CHAPTER 11 #2
“Nay, it would be the ultimate hubris to counsel another on what choices are best. God knows, I’ve made enough mistakes to fill my own lifetime twice over.”
“Sub omni lapide scorpio dormit,” muttered Charlotte.
“Under every stone sleeps a scorpion?” A low laugh rumbled in the maid’s throat. “Ain’t that the truth.” Her mouth twitched. “Though I rather prefer a more pungent saying—semper in excretia sumus solim profundum variat.”
In spite of her tangled emotions, Charlotte couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “We are always in manure, it’s only the depth that varies,” she translated. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Latin, McClellan.”
“Only bawdy jokes or unladylike aphorisms.” A shrug. “Tyler is a bad influence on me.”
“Unladylike aphorisms—along with every other unladylike behavior known to man—are quite at home here.”
Their gazes met and held for a moment.
“Trust your heart, Mrs. Sloane. It’s a good one.” Outside, the wind swirled and shivered against the windowpanes. “Trust the earl as well. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
McClellan straightened and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Now I’ll go fetch you some tea.”
A warmth was already spreading in Charlotte’s belly, slowly dispelling the lump of ice.
Choices, choices.
She drew in a deep breath, aware that the thump-thump of her heart had suddenly turned steadier. And then she reached for her pen and began to compose the letter that would more than likely seal her fate.
* * *
“Sir Kelvin.” Wrexford caught up with Hollister as he turned into the arched foyer leading to one of the side salons.
The young man looked around, surprise widening his brown eyes. His face was undeniably attractive, the aquiline nose, well-shaped mouth, and square-cut jaw topped by a profusion of artfully tousled auburn curls. But no match for Chittenden’s gilded beauty.
“Sir?” he said with a tentative smile.
“Might I have a word with you?”
A furrow formed between Hollister’s brows, but he quickly smoothed it away with a polite nod. “Yes. Of course.”
Wrexford indicated the doorway leading to the corridor. “Perhaps somewhere more private,” he murmured. “I have some questions to ask you about Lord Chittenden.”
The light beneath the vaulted ceiling was muddled, grey on grey shadows dimming the glow of wall sconces. Still, it seemed that Hollister’s face paled at the mention of the baron’s name.
“I—I don’t know what I can tell you, other than I’m devastated by the news of his death. I wasn’t at the Duke’s soiree, so know nothing about the night of his demise.”
“I’m more interested in his life than his death.”
Hollister was now white as a ghost.
“Come, I won’t keep you long.” Taking the man’s arm, the earl led him to one of the study rooms at the end of the corridor.
A long mahogany table set with straight-back chairs was on one side of the room.
The two large oil lamps on the sideboard were lit and turned down low, the flames glowing gold within the glass globes.
A pair of leather armchairs was set by the large hearth.
Fresh coal chunks were in the grate, but they lay cold and dark.
Wrexford struck a flint to the brace of candles by the door and carried it to the marble mantel.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Hollister hesitated. “Sir, the lecture—”
“The lecture won’t begin for another half hour.” The earl perched a hip on one of the chair’s padded arms. “You won’t miss a word. Not that it would be a great loss to your understanding of hydrogen’s properties.”
A weak smile twitched in response as the young man reluctantly moved to the facing chair and took a seat. “I take it you don’t hold von Krementz in high regard, milord?”
“I have a reputation for being an overly harsh judge of my scientific peers,” replied the earl. “But, then, I imagine you know that.”
Hollister’s jaw tightened. His spine was rigid, his hands clasped together awkwardly in his lap.
“Relax, Sir Kelvin. I’m not going to quiz you on your studies. I merely wish to chat about what sort of interests Lord Chittenden shared with you and your fellow members of the Eos Society.”
“Like all of us, Chittenden was interested in a wide range of scientific subjects.” A hesitation. “We all felt there was so much to explore before deciding to focus on any one area.”
“Did your explorations perchance include experiments with a voltaic pile?”
The young man wet his lips. “Yes, we did some rudimentary work on generating electricity. After all, it’s considered a revolutionary discovery whose potential has yet to be unlocked.
However, the majority of our members decided to move on and sample other areas of study.
” An audible inhale. “As I said, we are still naught but dilettantes.”
A very carefully worded answer, which did not escape the earl’s notice.
“But not all of you decided to abandon the experiments with the voltaic pile,” pressed Wrexford. “Chittenden found it fascinating—and word is, so did you and Benjamin Westmorly.”
“I don’t know who told you that, but our interest appears to have been much exaggerated, sir,” replied the young man after chuffing an unconvincing laugh. “We were interested, but I would hardly call us fascinated. We performed a few extra tests on our own, purely out of curiosity.”
Wrexford wondered why the fellow was taking such pains to prevaricate. He decided to cut to the chase. “And did that curiosity extend to applying the current to your own bodies?”
“Good God, what an odd question!”
“One that you didn’t answer,” observed the earl after several long moments of silence had slid by.
Wool whispered against leather as the young man shifted uncomfortably. “It makes no sense that Chittenden would do such a thing.”
“Perhaps you should take up the study of law, not science, Sir Kelvin,” he said dryly. “You excel at tying your tongue in knots without really saying anything.”
The blood rushed back to Hollister’s face, turning his cheekbones a telltale scarlet. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell you!”
“The truth would be helpful.”
The young man’s gaze dropped to the patterned carpet beneath his evening shoes. “To my knowledge, neither Chittenden nor Westmorly used a voltaic pile for the purposes you stated. And I certainly haven’t.” He shifted his feet. “M-Might I inquire why you’re asking such strange questions?”
“Because I find myself curious about rumors swirling around his life,” answered Wrexford. “And even more curious about why he’s now dead.”
“His brother—” rasped Hollister.
“Has been arrested, yes,” cut in the earl. “I simply wish to feel certain that justice is being served.” A pause. “I’m sure we all do.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Hollister. “I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t think of anything to add.”
“Thank you, Sir Kelvin.” Wrexford slowly got to his feet. “I appreciate your time.”
Hollister bolted up from his chair. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m supposed to meet Mr. DeVere and several friends by the lecture hall entrance so we can all sit together.”
“But of course.” Smiling, he reached out and touched the other man’s sleeve. “Come, let us shake hands. I shouldn’t like for us to leave on less than a cordial note.”
“Of course, sir.”
Wrexford grasped the outstretched palm. A quick tug pulled Hollister close and at the same time he jabbed the heel of his other hand hard against the side of the young man’s rib cage.
The breath came out of him in a gasp of pain.
“I saw Chittenden’s body,” he murmured close to Hollister’s ear. “What devil’s mischief were you playing at?”
Fear twisted the young man’s face. “By God, if I knew anything about Chittenden’s death, I swear I would tell it to you.”
“Then you’ll have no objection to answering some questions about what the two of you were doing with voltaic piles.”
Hollister looked like he was about to be ill. The muscles in his throat jumped as he swallowed hard. “It . . . It was naught but stupid games. One of our friends in the Eos Society had read about von Humboldt’s self-experiments with electricity—”
“Who?” interrupted the earl.
“Westmorly,” came the reluctant answer.
So, Locke had been telling the truth about Westmorly being involved. “Go on,” he said.
“We were curious—ye gods, that’s not a crime, is it?” The young man exhaled a shuddering breath. “So one evening after DeVere’s weekly talk on the history of science, we decided to see for ourselves what the current felt like.”
“Just the three of you?” asked Wrexford.
“Yes.” A nervous pause. “But after several sessions, Westmorly lost interest and stopped joining us—”
“Why?” he interrupted.
“He didn’t say. He just stopped coming.”
The earl frowned. “Then perhaps I ought to have a word with him, too.”
“I doubt he can tell you anything—he really wasn’t very involved.” Hollister hesitated. “Look, I, too, found the allure fading. But Chittenden mocked Westmorly as a fellow of limited imagination, and, well, I suppose I took that as a challenge.”
“Because of your rivalry over Lady Julianna?”
“H-How did you know—” Hollister bit his lip. “The truth is, there was no rivalry. By the time we began toying around with electricity, Lady Julianna had made it clear she preferred me over him.”
Wrexford raised a skeptical brow. “Even though Chittenden had a more lofty title and a far fatter purse?” He let the words hover in the air before adding, “Not to speak of golden looks.”
“Lady Julianna didn’t care for any of that,” insisted Hollister. “She wished to marry for . . . a joining of two kindred souls. And she chose me over Chittenden.”
“That may be so,” responded the earl dryly. “But I doubt her father gives a fig for girlish flutters of the heart. The girl is an heiress.”
The young man’s breathing quickened and turned shallow. “Her parents are deceased, and she’s confident that her guardian will allow her to choose from the heart. I tell you, she informed Chittenden that she had made up her mind and his suit was unwelcome.”
Wrexford regarded him for a long moment. “So you say.” As Hollister’s gaze slid down to the tabletop, the earl continued his questioning. “Getting back to your duel by fire with Chittenden, how did it end?”
“After our last session in the laboratory, just a few days before his demise, I told him I wasn’t going to come anymore. His . . .” Hollister drew in a breath. “His fascination was growing. . . unnerving.”
“What the devil does that mean?” pressed Wrexford. “The sooner you loosen your tongue, the sooner our little tête-à-tête will be over.”
“I found his passion alarming, that’s all,” answered Hollister. “I just didn’t have any interest in being part of it.”
More evasions. The earl was fast losing his temper.
“What is it you’re not telling me, Sir Kelvin?” Wrexford flattened his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Surely, you’ve heard that I’m not a man who possesses great patience. Nor am I a man you would wish to have as an enemy.”
“If you must know, I was scared. Chittenden was making the voltaic piles more powerful . . .” The young man drew in a shaky breath.
“And now, with the lurid nature of his death . . .” Another hesitation.
“Murder stirs nasty gossip, and I fear if any talk gets out that associates me with Chittenden’s experiments, it will ruin my chances with Lady Julianna.
Mr. DeVere is a very open-minded guardian, but no man will allow scandal to taint a young lady’s good name. ”
“DeVere is her guardian?” he demanded in surprise.
“Yes, he was close friends with her family in India. Her father and mother were killed in an attack during the Second Maratha War, and their will appointed him to oversee her upbringing.” A pause. “DeVere dotes on her, but I’m sure there are limits as to how far his tolerance will stretch.”
At last, thought the earl. He sensed he was finally getting a truthful answer. Though it only raised more questions.
“So, please, milord, I beg you to stop showing interest in me. You’re known for uncovering sordid truths. People will notice and start asking why.”
That all made sense. And yet, something in Hollister’s eyes . . .
Their gazes locked for an instant, and then the young man flinched.
“Wrexford? Might I have a word . . .” Children hesitated in the doorway. “However, if I’m interrupting, it can wait—”
“No, no, I was just leaving,” exclaimed Hollister. “Mr. DeVere is waiting.”
The earl released his grip on Hollister’s coat and stepped back without a word. The young man quickly refastened the buttons and smoothed the lapels back into place.
But not before Wrexford saw the tiny spot of blood on his shirt.
Children stepped aside to let the young man hurry past him, then came to join Wrexford by the hearth.
“Our earlier conversation on electrical current suddenly caused me to recall an exchange I happened to catch between Chittenden and Lord Thornton.”
Wrexford frowned. The Marquess of Thornton’s interest was chemistry.
For the last year he had been experimenting with the newly discovered purple crystal called iode, and had recently written a paper expressing the belief that it might have some useful medical applications.
“You’re saying Thornton shared Chittenden’s interest in electricity? ”
“I overheard a conversation that seemed to indicate that,” answered Children.
There was nothing unusual in members of the Royal Institution asking each other about their work, no matter if it was in a different field of interest. Men of science were by nature curious.
“And now that you’ve made me think about it, there were elements to it that in retrospect seem a bit disturbing.
They were speaking—rather animatedly, I might add—about vital forces, and how electricity might affect the Spark of Life .
. . ideas that could be construed as dangerous, especially to a curious young man.
” Children paused. “Mind you, I’m not suggesting anything is wrong with the theoretical discussion of outlandish ideas.
That’s how we explore and learn. But given your earlier questions, I thought you might wish to know. ”
“Thank you,” murmured the earl. “As you say, it’s likely nothing, but I appreciate your passing it on to me.”