CHAPTER 20
His boots squelching, his hat dripping, Wrexford hurried through the entrance of the Royal Institution.
“Looks like we’ve had enuff rain this morning te float Noah’s Ark, milord,” said one of the porters as he helped the earl out of his sodden overcoat.
“Indeed.” The damn fellow likely wouldn’t sound so cheerful if he were soaked to the skin. “By the by, is Thornton in the building today?”
“Not that I know of, sir. But I was called away for a time to help with moving some crates in the wine cellar.”
The earl thought for a moment. “What about DeVere?”
“Oiy. He’s been here for some hours.”
After a muttered thanks, Wrexford made his way to the reading room, intent on drying his trousers by the blazing fire before heading upstairs to search for the scholar.
DeVere, however, was sitting in one of the deep leather chairs by the hearth, a book of hand-colored botanical prints open in his lap.
“Is gardening among your many interests?” asked the earl, taking up a position by the brass fender and turning his back to the flames.
DeVere looked up with a faint smile. “My interest in peas is purely scientific. I’ve been working with green and yellow varieties to see if I can detect patterns about how traits are passed on.”
“Interesting.” Wrexford looked around. The room was deserted at this hour. “Might I ask you a few questions on a different subject?”
The book fell shut. “Certainly.”
The earl shifted the facing chair a little closer to DeVere and took a seat. The man had a high opinion of himself and at times could be a pompous arse. But there was no questioning his intelligence and expertise in a number of scientific disciplines.
“I shall be direct if you don’t mind, rather than waste your time or mine in oblique pleasantries,” he began. “Has Lord Thornton shown any interest in voltaic piles?”
The scholar took his time before answering. “That depends on what you mean. If you’re asking whether I know of his doing any actual experimenting, the answer is no. However, he has, on several occasions, engaged me in lengthy conversations on electrical current and its possibilities.”
Wrexford felt a prickling at the back of his neck. “Could you be a little more specific?”
DeVere’s mouth thinned for an instant. “I’m not sure that would be helpful. When discussing theories, we all tend to get a little carried away. Imagination can tangle with reality, and we say things we don’t really believe.”
“I applaud your sense of honor, but in this case, I hope you will be forthright.” He gave another glance around the room. “A life may depend on it.”
“I see.” The scholar sat back and steepled his fingers. “I’m aware of . . . might we say, your interest in solving crimes. Does this have something to do with . . .” He let his question trail off.
Wrexford met the other man’s gaze and said nothing.
“I see,” repeated DeVere, and then looked away.
“How to put this . . .” His fingertips came up to tap at the point of his chin.
“Thornton seemed fascinated by Aldini’s experiments.
He kept pressing me on whether I thought Vitalism was a viable theory, and could it be possible that Aldini had just not discovered the correct way to use electrical current to . . .”
Wrexford edged forward in his chair.
“To reanimate the dead,” finished the scholar after a slight hesitation.
“But that said, I truly don’t think he believes in that fiddle-faddle.
Ideas are exciting, and we men of science like to play with them—but in words only.
I’m repeating the conversation as accurately as I can, because you asked for complete candor.
However, I’ll reiterate again that I think he merely got carried away in his theoretical enthusiasm. ”
“Thank you,” responded the earl. “I understand your caveat and agree with your reasoning. Science is indeed all about questioning accepted assumptions, and imagining the unthinkable.”
DeVere nodded. “Is there something else?”
“Yes.” This was much more delicate. “I understand you’re the guardian of Lady Julianna Aldrich.”
“Yes.” The scholar looked a little unsettled. “What possible connection could this have with your other question?”
“I’m simply trying to get a clearer picture of the Eos Society and its members. I’ve heard that some of the young gentlemen were acquainted with Lady Julianna and I wondered how that came about?”
“Why, through me, of course,” replied the scholar. “I hold frequent soirees for my scientific-minded acquaintances. Some of the members aren’t serious scholars and didn’t choose to come. But Lord Chittenden, Sir Kelvin Hollister, and Benjamin Westmorly often attended.”
“Is Lady Julianna interested in science?”
“Very much so. The fact is, she’s brilliant.” DeVere paused. “Though others use less flattering words.”
“Oh?” The earl raised a brow.
“As you know, intelligence isn’t encouraged in the young ladies of the ton.”
“You’re saying she’s a Bluestocking?”
The scholar considered the question. “She’s conversant in literature, history, mathematics, and science—she has an inquisitive mind, so I’ve seen to it that she’s had the finest tutors money can hire.”
They must be very fine, thought Wrexford, seeing as DeVere was rich as Croesus.
“She’s also deeply interested in more esoteric subjects, like traditional Indian philosophies and beliefs.”
Wrexford frowned. “Do you mean mysticism?”
“Our English words aren’t always capable of capturing the nuances of Indian beliefs,” answered DeVere carefully.
A beautiful, exotic young lady with an aura of intellectual mystery—no wonder the members of the Eos Society were drawn to her like moths to a flame.
“Julianna is different. It’s one of the reasons I invited the Eos Society to my entertainments. If she is to meet a kindred soul who will accept her for who she is, it will likely be a young man interested in science.”
Ah, now we’re at the heart of the matter, thought the earl, hoping to discern the truth from the lies regarding the romantic entanglements. “Sir Kelvin claims she favored his suit over that of Lord Chittenden. Is that true?”
DeVere let out a light laugh. “I like to think of myself as Lady Julianna’s friend and mentor, but do you really think a nineteen-year-old would confide such intimate affairs of the heart to her guardian?”
Wrexford answered with a wry grimace. “Thankfully, I know precious little about nineteen-year-old young ladies and how their minds work.” He rose as one of the porters entered the room.
“Mr. DeVere, your ward has arrived, and is waiting in the corridor for you to escort her to the lecture hall.”
“Please tell her I’ll be there momentarily.” To the earl, he added, “She is very much looking forward to Children’s lecture on electrical current.”
“I imagine it will be very interesting,” said Wrexford as the scholar began to gather up his books. “Again, my thanks for your time and candor.”
“I wish you luck in . . . whatever conundrum you’re looking to solve.”
“I shall need it,” murmured the earl under his breath. He started to move away and then suddenly thought of one last query.
“Do you know whether Thornton wears a Wellington hat with something shiny attached to its band?”
DeVere looked at him blankly. “I haven’t the foggiest notion. Why?”
“It’s not important.” Wrexford left the room, intent on checking whether Thornton was attending the upcoming lecture.
As he left the room, he passed a young lady chatting with one of the Institution’s governors.
She was dressed in an elegant walking gown of slate-colored silk with a paisley shawl of finely woven Kashmir wool draped around her shoulders.
The muted tones of burgundy and grey accentuated the reddish highlights in her dark mahogany hair.
Lady Julianna Aldrich was bewitchingly beautiful, noted Wrexford. And as their eyes met for an instant, he understood how young men could be entranced by the siren song swirling in those sea-green orbs.
Tie me to the mast.
Laughing at something her companion said, she looked away. He continued up the stairs and into the lecture hall. There was, however, no sign of Thornton, and after waiting for a quarter hour, watching as the seats filled to capacity, he decided to try his luck elsewhere.
* * *
Alison gave an owlish squint through her quizzing glass as her butler escorted Charlotte into the drawing room. “Is that another Madame Franchot creation?”
“Why, yes, it is,” she answered.
The dowager gave a low snort and patted a spot on the sofa beside her. “Come. Sit. You have many secrets I’m anxious to learn, my dear. But I just might sell my soul to Lucifer to discover how you convinced London’s most exclusive dressmaker to fashion your wardrobe.”
Charlotte repressed a smile. The dowager’s tart sense of humor hadn’t diminished over the years.
Much as the earlier round of social calls had been terrifying to contemplate, Alison’s pithy commentary—whispered sotto voce as the teacups were passed—and unflinching support had made the first foray into London’s beau monde go far smoother than she ever imagined possible.
That was, of course, because not only was the dowager a Dragon, she was also impressively accomplished at telling outrageous farididdles. Who would have guessed that such an elderly grande dame could spout such lies?
“I lust after one of her ball gown designs—L’Ange de Ciel,” continued Alison. “But I’ve been told I’m on a waiting list that will likely stretch into the next century.” A sigh. “No doubt Madame Franchot doesn’t want a bag of old bones making her divine creations look less than celestial.”
“The story of how I know her is one you shall hear at some point, Aunt Alison,” replied Charlotte. “In the meantime, I shall have a word with Franny about the gown.” She allowed a small pause. “Have you perchance thought of what fabric might suit?”
“The sky-blue watered silk from Italy,” answered the dowager without hesitation.
“A lovely choice,” murmured Charlotte.