CHAPTER 2 #2
She looked up from her lap. Her face was as pale as Lord Elgin’s Parthenon marbles, but despite the grief shading her fine-boned features, her expression was as hard as sculpted stone.
“You may think me a hysterical female, but I promise you, I am not falling victim to a fit of the vapors. Elihu was on the verge of a momentous discovery, and I believe there were those who were prepared to do anything—anything—to steal his idea.”
The first question that came to mind was why? Wrexford shifted on the cushions, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase it. But after another glance at her face, he decided the widow didn’t need to be treated like delicate porcelain.
“For what reason?” he asked.
“For the same basic urges that have caused man to murder his fellow man since time immemorial—greed and envy. You have only to read the Greek tragedies to see the truth of it.”
An interesting answer. His first impression on meeting the lady was that she had little substance.
In his experience, beauty and brains rarely went hand and hand—and there was no question that Mrs. Ashton possessed striking looks.
Her glossy, jet-black hair accentuated the milky perfection of her skin, and the exquisite symmetry of her face brought to mind an ancient sculpture of a classical goddess.
As for her eyes . . .
She met his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“The Greeks were wise about a great many things,” agreed Wrexford. But they weren’t infallible, he added to himself. No one was. Even the great Aristotle had his weaknesses—he was completely bolloxed in his ideas on science.
For an instant, a hint of a smile touched her lips. “I understand that you are skeptical, sir. It’s assumed that women are ruled by an excess of emotion rather than rational thought.” Isobel expelled a sigh. “Alas, too many of us confirm the judgment.”
“As a man of science, I try to base my conclusions on empirical evidence, not preconceived notions,” answered the earl. “So far, I have no reason to believe you’re acting out of hysteria.”
“But nor do you believe that I have any logical reason for suspecting a more sinister reason for my husband’s murder than mere bad luck.”
Wrexford’s opinion of her rose another notch.
“If you will allow me to impose a little longer on your time, I shall endeavor to explain . . .”
A nod signaled her to continue.
“I have every reason to believe my husband was on the verge of creating a revolutionary new steam engine, one whose power would make possible a whole new world of manufacturing.” Isobel paused to draw a deep breath.
“Such an invention is not only exciting intellectually, but it would make someone rich beyond their wildest dreams.”
Wrexford needed to think for a long moment before the realization dawned on him.
“I take it you’re referring to a patent.
” Her fears suddenly seemed far more substantial than mere figments of a flighty imagination.
Money was a powerful motive for murder. And owning the rights to such an important technical innovation would indeed be worth a fortune.
“Precisely, milord.”
“What was this new innovation?” asked Wrexford, his scientific curiosity piqued.
A look of sadness darkened her amber-colored eyes. “My husband confided a great deal in me. But on this, he remained very secretive. Perhaps . . .” Her hands fisted together. “Perhaps he feared that speaking of it aloud, even within the privacy of our home, was dangerous.”
Wrexford took a moment to consider all that she had told him. “It seems to me that your concerns are reasonable, Mrs. Ashton.” He pulled a face as the pounding in his head came back with a vengeance. “But what I don’t understand is why are you coming to me. The authorities—”
“The authorities think I’ve been reading too many horrid novels!
” she exclaimed. “I met this morning with a Bow Street Runner—a large, untidy man whose wits seemed as slow as his shuffling steps.” The Runners were a group of men under the formal command of the Magistrate at No.
4 Bow Street, and one of the few official forces tasked with solving crimes.
“He made it clear that my husband’s murder was—as he put it—an unfortunate result of a man straying into the wrong place at the wrong time,” continued Isobel. “And that the chances of capturing the culprit were virtually nil.”
However slow-witted the Runner was, Wrexford tended to agree with his assessment. Most murders in the stews remained unsolved.
“Be that as it may,” he replied. “I have no expertise in criminal investigations.”
“That’s not what Humphry Davy of the Royal Institution says,” countered Isobel.
Damnation. Davy was so fond of the sound of his own voice that he tended to talk too much.
“Mr. Davy was kind enough to call on me and offer his condolences,” explained the widow. “When I expressed my worries about the authorities, he mentioned that you were instrumental in solving a recent murder.”
Before he could respond, she added, “And I, like most of the public, saw the series of prints by A. J. Quill. The artist implied that it was through your efforts that justice was done.”
Wrexford squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had followed his first instinct on waking and gone back to sleep.
“They both have greatly exaggerated the truth,” he muttered. “Contrary to what you may think, I am no crusader for justice. Any efforts I made were to save my own neck.”
“Please,” she said softly, lowering her gaze. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
Feminine wiles bored him to perdition. But Ashton was a colleague. And a brilliant man of science. Recalling the corpse lying in the muck of a deserted alleyway, he let out a long breath. “I can make some inquiries. But I can’t promise that they will do any good.”
“Bless you, milord,” she said, fixing him with a beatific smile.
“I doubt the Almighty would agree,” murmured Wrexford. “It’s the Devil who’s more frequently invoked when people mention my name.”
“Nonetheless, I have great faith in your abilities, sir.”
In his experience, faith rarely aligned with probability. But he kept such skepticism to himself.
“If I am to be of any help, I need to know everything I can about the possible reasons for your husband’s murder. To begin with, do you have any idea why he was in that part of Town so late at night?”
“He told me he was spending the evening at White’s with some fellow members of the Royal Institution. But upon our arrival in London several days ago, he had received a note from someone who seemed to know about his research and wished to discuss some very important implications—”
“Who?” interrupted the earl.
Isobel’s lips tightened for an instant before she answered.
“The note was signed A Kindred Spirit in Science. I counseled him not to respond. But Elihu was trusting—too trusting—of people.” She looked down at her hands.
“I fear he may have arranged a meeting despite my objections. Other than that, I can think of no earthly reason why he would have strayed to the stews.”
Wrexford made a mental note to learn whether Ashton had a taste for gambling or women. Wives, however sharp, didn’t always see a man’s every weakness.
“Do you still have the note?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“I should like to see it.” The earl doubted it would be of any value, but at this point, any scrap of evidence was worth collecting.
“Of course,” she replied. “One of Elihu’s investors kindly offered us the use of his townhouse for our visit. I shall have one of the footmen bring it to you.”
“One last thing—I should like to see a list of all the people who knew about your husband’s research, and how close he was to a breakthrough.” He steepled his fingers. “And I should like your assessment of who among them might be willing to kill to possess it.”
Isobel shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. Shadows skittered over her profile and yet he could see that her face had turned deathly pale.
“Mrs. Ashton?”
“I’ll compile a list and send it to you, along with the note,” she whispered.
“It pains me to think that anyone on it would wish my husband ill.” The skin tightened over the bones of her face, giving her beauty a fragile edge.
“But if you must begin looking at possible motives, I suggest you speak with my husband’s personal secretary, Octavia Merton, and his laboratory assistant, Benedict Hillhouse. ”
Isobel paused, and to his eyes her expression seemed to harden.
“Given how closely they worked with him on his experiments,” she said carefully, “they will know the most about any secret animosities.”