CHAPTER 22
“Pressure, volume, temperature,” muttered Wrexford to himself as he entered his townhouse and headed straight for his workroom.
“If the temperature remains unchanged within a closed system . . .” He flung open the door, and marched to the bookshelf above the spirit lamp.
“Then the absolute pressure and volume of a specific mass of enclosed gas is inversely proportional.”
“Boyle’s Law,” said Tyler, without looking up from the eyepiece of the microscope.
“Yes, Boyle.” The earl quirked a grimace. “Do you, perchance, recall if he experimented with steam?”
“With a name like that, one would hope so,” quipped Tyler.
“Stubble the attempts at humor, if you please. As the patron saint of modern chemistry, the fellow deserves the utmost respect from the likes of you.”
“I do know the august history of science in our realm, sir.”
Ignoring the comment, the earl selected several volumes on chemistry and carried them to his desk.
“But enough on the past. Let us focus on the present. I’ve just come from speaking with Horatio Johnson and Joseph Clement, and their answers to my questions have convinced me that Ashton’s new design for a steam engine is technically feasible and will work. ”
“I’m not surprised,” said the valet. “He was one of those rare geniuses who was not only a brilliant theorist, but actually possessed the engineering skills to fabricate what he envisioned.”
“Yes,” agreed Wrexford. “But there’s just one problem.” He began thumbing through the pages of the top book.
“Which is?” prompted Tyler.
“The chemical composition of the iron used in the boiler. Ashton’s increase in power is based on his revolutionary valve design, which creates much higher levels of steam pressure than in previous engines. To ensure new machines won’t explode, the iron has to be strong enough.”
Tyler frowned. “Surely he must have been aware of that.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t a chemist. And to my knowledge, neither is Hillhouse.”
Wrexford took a long moment to ponder the problem. “My guess is the formulation of the iron was the last element to address before he could build a full-size working model.”
The drumming of his fingers beat a soft tattoo on the open pages.
“Are you thinking it’s possible—”
“Possible that he was murdered by a chemist who decided to steal the invention for himself?” interrupted the earl. “The thought has occurred to me.” The drumming grew louder. “Though it wreaks havoc with our assumption about the widow, Kirkland, and McKinlock.”
Tyler pushed his chair back from the worktable. “Well, as you are so fond of pointing out, one mustn’t make assumptions about the outcome of an experiment. One must base the answer on empirical data.”
“Thank you for throwing my words back in my face,” grumbled Wrexford. He made a face. “However, you’re right.” Silence, save for the tap, tap, tapping. “So we must consider two more things. Firstly, I need to learn more about gases and pressure.”
“Avogadro.” Tyler shot up from his seat and hurried to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. “He’s the leader in that field. And we just received the latest book on his work.”
“Excellent. I’ll begin reading while you head to the Institution and make some inquiries on who might be working with the composition of metals.”
“Very good, sir.” The valet brought over the volume. “And when I’m done there, I think I should visit several of the taverns where the ironworkers and toolmakers congregate. They may have heard some useful gossip.”
As he turned to take his leave, Wrexford muttered, “Would that your questions will help us untangle this damnable coil.”
* * *
Charlotte shot yet another impatient glance out the window and muttered an oath under her breath.
The sun, shining with an unholy brightness, seemed glued to its spot in the sky rather than following its natural course to drop below the horizon.
Even the clouds seemed to be taking perverse pleasure in prolonging the day.
They were nowhere to be seen, allowing the light to sparkle with a brilliance that drew an additional unladylike word from her lips.
Darkness—that concealing cloak which allowed her freedom of movement—couldn’t come soon enough.
With the boys absent because of their surveillance duties, she had no one to carry a message to Wrexford, leaving her no choice but to do it herself. He wouldn’t be happy about the choice, but so be it.
In for a halfpenny, in for a guinea.
The odds were good that he was already furious with her because of today’s print.
Forcing herself to sit down at her work desk, Charlotte picked up her pen and slid a blank piece of sketching paper onto her blotter. Mr. Fores would expect a new drawing as soon as possible. The topic was provocative—and he would expect to profit from it.
The ink-rich nib moved in a series of skirling circles as an idea began to take shape. It was, she decided, time to press a little harder on the subject of just how much money a patent could be worth.
* * *
“Kirkland has finally moved on from White’s,” announced Sheffield as he sauntered into the earl’s workroom. “Having lost a goodly sum, I might add.”
Roused from a deep study, Wrexford needed a moment to react. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he realized day had turned into evening. The room was wreathed in shadows, the last muted purple and gold hues of twilight fast fading into shades of charcoal.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Well past the supper hour,” responded his friend. “I asked Riche to bring in a collation of meat and cheese, along with a bottle of claret, to keep starvation at bay.”
“Do you think of nothing but your stomach?”
“Occasionally I contemplate my cravats. Do you think my valet uses too much starch?”
“Remind me again of why I allow you to run tame in my house,” snapped Wrexford. His eyes were aching. Avogadro’s book had proved less helpful than he had hoped . . . and his stomach was growling, which only exacerbated his fast-darkening mood.
“Because there are times I prove useful,” replied Sheffield. “To my point, you turn snappish when your breadbox is empty, and thus don’t think as clearly. So you ought to be thanking me for ordering the food.”
The earl gave a grunt.
“But even more importantly . . .” Sheffield held up the roll of paper he was carrying. “I brought you A. J. Quill’s latest print.”
Wrexford felt a stab of unease. Charlotte had been silent of late, honoring his request that she refrain from stirring up public interest in Ashton’s murder. But all that pent-up passion for justice was a powder keg just waiting to explode.
“And?” he said.
“And you had better have a look for yourself.”
He accepted the print without comment and, after shoving his books aside, slowly unrolled it.
Sheffield clasped his hands behind his back and began to whistle softly through his teeth.
Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor, decided the earl. Music for a funeral. His friend’s sense of humor was nearly as sardonic as his own.
“You’re digging your own grave,” he warned. “Another note and my pantries and wine cellar will close up tighter than a crypt.”
The sound immediately stopped.
Focusing his attention on the art, Wrexford made a thorough study of the image and words, willing himself not to react until he’d considered all the ramifications.
It was, he conceded, very cleverly done.
Diabolically clever, in fact. The question of who profited from patents fit into her overall theme of Man vs.
Machine, so in some ways could be seen as an innocent question.
But there were just enough allusions to Ashton’s mill and his earlier improvements in steam power to stoke the fires of speculation on whether his unfortunate demise had a darker meaning.
After all, in every circle of London society, A.
J. Quill’s hints of intrigue were known to have substance.
“That ought to poke a stick into the nest of vipers, whoever they may be,” observed Sheffield.
“It is,” said Wrexford in a carefully controlled voice, “a very good thing the infernally infuriating A. J. Quill is not present. Else I might to tempted to—”
A leathery thump cut off his words. The room suddenly turned colder as a sharp gust of air, redolent with the damp smokiness of night, swirled through the open window.
“If you wish to vent your spleen, milord, do so at me.” Charlotte straightened from her jump down off the sill and stomped a clump of mud off her boots. “Not the poor messenger of my misdeeds.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Sloane.” Sheffield inclined a polite nod. “As always, you look very fetching in breeches.”
Wrexford signaled him to silence. “Impossible woman—are you looking to get your throat cut?” he demanded without preamble.
Charlotte didn’t flinch. “I take it that is a rhetorical question?”
“Actually, it’s not,” he retorted. “A.J. Quill’s identity may be well-guarded, but as you are so fond of telling me, no secret is ever really safe.”
“Yes, well, we’re all gamblers in one way or another.” Charlotte paused to tuck a loose curl under her floppy wool cap. “And as you are so fond of telling me, a careful weighing of chance and probability before playing a hand turns the odds in one’s favor.”
“Theoretically,” he shot back. “When a gambler loses, it’s usually one’s purse, not one’s life.”
She shrugged.
“And it’s not just you who will pay the price. You’ve two young boys who depend on you.”
Her mouth quivered for an instant. “That’s a low blow, sir.”
“Yes, it is. But no less true.”
Their gazes locked and Wrexford could almost hear the steely clang of rapier against rapier.
Charlotte held his eyes a moment longer, then looked away. “The stakes are higher,” she conceded. “But before you continue ringing a peal over my head, please hear me out.”
He, too, backed off. “I’m willing to listen.”
Charlotte was about to begin when a knock on the door sounded. She looked to the window, but Wrexford stopped her with an exasperated chuff.