letters.
However, he had not been at it for more than twenty minutes before there was a knock at the door.
Maxham had heard his visitor climbing the stairs, heard the light, precise footsteps as though the man were marching in formation in an army, heard the heartbeat that increased in tempo as he climbed the stairs, despite the fact that he should have had strength and stamina superior enough to climb dozens of flights of stairs with hardly any effort.
Maxham smelled the floral, grassy, rotting scent of the Blood Nectar seconds before the knock sounded.
Despite being warned, he remained sitting in his chair a full three seconds before rising to walk across the sitting room and unbolt the door. By that time, Ward’s temper had risen to a rolling boil, and Maxham amused himself that he could see steam rising out of the young man’s reddened ears.
Maxham called Ward a young man, perhaps to disparage him, for they were only three years apart in age. However, Ward’s round face and curling brown hair had always made him look much younger, much to his chagrin.
Ward stormed into Maxham’s apartments without waiting to be invited inside. “I delivered my letter this morning. Have you only just now received it?”
Maxham knew it was an exaggeration, for he had been here until almost noon, which was when Jack had arrived.
He had expected Jack to sleep in late after being rescued from the Ramparts prison—indeed, he had half expected Jack to arrive closer to evening.
But the botanist had been anxious to see his new laboratory, for the inn where Maxham had arranged a room for him to stay had been too noisy, he claimed.
Maxham did not bother to argue with Ward, for he already knew it would be futile.
“I have been quite busy all day and only returned to my apartment a few minutes ago. I have not even had time to completely read your letter.” He put a kettle on the hob for tea, not because he particularly wanted to offer tea to Ward, but because the doctor would complain loudly if he were not treated like a grand guest.
At times like these, Maxham missed Jadis.
Mifflin had also been difficult to deal with at times, but Jadis had been the most calm and practical of them all.
Of course, his placid nature had also made him easy prey for a clever woman like Bianca, which led to his murder at her hands.
It was perhaps why Maxham had been eager to finally kill her, had relished the effort he expended in staging her death to look as beautiful and venomous as her personality had been.
Maxham knew why his visitor had come—had, in fact, expected him weeks ago, when he had grudgingly sent a letter to inform Ward that he had acquired Bianca’s notebooks. He wanted to forestall listening to Ward’s complaints, so he quickly asked, “Has Mr. Ackett arrived yet?”
“No,” Ward said testily as he sat in a chair at Maxham’s small round table. “I expected him back last week at the very latest, but he has not yet arrived with our guest.”
Maxham sat down across from him. “I wonder if perhaps he ran into difficulties.” The representative from the French government, selected by Napoleon himself, had been informed by letter to expect Mr. Ackett to arrive to escort him to England’s shores.
They had not received a reply in confirmation, but considering how difficult it was to send missives across the channel at the moment, Maxham had not been overly concerned.
Mr. Ackett himself possessed the letter of introduction that should immediately identify him as belonging to the Citadel.
Ward frowned at him, although it looked more like a petulant pout. “You did give Mr. Ackett precise instructions as to how we wish for him to respond to problems, did you not?”
Irritation flashed through Maxham like a lightning bolt, far stronger and fiercer than normal.
He had become used to them over the years, but he had noticed that these bouts of anger had become more frequent as of late.
It was unclear if it was because Ward was becoming more vexing or because Maxham had begun partaking of his American-made Blood Nectar in small doses.
He would need to write to his chemist in the colonies to request more experiments, and then arrange for the shipment of more healthy slaves as subjects for testing.
“I daresay Mr. Ackett is more civilized than any of us.” Maxham’s voice was neutral, but he sent a flat stare at Ward.
The self-proclaimed physician flushed—as he tended to do quite readily—in large splotches across his face. “You were the one who wished to keep him as a pet. Therefore, it is your responsibility to discipline him. If he disobeys and is useless to us, then he must be eliminated.”
“The decision is mine, since I am his ‘owner.’” Maxham deliberately did not respond to Ward’s implied demands.
Ward’s eyes narrowed as they regarded him, and he immediately realized his mistake.
Perhaps the irritation had been increasing because he realized he would no longer be dependent upon Ward for his survival.
He must tread very carefully so that the doctor would not suspect he had plans of contingency.
“I did indeed instruct Mr. Ackett not to injure anyone or damage our relationship with Napoleon’s government.” Maxham had ceased to think of it as a French government ever since the Corsican crowned himself Emperor. No matter what titles Napoleon might claim, he was not France.
As usual, Ward took Maxham’s soft tone to indicate subservience, and his face relaxed as he nodded in satisfaction. “As long as he knows the consequences.”
It was unnecessary for him to say as such, but Maxham knew that Ward was desperate to show his significance over all others.
“Where are Bianca’s notebooks?” Ward demanded without even an attempt at preamble.
The lightning bolt of irritation flashed again, this time so strong that Maxham’s jaw clenched.
Ward’s mind was filled with nothing but the Blood Nectar and his own interests.
Maxham and Jack furnished him with supplies and money, and Ward would not be able to conduct his experiments, much less create the Blood Nectar without them, yet he expected them to place his needs above all else.
And so Maxham deliberately ignored Ward’s question and asked, “Have you improved the Blood Nectar yet? We cannot venture forth to protect our interests abroad if the potion loses its potency in only a few days.”
“I am devoting all of my time to my research,” Ward snapped.
“Your research does not always address the means to prolong the life of the Blood Nectar,” Maxham said mildly. “I only ask because of the current situation in France. We left a great deal in the greenhouse there, and although it is hidden?—”
“I’m quite aware of what was left in the greenhouse,” Ward retorted.