CHAPTER 27
A long, planked work counter ran the length of the laboratory wall opposite the forge. It looked recently constructed, crude but serviceable, and a quick look showed it stocked with all the necessary equipment. Crucibles, copper cauldrons, an array of chemicals in glass jars . . .
“If there is anything else you need, you have only to ask, Wrexford.”
The earl turned to see a tall, impeccably attired gentleman had come to stand behind Blodgett. A light dressing of Macassar oil sheened his thick hair, making it gleam bright as polished silver in the lamplight.
“I should like to think of us as partners rather than adversaries,” went on the newcomer. “You, of all people, have the vision to look beyond the strictures of convention and see the future.”
“A pretty speech in theory, Blackstone,” said Wrexford. “But theory is never quite as neat as reality, is it?”
“A bit of blood has been shed,” conceded the marquess. “But think of all the lives that will be improved by the revolution in steam power.”
And the few select pockets that will be lined by your murderous greed.
“Which makes the toll worth paying?” he asked. “I wonder if Ashton, Hollis and Nevins agree. Not to speak of your son.”
Blackstone’s face darkened. “My wastrel son was a blight on humanity. A leech. The world is better off without him.”
“It’s dangerous to usurp the power of the gods,” murmured Wrexford. “The Greek tragedies give ample warning of how the deities punish human hubris.”
“Ancient history!” scoffed the marquess. “I believe in looking to the future. What about you, Wrexford?”
“As a pragmatist, I’m most concerned with the present.”
Blackstone laughed. “A wise philosophy. Do what we ask, and—”
“And you might let me live?” said the earl, a sardonic smile flashing within the flitting shadows.
“That depends.” The marquess touched a hand to Blodgett’s shoulder. “Come see me when you’ve finished here, Geoffrey.” The well-manicured fingers curled in a quick caress. “You’ve done very well. I’m proud of you.”
Blodgett’s face came alight. He waited until the sound of his father’s receding steps had been swallowed by the thrum of warehouse noises before expelling a pent-up breath. “Is there anything else you need?”
Wrexford took a long moment to survey the rest of the work space. And then repressed a smile. A ray of light.
“I need one of the boys to help me with the various potions. The cauldrons need to be arranged in close proximity, so bring me the small, skinny one. He’ll work best in tight quarters.
” The earl allowed a stretch of silence before adding, “You had better bring Hillhouse, too, along with plenty of paper and pencils. He’ll need to explain to me the way the new valve system works so I can understand the exact amount of pressure we’re dealing with. ”
“I know the valves,” protested Blodgett. “I can tell you what you need to know.”
Trusting his instincts, Wrexford took a gamble. “Practical knowledge of the mechanics is one thing. But do you know the mathematical equations for calculating volume and pressure? The scientific formulas for various chemical compounds? This isn’t guesswork. It requires highly advanced knowledge.”
A spasm of fury twisted at Blodgett’s handsome face, which was all the answer he needed.
The bastard son, brilliant but barred from all the privileges of his wastrel half brother. His hunch had been right.
“So you see,” said the earl. “I need Hillhouse and his Cambridge education.”
“Anything else?” came the taut reply.
“Another pot of coffee.” Wrexford peeled off his coat. “But first, bring me my helpers.”
* * *
A huffing, puffing dragon, snorting fire and scalding clouds of steam, flapped its scaly wings. It was coming closer and closer—her throat was burning, she couldn’t breath—
“Wake up, Mrs. Sloane.” McClellan gave another gentle shake to Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’re having a bad dream.”
Blinking, she slowly released her suffocating grip on the pillow pressed against her face and groggily sat up. A baleful glance around showed that she’d fallen asleep fully dressed on the sofa. Damnation. Her boots had left streaks of mud on the lovely fabric . . .
“I thought you might like some tea,” added the maid.
Charlotte felt a tickle of benign vapor float caress her face. “Thank you. Tea would be divine.” She accepted the cup and felt her stomach flip-flop as she took in the shaft of bright sunlight shining through the windowpanes. How many hours had trickled by?
“Any word yet?” she demanded.
“A few promising leads,” replied McClellan. “Raven and Hawk are out organizing more help to follow up on them.”
“We’ll find him,” announced another voice.
Charlotte swung her gaze around and saw Sheffield was sitting in one of the armchairs, looking rumpled and wan from lack of sleep.
“We’re having the lads pass the word that there will be a very large reward for whoever leads us to the hackney’s destination.” His jaw tightened. “We’ll find him,” he repeated. “Satan would find Wrex’s sarcasm far too annoying to let him stay in hell.”
She smiled, as he had intended, but then, to her horror, realized that tears had pearled on her lashes and several had spilled to her cheeks. Turning away, she made a show of fanning her face. “Lud, the tea is hot as Hades—just the thing to chase the fog from my brain.”
McClellan tactfully busied herself with the tray, pretending not to notice the momentary show of emotion.
Charlotte took another scalding sip, welcoming the burn on her tongue. Damn Wrexford for being so . . . so . . .
Principled.
Infuriating man. She wished she could shake him until his teeth rattled. It was she who let passions take her to where angels feared to tread. Not him. He wasn’t supposed to care. Drawing a shuddering breath, she set aside the cup, aware that her hands were trembling.
Damn, damn, damn. Time was not on their side. Every minute that ticked by made it less likely they would find the earl alive.
Rising, Charlotte began to pace, feeling like one of the caged lions at the Tower menagerie. Thump, thump. She knew Sheffield and McClellan were watching her in concern. Wondering, no doubt, whether she was going to wear a hole in the floorboards.
The sound of steps suddenly grew louder.
She whipped around as the two boys came racing into the parlor.
“We’re now sure the hackney headed down te Limehouse,” exclaimed Raven between great gulps of air. “Alice and Pudge are talking with the mudlarks around the river and Harry is checking with the barrowmen around Limekiln Dock te see if we can learn which street.”
“I think we should alert Griffin,” said Sheffield. “He can muster a force of men and wait for further word in Princes Square, which is close enough to the area to allow them to move in quickly, once we’ve located the building.” He rose. “I’ll go. He’ll trust me.”
Charlotte nodded. “A good plan.”
“I need te go back te Bell Wharf and wait fer reports,” said Raven. To his brother he ordered, “Ye need te stay here, in case further messages need te be relayed.”
“Quite right,” she confirmed, then grabbed up her wool cap from the sofa. “However, I’m coming with you.”
* * *
A series of rasping clicks rumbled from within the heavy iron lock and Wrexford heard the mechanism release, allowing the thick-planked door to swing open.
“A word of warning, Wrexford,” came Blodgett’s voice from the corridor.
“The building is well guarded, and this door will be locked at all times. You or Hillhouse make one wrong move, or don’t have the formula ready in time to cast a boiler for the demonstration next week, and first Miss Merton will die, followed by Miss Beckworth.
” A shuffled step. “Then I’ll slice Mrs. Sloane’s throat.
She and Miss Merton looked thick as thieves, so I assume she’s also a friend of yours. ”
Two burly men shoved Benedict and Skinny into the laboratory, then stepped back as Blodgett moved into the doorway and gave a menacing wave with his pistols.
Weapons make mere mortals feel like gods, reflected the earl. But strip them of steel, he reminded himself, and they were once again just quivering mounds of flesh and blood.
“If she’s not,” added Blodgett with a wolfish grin, “then it’s bad luck for her.”
Wrexford reacted with a bland shrug. “You needn’t waste your breath with puerile taunts and threats,” he said. “Kindly close the door and let me get to work.”
As the portal slammed shut with a doleful clang, Benedict marched to the work counter and dropped the sheaf of paper and pencils with a muttered oath. “Bloody hell, you can’t mean to meekly sit down and do that dastard’s dirty work!”
He gestured at the chemicals. “We need to fight back! We can burn through the door hinges with acid, or . . . or set the planks on fire!” Flinging an arm up, he pointed to the forge.
“And we can forge spears from the test scraps of iron! I know how to work metal . . . we can sabotage the Behemoth . . . we can . . .”
Wrexford listened in amusement until the other man had exhausted his ideas.
“Bravo, Hillhouse. I commend you for your imagination. I daresay you could write a novel that would outsell those of Mrs. Radcliffe. However, I’m feeling rather lazy after all the rushing around needed to unravel this tangled plot. So I’d rather just be rescued.”
“Ha! And pigs may fly!” retorted Benedict.
“No, just a scrawny little lad,” replied the earl with a smile.
“What the devil do you mean—”
“I’ll explain in a moment.” He smoothed out a sheet of paper. “Skinny, they’ve had you moving coal around, so think carefully and describe as much of the building as you’ve seen.” Taking up a pencil, he drew a rough rectangle. “Show me the entrances and the position of the guards.”
The boy, as he knew, was keenly observant and quickly helped him sketch in some key information. It should, he decided, be enough.
“Well done, lad. Now, Raven tells me you’ve worked as a chimney monkey. Is that right?”
“Oiy!” answered Skinny.