CHAPTER 11
There was an electricity in the air. Though the lecture wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour, a crowd was already beginning to gather.
Wrexford crossed the entrance hall of the Royal Institution, his boot heels clicking an impatient tattoo over the checkered marble tiles, and mounted the grand double staircase.
Turning left at the first landing, he hurried past a pair of elderly gentlemen and made his way into the cavernous library.
Rising from floor to ceiling, carved wood bookshelves filled the walls, the row after row of leather-bound spines muting the buzz of scholarly conversation. The earl paused, scanning the faces of his fellow members . . .
“Wrexford, I’m surprised you’re here tonight, given your opinions of von Krementz’s scientific method.”
The earl turned. “I try to keep an open mind, Children. I’m willing to listen—and perhaps learn.”
John Children allowed a tiny smile to flit across his broad, bluntly chiseled face.
A good friend of the famous chemist Humphry Davy, he had won acclaim for his own scientific studies—including the construction of the largest voltaic pile ever built while performing experiments with electricity.
“I have a feeling our guest will find it a difficult challenge to impress your intellect.”
Wrexford shrugged. “I don’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Science,” replied Children, “has no place for fools.”
“True. But that doesn’t stop them from filling our journals and lecture halls with utter drivel.”
Another smile. “Which again makes me wonder why you have come.”
Wrexford suddenly realized how fortuitous this chance encounter was. “Because one does occasionally manage to strike up an interesting conversation at gatherings such as these.”
“I would hope so, seeing as many of the leading thinkers in the country make up our membership.”
“Speaking of fools,” continued the earl, “are some of our young jackanapes taking their interest in electricity beyond the boundaries of serious scientific experiments?”
Children frowned. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing specific. Just a few things here and there that made me wonder. And as you’re earning accolades for your work in the field of electrical currents, I thought you would know if anyone is making mischief.”
“Not that I’m aware of. But then, my research keeps me busy in my own laboratory.
I don’t participate in the meetings of our young members or offer guidance.
So perhaps your question is better directed to .
. .” Children paused to give a small wave at the library entrance.
“Ah, here’s DeVere now. I hear he’s been generous in sharing his knowledge with them. ”
The earl watched as a tall, silver-haired gentleman acknowledged Children’s gesture and made his way to join them.
“Wrexford,” murmured DeVere, after greeting Children. “What a surprise to see you here tonight. You’ve become a rare sight at our evening lectures. Indeed, I was beginning to think you had abandoned chemistry for biology.”
It was, conceded the earl, a mildly amusing quip, given his involvement in the investigations of several lurid murders. But not quite deserving of DeVere’s self-satisfied smirk. The man tended to have a lofty concept of his own cleverness—and a fondness for the sound of his own voice.
However, his scientific work was first rate, so Wrexford held back a biting retort.
“I do hope you haven’t stumbled over another dead body recently,” added DeVere.
“I’m making every effort to tread more carefully these days,” he replied. “My valet dislikes it when I get bloodstains on my boots.”
“Forgive me,” said DeVere, his expression turning more sober. “I didn’t mean to jest about Ashton. He was a fine fellow and a brilliant man of science. He shall be sorely missed.”
“Yes.” The earl paused. “And it seems our august Institution has recently suffered the loss of another member.”
“Ah, yes.” A mournful sigh. “Lord Chittenden was a young man of remarkable potential. It was a terrible shock to hear of his demise.”
“Children was just telling me you served as a mentor to him and his friends.”
“You must mean the Eos Society,” replied DeVere. “A very interesting group of young men. So full of enthusiasm and curiosity.”
“Wrexford was wondering whether some of the fellows are a bit too curious,” murmured Children as he signaled one of the waiters to bring over a tray of champagne. “He was asking whether they are playing with fire within our august walls.”
DeVere’s brows notched up. “In what way?”
“In playing dangerous games with the electricity generated by a voltaic pile,” answered Wrexford.
“I suppose we all do silly things in our youth, and take reckless chances. It’s the nature of life.” DeVere took a small sip of his champagne. “But we learn from our mistakes and quickly become wiser.”
“Assuming we survive them,” said the earl softly.
“True,” conceded DeVere, lifting his glass in salute.
“However, having spent a good amount of time discussing science with the Eos Society and answering their questions, I’m happy to say I’ve seen no cause for alarm.
They’re passionate about their interests, open-minded and eager to explore—all excellent attributes for those who are looking to engage in serious scientific inquiry. ”
“Let us hope they don’t waste their time exploring the works of Aldini and Galvani in regard to electricity.” Children made a face. “Twitching frogs, vital forces of life—their concept of Vitalism was nothing but circus stunts and charlatanism!”
“True,” mused DeVere. “But I’ve always believed there are good lessons to be learned from the wrong turns in science.”
Wrexford didn’t disagree. But what he had seen on Chittenden’s corpse raised unsettling questions.
DeVere remained preoccupied with the point he had raised. Pursing his lips in thought, he went on. “When you think on it, a great many learned men were fascinated with Vitalism. Alexander von Humboldt wrote about experimenting with electricity on his own body when he was a young man.”
“Out of sheer boredom, and frustration, if I recall,” pointed out Wrexford.
“To please his mother, who demanded that her sons be useful to society, he was working as a mining inspector for the government, but hated feeling confined to one narrow discipline. What he really yearned to do was travel and explore the wonders of the world.”
“The allure of such electrical experiments passed,” agreed DeVere. “As well it should have. There was nothing to be learned from following that path.” His brow suddenly furrowed. “Are you implying the members of the Eos Society are doing more than just testing their curiosity with such stuff?”
The earl gave a small shrug. “You would know better than I.”
“Good God.” Frowning, DeVere quaffed a long swallow of wine. “I think you’re wrong. But be assured I’ll keep a watchful eye on the group and see that they don’t stray too far from the path of rational inquiry.”
That, of course, all depended on how one defined the word rational.
Wrexford was cynical enough to have little faith that most people agreed on the definition.
Given that DeVere had lived in India, well outside the cocoon of aristocratic privilege, he ought not be so na?ve about man’s capacity for illogic.
Another quick glance around the fast-filling room showed that Sir Kelvin Hollister had finally made an appearance, though there was no sign of Westmorly.
“Better you than me, DeVere” he responded. “But then, I’m not known for my patience.” With that, Wrexford inclined a tiny nod and took his leave.
* * *
Forcing herself to concentrate was proving harder than herding a pack of feral cats. But reminding herself that Mr. Fores deserved more than a mediocre effort, Charlotte managed to compose a pithy satirical drawing on the Duchess of York and her ever-expanding menagerie of animals at Oatlands.
Eccentricity among the aristocracy was a popular subject. The public loved to laugh at their betters.
Once the last lines were inked in on the drawing, and the wash of colors added, she sat back and slowly began to clean her brushes.
Choices, choices. Since taking her abrupt leave from Wrexford, her thoughts had been agitated, her head at war with her heart.
Cold logic demanded she take one course of action, while raw emotion spoke in far different terms. She could either choose to stay on her current path in life—one of hard-won independence, cobbled together on her own terms—or commit herself to saving Nicholas.
She didn’t see how she could do both.
A soft knock on her workroom door roused her from such mordant musings. The boys had gone out to make the inquiries she had requested. Which meant it could only be the maid.
She hesitated, in no mood for conversation.
McClellan clicked open the latch on hearing no response. “Would you care for a cup of tea and perhaps a cold collation of meat and cheese?” she asked. “You ate nothing at supper.”
“I wasn’t particularly hungry.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t need to fill your breadbox. In my experience, an empty stomach can affect one’s judgment. And not for the better.”
Charlotte huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m not sure a bite of roast beef or cheddar is going to gift me with great wisdom.”
“Perhaps not. But I daresay you’ll feel better without a painful gnawing in your belly.”
“I’m not sure food is going to do away with that.”
Leaning a bony shoulder against the molding, McClellan cocked her head. “Still wrestling with your better nature?”
An unseen finger of air seemed to tug at the candle in the maid’s hand. The flame shimmied, setting off jumpy flickers of red-gold light. They were gone in an instant, leaving behind a darkness that looked even more impenetrable than before.
“You’ve make it clear which combatant you think should win,” said Charlotte softly.