CHAPTER 15 #2
“The maids think him a very handsome fellow, and wouldn’t be surprised if he was tempted to take advantage of the pleasures London has to offer,” replied the maid. “Though one of the tweenies was of the opinion that he and Miss Merton are thick as thieves.”
Charlotte straightened. “Indeed?” That was interesting to know.
“Aye. There was also a lot of grumbling about how the master of the house, though rich as Croesus, is a nipcheese when it comes to food and wages.”
“I suppose that is how the wealthy stay wealthy,” she murmured.
Amusement danced in McClellan’s eyes. “I wish I knew.”
Charlotte saw that they were turning into her street. “Thank you for your help,” she said as she slid forward on her seat. “And your company.”
“I should be thanking you, madam. I escaped an afternoon of helping the housekeeper polish the silver.”
“A waste of your talents,” murmured Charlotte.
“From your lips to God’s ears.” The maid held out the rooster. “Here, you’ll not want to be forgetting this.”
In truth, she had mixed feelings about living with a memory resurrected from the past. But too late for that now, conceded Charlotte as her palms cradled the figurine’s smooth weight.
Unless it happened to slip through her fingers and smash on the pavement.
A foul thought. The bird deserved a better fate.
The coachman hopped down from his perch and opened the carriage door.
Grasping her gift tightly, she carefully descended the iron steps. “Please tell His Lordship that I’ll be sending him a note about the afternoon shortly.”
“Very good, Mrs. Sloane.”
Once inside her house, Charlotte cocked an ear for any sign that Raven and Hawk had returned.
For a long moment, she feared she was alone, which was not a good omen on how the lessons had gone.
However, a reassuring clatter from above—Hawk took great delight in polishing the swords to a looking-glass brightness—told her they were up in their aerie.
But first things first. The dratted rooster was too fragile for boyish exuberance. Expelling a sigh, she turned into the parlor. For now, its loud colors would add a touch of whimsy to the quiet respectability of the furnishings.
“Like me, you are a square peg trying to fit in a round hole,” she murmured, placing it on the side table near the windows. Sunlight shimmered through the glass panes as the clouds shifted, warming the reds and cobalts to an even brighter blaze.
“Quite right—to the Devil with trying to conform to the dictates of good taste.” Charlotte tugged off her gloves and touched a finger to the beaky smile before turning and heading for the stairs.
The aerie door was open and a glance inside showed Raven was curled on his bed, engrossed in reading a book. Hawk had propped the swords up against the wall between the windows and was busy arranging a regiment of lead soldiers that Jeremy had left in the wooden storage trunks.
She knocked softly on the casement to catch their attention. “How did the lessons go?”
“Oiy!” Hawk scrambled to his feet, knocking his troops to flinders. “Mr. Linsley is a great gun! We’re going te study lots of wery interesting things, and we practiced our penmanship.” He hurried to his desk and fetched a piece of ruled foolscap for her to see. “Look!”
“Very handsome, indeed!”
“I’ll soon be able te help ye letter in yer drawings.”
“I daresay you’ll soon be creating your own satires,” she replied with a smile. Hawk had a lovely imagination, and she had already noted his skill with a pencil. “Art is a very gentlemanly pursuit.”
Raven made a rude sound.
“A talent for sketching is much admired,” she assured his brother before shifting her gaze back to Raven. His nose was still buried in the book, which she hoped was a good sign.
“And how did you find Mr. Linsley?” she asked him.
“He likes mathematics,” came the reply. “And says numbers can be used to understand all sorts of interesting things—like how far a cannonball can fly and how ships can navigate by calculating the angle of the sun.”
“He gave Raven a book about numbers,” said Hawk.
“And you are enjoying it?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Raven finally looked up. “I am.”
Charlotte smiled, just enough to look pleased, but not interfering.
“Well, then, I won’t disturb your reading any longer.” She moved to the door. “But after supper might I ask you to run an errand for me? I need to send Lord Wrexford a note and it’s important he receives it this evening.”
“O’ course.” Raven’s eyes sharpened. “Book learning ain’t gonna turn us soft.”
“Isn’t,” she corrected. “You may stay tough as hobnails, and still speak like a proper gentleman.”
* * *
“Please tell me you’ve made some progress with the murders.” Sheffield entered the earl’s workroom and slouched into one of the armchairs with a disgruntled huff. “I’m bored. And as my pockets are to let, I’ve no way of entertaining myself.”
“Take up a hobby.” Wrexford looked up from trying to make any sense of the jumbled numbers he had found at Hollis’s quarters.
Frustration had his temper on edge. He had still not managed to track down Henning, which along with Hillhouse’s absence, had him feeling that he was simply spinning in circles.
“Reading, perhaps?” he added sarcastically. “The laws of probability would make an excellent subject to study.”
“Oh, please.” Sheffield gave a theatrical wince. “I’m trying to relieve the ache in my head, not slam a spike through my skull.” After crossing his legs and staring moodily at the tips of his boots, he added, “Is there really nothing?”
Wrexford set aside his pen. “Nothing overly useful. The assistant, Hillhouse, contrived to be absent from our arranged interview, so I’ve yet to have a word with him.
However, Mrs. Sloane was engaged to meet with both him and Miss Merton earlier this afternoon.
So perhaps she will have learned something meaningful.
” Though in truth, he was beginning to fear that the case was tangled in so many knots that it might never be unraveled.
Sheffield straightened. “I swear, there are times when her powers to conjure information out of thin air is rather frightening. How the devil did she bring about that connection?”
“In this case, the answer is far more mundane than magic. They have a mutual friend, who has arranged the meeting.”
“Who?”
“A friend from her youth, who apparently attended university with Hillhouse.”
“What sort of friend?” pressed Sheffield.
The question only exacerbated Wrexford’s simmering frustration. “If you are so bloody curious, ask her yourself,” he snapped. “Perhaps, for once, you’ll get lucky.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. “My apologies, Kit. That was a rotten thing to say.”
“Aye, it was.” Sheffield, however, didn’t look offended. “But no less deserved. I make a mull of many things.” He gave a wry grimace. “Though you have to admit, I do seem to have some skill in helping you ferret out dastardly villains.”
“That you do.” Wrexford was grateful for the show of good-humored camaraderie. For all his faults, Sheffield was a loyal friend. And he knew that his own mercurial moods were not easy to tolerate.
“I shall take that as permission to pour myself a glass of your excellent brandy,” murmured Sheffield.
As he watched his friend saunter to the sideboard, an idea occurred to him. A way not only to make amends, but also to pursue an idea that had slowly, unwillingly been taking shape in his head. “You know, now that you mention villains, perhaps there is something you can do to help.”
Sheffield paused, decanter in hand.
“You recall the donkey’s arse we encountered at the gaming hell—Kirkland?”
A nod.
“I thought nothing of it—a mere chance encounter—until I met him again at Mrs. Ashton’s temporary residence here in London.
It turns out he’s the son of her late husband’s primary investor.
” Wrexford went on to explain about the viscount’s unexpected appearance, and the widow’s reaction to his presence.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if Kirkland is involved in something havey-cavey,” said Sheffield, once the earl had finished.
He set the brandy back on the tray. “Word is, he’s become badly dipped lately and is desperate to find the funds to pay off his debts—not only his gambling vowels but also his loans from the cent-per-cent men. ”
“He’s had dealings with moneylenders?” Wrexford frowned.
A desperate sign, indeed. They charged exorbitant interest, up to one hundred percent on a loan, and failure to come up with the blunt at the appointed time had very unpleasant consequences.
Unlike their clients, the cent-per-centers made no pretense of being gentlemen.
“And yet,” he mused, “the viscount’s father is extremely wealthy.”
“Kirkland is extremely profligate with his money,” answered Sheffield dryly. “I assumed he was being given unlimited funds for his carousing. But perhaps his pater has tired of refilling the coffers.”
“One has to assume Kirkland knew about Ashton, and the success of his previous inventions,” said the earl. “And if he was aware of the new project, he would likely know the value of a patent.”
“The viscount isn’t stupid, merely reckless,” observed his friend. “And his father has become a very wealthy man through making savvy investments in business ventures. I seem to recall he’s part-owner in a number of highly profitable coal mines in Wales.”
“So, Kirkland, of all people, understands the potential of metal and steam to generate money,” interjected Wrexford.
“Yes,” said Sheffield, warming to the subject.
“But even assuming he was clever enough to come up with a plot to steal Ashton’s invention, it seems to me he would need to partner with someone who possessed technical expertise.
Wouldn’t it stir suspicions if he were to claim such an innovation on his own? ”
A good point. But like a spider spinning and spinning, the conversation was starting to weave a tantalizing web of connections.
“It would,” agreed Wrexford. “However, as Kirkland has grown up amidst talk of business dealings, he’d be aware of that.
” Steepling his fingers, he paused to think back on what he knew about some of the earlier steam engine patents.
“Let’s take a moment to follow this thread.
Ashton’s idea for financing his work wasn’t new.
There’s a precedent for an inventor forming a partnership with investors in order to fund the actual manufacture of the machinery.
The genius of James Watt and his innovation in steam power might never have seen the light of day had not he forged an alliance with Boulton, who had the money to make the concept a profitable reality.
Watt and Boulton steam engines have dominated the mining and textile manufacturing industries for nearly half a century.
A radically different model which offers a whole new level of performance would revolutionize production. ”
“And who could afford not to buy one?” said Sheffield, finishing the earl’s thought.
“As we’ve said, the key to the plan is having someone who’s knowledgeable in the technology, not only to be a credible applicant but also to build a working model that proves the idea is not just hot air.” Wrexford paused. “And what more perfect person than Hillhouse?”
“Science is a popular topic of conversation these days,” he went on.
“The talk has sparked an awareness of how scientific discoveries will shape the future. If Kirkland could convince some rich acquaintances that he had a friend who had created a revolutionary new engine, it’s reasonable to think he and Hillhouse could form a powerful, well-funded consortium.
That in turn would allow him to cut more favorable terms with the cent-per-centers. ”
“All this assumes he wouldn’t hesitate to cut his father out,” said Sheffield.
Wrexford smiled grimly. “Rivalry between fathers and sons is as old as history.”
“It all does seem to fit together rather nicely.” Sheffield appeared equally willing to follow the thread of thought.
“There might be people who smell a rat, but inventors tend to be secretive, and as Ashton never made his sketches public, it would be hard to accuse Hillhouse of having stolen the idea.”
Wrexford rose and began to pace, mulling over the sudden shifting and reshaping of the puzzle’s pieces. Was it true perception or was the lens distorted by wishful thinking?
‘Speculation is all very well,” he muttered. “But as a man of science, I know it’s imperative to base conclusions on facts and empirical knowledge, not mere conjectures.”
“Then I had better get to work and see what facts I can learn about Kirkland,” responded Sheffield.
His friend, noted the earl, hadn’t touched a drop of brandy. As he had long suspected, Sheffield, if given a choice, seemed to find a cerebral challenge more intoxicating than idle dissipation.
“I’m grateful, Kit. Keep in mind that any information you can dig up on his relationship with the lovely widow would also be most helpful,” he said.
“And the sooner, the better, before we trip over any more dead bodies.” As Shakespeare had so aptly observed, family tragedies had a penchant for being written in blood.
“Cherchez la femme?” quizzed his friend. “Mrs. Sloane might take umbrage on our assuming that there is always a woman lurking behind the evil of men.”
“Mrs. Sloane reads the classical literature. I’ve seen the books on her desk—including the Iliad.”
“It’s your hubris she’ll skewer, not mine, Wrex,” replied Sheffield. “Thank God.”
“She’s welcome to prove me wrong. I’m quite willing to sacrifice my pride, as long as it’s on the altar of Truth.”
His friend raised an empty glass in a mock toast. “To Veritas.”
Yes, to Truth, thought the earl. Whatever it might be.