CHAPTER 27 #2
Wrexford grasped the boy’s bony shoulders and turned him around. “See that iron grate up there?” He pointed out a small air vent set just below the high ceiling. “If we can get that loose, can you shimmy through it?”
The boy made a rude sound. “I ken wiggle through a wormhole, m’lord. That opening’s as big as bloody Piccadilly Street.”
“Excellent.” He scribbled a quick message on the diagram, before folding it and handing it to the boy. “Once you’re out, fly to Raven and Hawk as fast as you can and tell them where we are. You know their new residence?”
“Oiy!” Skinny held out a grubby hand. “It ’ud be a lot quicker if I squibble a hackney. Ye got any blunt?”
The earl dug out several coins from his pocket and handed them over.
Benedict assessed the height of the wall with a critical squint. “Even if I stand your shoulders and the boy stands on mine, we’ll be three or four feet short.”
“Yes, but . . .” He pointed to the iron anvil mounted on a sturdy block of wood. “I didn’t bring you here for your brains, Hillhouse. I figured that between the two of us, we should be able to move the cursed thing.”
A smile finally chased away Benedict’s frown as he flexed his muscles.
Wrexford drew the thin-bladed knife from the hidden sheath in his boot and handed it to Skinny. Blodgett had made the mistake of assuming that a fancy aristocrat knew nothing about the dirty little tricks of the rookeries. “This should make short work of the screws holding the grate in place.”
Flashing a gap-toothed grin, Skinny took the weapon and tested the point on his thumb. “I’ll have dem out in two shakes of a bat’s arse.”
“Drop it back down here when you’re done, bantling.” Turning back to Benedict, the earl rubbed his palms together. “Don’t worry, I do have an alternative plan in mind if this comes to naught. But in my scientific experience, the best solution to a problem is usually the simplest one.”
* * *
Pewter-dark clouds, heavy with the promise of impending rain, scudded across the grey sky and a chill gust blew in from the choppy river, bringing with it the fetid smells of the ebbing tide.
Charlotte huddled deeper within the cluster of pilings at the foot of the wharf and turned up the collar of her coat.
The wind-whipped spray clung to her lashes, the drip-drip of its salt stinging her skin.
Every bone in her body ached from fatigue. That she could will herself to ignore.
I am stronger than pain.
But fear . . . Like a serpent, fear coiled around her ribcage, squeezing so hard that her heart was thrashing wildly against her bones to keep from being crushed. Fear bubbled through her blood, burning like a bilious acid. It rose up in her gorge, so overpowering that she could taste it.
Raven had darted off to fetch a hot meat pie for them to share. And while the warmth would be welcome, the mere thought of food made her nauseous.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, trying to puzzle out how Wrexford had come to have such a commanding presence in her life.
It wasn’t physical—they saw each other infrequently.
Yet by some cerebral sleight of hand, he had managed to squeeze himself into her head, crowding her thoughts until few of them weren’t touched by his shadow.
Whether wrestling with a concept for her art or simply dealing with a mundane moment of everyday life, she often found herself asking, What would he say? What would he think?
That she might never hear his shouts, his growls, his laugh . . .
That she might never have the chance to tell him . . .
“Here, the barrowman had lamb—yer favorite.” Raven sat down beside her and broke off a chunk of the still-steaming pastry. For a moment, the stink of decay gave way to the sweet fragrance of herbs and spices.
“Ye have te eat,” he ordered, his dark eyes narrowing, daring her to disobey.
Charlotte choked back a brittle laugh at the irony of having their roles reversed.
That her little lamb—well, in truth he had never been a lamb, but more like a lion cub—was willing to fight tooth and claw rather than lose heart and surrender to the darkness made her feel ashamed of her moment of weakness.
She took a small bite and found it helped her swallow the worst of her terror.
“We’re going te find him, m’lady,” said Raven softly.
She smiled, and in an instant her despair dissolved, transformed by some esoteric alchemy into hope. Wrexford would likely have a scientific theory about the chemistry of it. She must remember to ask him—and watch him huff and snarl about the illusions of sniveling sentiment.
“Of course we’re going to find him,” answered Charlotte. And when they did, she was going to thrash him within an inch of his arrogant, devil-be-damned life.
* * *
The earl winced as Benedict’s boot heels dug into his shoulders. Feet planted firmly on the anvil, back braced against the wall, he couldn’t see what was happening up above.
He heard a scraping of metal against metal. Benedict grunted and shifted again. “Skinny has pried out the screws. I’ve got the grate.”
A good sign. As was the slithering sound of wool against brick and the iron-grey crumbs of mortar raining into his hair.
Another excruciating few moments passed, then suddenly the knife plummeted past him—a hairsbreadth closer and it would have nicked his ear—to bury its razored point in the planked floor with a quivering thwack.
“The lad is out!” exclaimed Benedict in an excited whisper. “By God, your plan worked.”
“Yes, well, it’s just the first step in the experiment.” Wrexford twisted awkwardly, his back pinching in protest as they slowly untangled themselves and dropped down to the floor. “As a man of science, you know it’s too early to gauge the final result.”
After placing the knife back into his boot, he dusted his trousers and went to examine the chemicals arrayed on the workbench more closely.
Benedict joined him. “Now what?”
“We wait,” replied the earl as he lit the spirit lamp and poured a measure of oil of vitriol into one of the copper cauldrons. “Or rather, you are going to wait. I’m going to try to stop Blackstone from leaving. Otherwise, we may never be able to bring him to justice.”
“But how?” Benedict cast a dubious look up at the tiny opening in the wall. “Even if you could reach that pinhole, you’d never get a leg, much less your shoulders, through it.”
“Not to speak of the fact that the effort would likely ruin a very expensive pair of boots,” replied Wrexford dryly.
Seeing that the acid had come to a boil, he selected several other chemicals and added them one at a time.
“Which is why I intend to go out through the door. As I said earlier, simplicity is always the most elegant of solutions.”
“But how—”
“There are benefits to employing a valet whose skills go beyond the ability to starch a cravat. Tyler’s knowledge of locks and how they open is most impressive.
” He selected several other chemicals and added them one at a time.
“Give me a hand and wipe the empty vials clean with the cloth on the workbench.”
Benedict did as he was told, then eyed the bubbling potion. “What are you concocting?”
“Sturm und drang,” answered the earl. “Thunder and lightning.” The ancient gods were adept at hurling bolts of fire and fury at those who dared to defy the order of the universe.
Perhaps Zeus, in his infinite wisdom, would give his blessing to striking down the overweening hubris of Blackstone and son.
Wrexford knew he would likely need a little divine intervention to pull off what he had in mind.
The soft pop, pop, pop of the boiling chemicals appeared to be having a mesmerizing effect on Benedict.
He sat unmoving, unblinking, his gaze drawn deep into the swirling vortex of crystalline color.
Then, with a sudden start, he looked up and read over the labels on the empty vials.
“Holy hell, you’re mixing an explosive, aren’t you? ”
“Evil alchemy deserves evil alchemy.” The earl crouched down and adjusted the spirit lamp’s flame.
“The explosive is for defensive distractions.” He then turned and gathered several more glass jars from the work counter.
“I’m also concocting a mixture of acids with which to sabotage The Behemoth.
That will make it impossible for Blackstone to demonstrate that Ashton’s invention works in an actual engine. ”
He uncapped one of the containers. “Alas, I’m going to destroy all your lovely work on the valves.
Otherwise they could run the boiler at three-quarter speed and prove it works.
But once the dastards are arrested, there’s no reason why you and Mrs. Ashton shouldn’t take rightful ownership of the prototype.
After you’ve repaired the damage, and I formulate iron for your new boiler, it should function perfectly, allowing you and the widow to file for the patent and carry on your mentor’s work. ”
Benedict’s face lit with a beatific glow at the mention of the invention. “Our new steam engine will change the world, and for the better.” But his smile quickly gave way to a sigh. “How unfair that Eli is not here to see it.”
“You, of all people, ought to know that life is rarely fair.” Wrexford methodically stirred the potion.
“You know about my past?” asked Benedict in a small voice.
“As we parsed through all we knew about your disappearance, Sterling was forced to tell us. He never doubted you for a moment.” The earl checked the liquid’s color. “Nor did Miss Merton.”
“I don’t deserve her,” came the hollow reply.
Ah, the follies of youth. Though given his own romantic history, Wrexford conceded he wasn’t in any position to feel smugly superior.
He paused for a moment, watching the bubbling chemicals .
. . and was suddenly struck by the realization that he wasn’t ready to cock up his toes just yet.
For some reason, it bothered him—a great deal, in fact—that he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell Charlotte . . . how he felt about her.
Love. Had he just admitted that? Perhaps not, as the earth hadn’t erupted in fire and swallowed him into the deepest pit of hell.
Still, the word didn’t feel half so frightening as he had imagined.
Indeed, it seemed to have settled somewhere deep in his chest and was pulsing a very pleasant warmth throughout his whole being.
He looked up. “If you would slink away from the lady you love because you think yourself unworthy, then you likely are.”
Benedict blinked.
“For God’s sake, let her decide for herself! She seems to have a brain, and knows how to use it.”
It seemed to take several heartbeats for his words to penetrate the young man’s despair. “W-Why thank you, sir! That is very sage advice—”
“Of course, it’s all a moot point if you stick your spoon in the wall here.
” On that note, Wrexford extinguished the flame.
“So help me fill the vials and refasten the lids—and bloody hell, don’t spill any of the mixture on yourself.
I’ll close the door as I leave, so you should be safe in here.
I don’t expect that anyone will come check on our progress for at least several more hours—and if Skinny reaches the place I sent him, I expect help will be here before then. ”
Assuming Raven had survived and passed word of what had happened to Charlotte, and that she, in turn, had mustered the full force of their friends.
That he refused to believe otherwise was perhaps a sign of his newfound sentimental weakness.
Charlotte would likely tease him unmercifully for being such a romantic.
A clash of verbal swords I would gladly welcome.
Wrexford indicated the vials. “I’m leaving the explosives with you.
Stand guard at the door, and if you hear anyone take hold of the latch, let it swing open and wait until they enter the room before smashing the glass at their feet.
The oak is thick enough to shield you. Give the flames a moment to subside, then run like the Devil and make your escape. ”
“Like hell I will.” Benedict fixed him with a resolute scowl. “I’m coming with you. You may need help in fighting the guards.”
Wrexford heaved a sardonic sigh. “Have you any experience in fighting for your life?”
Benedict’s expression betrayed a baleful twitch.
“I didn’t think so. And as I’d rather not die because of your bumbling, I’d prefer you stay here.”
“I’m good with my fists,” began Benedict.
In no mood to waste time with further arguments, Wrexford threw a quick punch that caught the young man square on the jaw.
“So am I,” he murmured as Benedict dropped like a sack of stones to the floor. If things went awry with his own plan, it might save the fellow’s life to be found bruised and unconscious.
But with a little luck we might both prove wrong the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished.
After rubbing the sting from his knuckles, Wrexford pocketed the acid, drew his knife, and set to work on the lock.