CHAPTER 10
“A voltaic pile,” repeated Charlotte. It sounded vaguely sinister. She had heard the term, but had no notion of what it was.
“It’s a scientific apparatus that creates an electrical current through chemistry,” explained Wrexford. “It consists of alternating metal discs of copper and zinc, separated by cloth or pasteboard soaked in a weak acid. One can adjust the strength of the current through the number of discs used.”
“What’s it used for?” she asked. Aside from unspeakable acts on the human body.
“It’s proved invaluable in scientific experiments. Humphry Davy, working in his laboratory at the Royal Institution, made a number of important chemical discoveries using one—he isolated sodium, potassium, calcium, boron, and magnesium, just to name a few.”
“Nicholson and Carlisle isolated oxygen and hydrogen at the turn of the century, right after the voltaic pile was invented by Alexander Volta,” added Locke, his eyes coming alight. “A momentous discovery. And who knows what other ones lie ahead in the future?”
It was the first real show of life from him, she noted.
“You have only to look at the phenomenon of lightning to comprehend what awe-inspiring powers are waiting to be unleashed when we learn more about electricity.”
“Lightning may be an impressive display of pyrotechnics,” pointed out the earl. “But it’s also illustrative of power run amok. When uncontrolled, electricity can be a force for terrible destruction.”
Locke winced and held clasped his arms tighter to his chest. “That’s what Mr. DeVere says. One must be careful, rational. Restrained.”
Wrexford nodded. “DeVere worked with Davy on several of his chemical experiments, though his main interest now lies with living organisms. He studies plant reproduction and has a reputation for disciplined thinking, as well as an orderly approach to empirical research.”
High praise, indeed, coming from the earl, thought Charlotte. He considered most of his fellow men of science bloody idiots.
“Which is why,” went on Wrexford, “I would find it hard to believe he had any knowledge of what Chittenden was doing.”
“No, I don’t believe he did.” Locke shifted uncomfortably.
“Must we drag Cedric’s name through the mud over this?
I’m not saying he was right to be so driven to make a name for himself in the world of science.
But surely he deserves some dignity in death.
The public will seize on the tawdry details to turn him into a gruesome joke—urged on by that damnable scribbler.
A. J. Quill.” There was a tiny catch in his voice as he added, “I will gladly go to the gallows if it means he can rest in peace.”
“Murder strips away all dignity,” said Charlotte softly. “Secrets are bared, truths are twisted. And your sacrifice would only throw oil on the fires of ugly gossip. The best way to honor Cedric is to give him some measure of justice by finding his killer.”
“The answer doesn’t lie in the Eos Society—”
“Cut wind, Locke,” interrupted Wrexford. “You claim to be a man of science, so you know that only a bacon-brained fool assumes to have the answer to an inquiry before it’s made.”
A sudden banging in the corridor set off a chorus of howls and catcalls.
“Tell us who else shared your brother’s fascination with electricity,” pressed the earl.
Locke bit his lip. Charlotte saw the clash of conflicting emotions twist his features and knew all too well what inner demons he was fighting. It wasn’t simply out of loyalty that he was loath to speak, it was out of fear.
Fear of what awful truths he might discover about his brother.
How well do we know our loved ones? Not well enough, reflected Charlotte. Her late husband had . . .
She blinked as a blade of sunlight momentarily cut through the narrow window. Then it was gone and the murky gloom felt even darker. Yes, it was tempting to cower in the shadows. But uncertainty was ultimately more terrible than truth. It slowly ate away at one’s soul.
“Errare humanum est, in errore perservare stultum, Nicky,” she murmured, hoping he remembered their childhood Latin lessons.
His head jerked up.
“It’s human to make a mistake—it’s stupid to persist in it,” he whispered, a question rippling in his eyes.
“You’re trying to protect Cedric—and yourself—from his human flaws and frailty. It can’t be done, and you’ll end up destroying all that you value in yourself if you persist in it.”
Charlotte could feel Wrexford’s lidded gaze fix on her. Strangely enough, it helped steady her own jumpy nerves. It was he who had helped her summon the strength to unravel the tangled lies and deceptions around her husband’s death. The truth had liberated her from the ghosts of the past.
“Listen to her, Locke,” counseled the earl, breaking the tense silence among the three of them.
Locke took his head in his hands. His shoulders were trembling. “Dear God,” he mumbled.
She waited.
“Sir Kelvin Hollister.” The words rasped through his clenched teeth. “And Westmorly. Somehow the three of them were drawn into . . . the devil’s own fire.”
“Go on,” said Wrexford, when nothing more followed.
Palms still pressed to his temples, Locke slowly shook his head from side to side.
“I can’t tell you more than that. Truly, I can’t.
Cedric wouldn’t confide in me.” He forced himself to look at Charlotte.
“You remember, don’t you, Charley, that we studied the Greeks, as well as the Romans?
Well, I fear that they dared to open Pandora’s box. ”
* * *
“A dramatic young man,” murmured Wrexford, once they were back inside his carriage. “I take it the plays of Sophocles and Aeschylus—thundering with the fire bolts of Fate raining down from Mount Olympus—were also on your curriculum of study.”
“That’s not humorous,” snapped Charlotte.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” He leaned back against the squabs and crossed his legs. “You believe him?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. A wry grimace tugged at her mouth.
“When faced with a difficult dilemma, Nicky has always needed to go through several acts of wrestling with his demons. His position is a complicated one—jealousy is, after all, a primal human passion. But his good nature always triumphs.”
“People do change,” he replied. However obvious, he felt compelled to say it.
“I know that.” Over the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels, he heard her draw in a shaky breath. “And not always for the better. But let’s just say, intuition tells me Nicky is finally telling the truth.” Clack-clack. “As far as he knows it.”
The earl slanted a sidelong look at her face through the flitting shadows. “I daresay we’ll need to dig through a great deal more muck before we uncover the truth.”
“If you’re asking me whether I’m prepared to get my hands dirty, the answer is yes.” Charlotte straightened the placket of her jacket. “The truth, however black, is better than the gilded glitter of self-deception.”
The answer was what he expected. And yet, judging by what he had already seen, the truth was going to drag her emotions through the flames of hell.
“At the risk of having my words crammed back down my throat, allow me to remind you that the human heart isn’t sculpted out of cold steel.” Charlotte’s fierce sense of independence demanded that she never allow herself a whit of weakness.
“I won’t flinch from the answers we find, Wrexford,” she replied. “No matter what they are.”
“Fine. Then we need to move quickly. The government will be anxious to have a trial date set as quickly as possible. An aristocrat accused of murder is an acute embarrassment, especially during this time of social unrest. The sooner a sentence is meted out, the better.”
“No matter whether the accused is guilty.”
“But of course, Mrs. Sloane,” he shot back. “You, of all people, know that pragmatism takes precedence over such sentimental notions as innocence or guilt.”
She looked on the verge of replying, then merely turned to stare out the window. A thick covering of storm clouds had blown in to block the sunlight, dulling the already-drab streets around the prison to a muddle of gloomy grey hues.
“As it happens, I should be able to speak with both Hollister and Westmorly tonight.” Tyler, with his usual show of efficiency, had learned that there was a meeting of the Eos Society scheduled at the Royal Institution, right before a lecture by a noted chemist visiting from Prussia.
“They won’t want to miss the talk on hydrogen by von Krementz. ”
“Given what Nicky said about a possible romantic conflict between Cedric and Sir Kelvin, it also seems imperative to speak to Lady Julianna Aldrich,” mused Charlotte. “Women see things differently. Her observations could be invaluable.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt a dewy-eyed young innocent is going to open up to a dark-as-the-devil rogue like me.” A pause.
“Assuming I would be allowed within twenty paces of her before her chaperone summoned a regiment of Hussars to chop me into mincemeat. So, I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo that line of inquiry. ”
Her mouth tightened, and Wrexford understood her frustration.
The highest circle of London society was the one place where all her considerable skills—including the art of disguise—were of no use to her.
The beau monde was a closed world. A small world, where everyone knew everyone.
A stranger could not simply waltz in with a charming smile and well-practiced lies.
However . . .
Charlotte suddenly slid forward on the seat. Fisting a hand, she rapped on the trap, signaling the driver to halt.
“I’ll get out here.”
“Where—” began the earl.
But she was already out the door and moving with quicksilver stealth to disappear in the sooty shadows of the narrow streets.
“Damnation,” he muttered at the fast-disappearing blur. Whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to like it. When one danced on a razor’s edge, disaster was never more than a hairsbreadth away. And sure-footed though she was, the smallest slip . . .