CHAPTER 21
Fatigued and frustrated, Wrexford entered White’s, feeling desperately in need of a brandy. Failure seemed to be dogging his steps—he had made the rounds of every scientific haunt and private club he could think of. But his quarry had proved elusive.
“Why the black face?” Sheffield looked up in alarm as the earl stalked into the reading room. “Is Lady Charlotte—”
“Lady Charlotte is, to my knowledge, drinking tea at Lady Thirkell’s salon. I, on the other hand, am in need of a stronger libation.” He signaled for the porter to bring a bottle.
“And two glasses,” murmured his friend.
Wrexford slouched into the leather armchair next to Sheffield and blew out his breath. “Confound it, I—”
He stopped abruptly on spotting the small table sitting in front of Sheffield’s chair. Several piles of playing cards sat atop the dark-grained wood, along with an open book. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Studying the principles of probability.” Sheffield didn’t meet his gaze. “Lady Cordelia was kind enough to explain some of the basic concepts when I paid a call on her and her brother this afternoon. She also gave me a book on the subject.”
The earl raised his brows. “You always complain that reading is boring.”
“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”
“And perhaps—” Wrexford bit back a sarcastic retort.
“My apologies, Kit. I’m in a foul mood.” After a glance around showed their only company were two elderly gentlemen sleeping in their chairs near the fire, he lowered his voice and gave a terse explanation of what he had discovered in Thornton’s laboratory.
“Ye gods.” Sheffield’s face tightened in shock.
“I’ve spent the day trying to have a word with him,” continued the earl.
“And say what?”
A good question. He made a face. “I merely wanted to have a conversation with him about electricity. DeVere seems to think his passion is merely intellectual, but I wish to decide for myself.” Silence settled between them for a moment. “You think that’s unwise?”
“You are asking my advice?”
“I’m beginning to question my own judgment,” admitted the earl. He waited for the porter to set down the brandy and retreat before going on. “I seem to be spinning in naught but circles. So, yes, I would welcome your counsel.”
“Very well—then I think it may be a mistake to confront him,” answered his friend. “I agree with Lady Charlotte that the finger of guilt points to him. And if that’s true, he’s a coldly cunning demon, so we can’t afford to give any hint that his perfidy has been discovered.”
Sheffield edged forward in his chair, ignoring the glass of brandy that the earl had poured for him. “We need to go back to his laboratory and try to find some evidence that will tie him to Chittenden’s murder.”
“The missing bollock?” muttered Wrexford.
Sheffield winced. “God only knows where that is hidden.” He shifted uncomfortably.
“We can’t hope for miracles, but if we can find a thin blade that might have caused the mortal wound .
. . or a black silk handkerchief similar to the one found in Locke’s rooms .
. . or anything that we might argue is suspicious.
. . Griffin trusts your instincts. However, he needs some tangible evidence before he can open an official investigation. ”
“And an investigation, even if it ultimately comes to naught, casts enough of a doubt as to the real killer that it may save Locke from the hangman’s noose,” mused the earl.
“So, why are we wasting time in chin wagging? Given the hour, I doubt Thornton is working at the Institution.”
Wrexford rose. “You’re right. Let us go and see if we can trap a fiend with his own ghoulish hubris.”
* * *
The introductions finally done, Charlotte gratefully accepted a cup of tea from their hostess and moved to take a seat at the far end of the grand parlor, intent on composing her thoughts.
The light from two ornate brass oil lamps on the refreshment table flickered over the members of Lady Thirkell’s weekly salon as they helped themselves to the sumptuous array of pastries and biscuits.
Names and faces blurred together amid the swirls of color.
The babble of unfamiliar voices tangled with feminine laughter.
Charlotte drew a steadying breath. And yet, despite being a stranger among a circle of close-knit friends, she had a sense that with time, she might come to feel at home among these ladies.
She spotted Alison, half hidden by an ancient marble statue of Athena, conversing with a trio of other elegantly attired silver-haired matrons. Next to them were two middle-aged ladies who looked considerably more eccentric.
Good heavens—is one of them wearing a Chinese robe embroidered with dancing dragons?
The dowager caught her eye and gave a mock grimace before turning back to her friends.
Repressing a smile, Charlotte shifted her gaze and began a careful study of her surroundings.
The muted wallpaper and draperies, done in soft shades of cream and taupe, created a neutral backdrop for an eclectic array of decorative objects.
Stone antiquities rubbed shoulders with Renaissance bronzes; delicate Meissen china sat atop a lacquered tea chest from China .
. . an ornate Louis XIV candelabra flanked a sun-bleached conch shell .
. . The effect should have been hideous.
But it wasn’t at all. All the items felt carefully chosen, and arranged to please the owner rather than impress visitors. Charlotte wished she had her pen and paints at hand so she could attempt to capture the unique vitality of the room on paper.
Lady Thirkell must be an exceedingly interesting individual—
“We are quite informal here. I hope that doesn’t shock you.”
A deep-noted voice jarred Charlotte from her thoughts. It reminded her of cool water running over smooth rocks. Unfeminine, perhaps, but not unpleasing. She looked up.
“Forgive me for startling you. Your great-aunt suggested that I introduce myself to you, seeing as you’re new to our little gathering.
” The lady held out her hand, an unusually strong and direct gesture for a female.
Her face held the same boldness—her nose was a trifle too prominent, her cheekbones too slanted, her mouth too wide to fit the pattern card of delicate feminine beauty.
And yet she seemed to be comfortable in her own skin.
“I’m Cordelia Mansfield—Lady Cordelia, if you wish to be proper.”
A pause. “Though I find propriety vastly overrated.”
Charlotte accepted Cordelia’s hand. “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Cordelia’s mouth. “I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or delighted.”
A lady who made no bones about challenging convention, noted Charlotte.
“I’m Charlotte Sloane—Lady Charlotte,” she continued, taking care to match her new acquaintance’s ironic tone.
Cordelia eyed her thoughtfully before asking, “Lady Peake mentioned that you’re newly arrived in London. From where have you come?”
“Italy. My late husband was an artist and found Rome a place of great inspiration.”
“Are you interested in ancient Rome?”
“I’ve studied Latin and have read the classics,” she answered. “But my interest is primarily in art, not history. I, too, paint.”
“That’s a ladylike skill I’ve never managed to master. I’m all thumbs when it comes to drawing—I can’t for the life of me make a straight line.”
“Art is rarely about straight lines,” murmured Charlotte.
“Indeed?” Cordelia’s expression altered, though the play of light and shadow made it hard to read. “Then what do you think it’s about?”
She knew she was being tested. “For me, it’s all about how you see the world around you. I enjoy observing things carefully and trying to discern all the subtle nuances.”
Before Cordelia could respond, Charlotte decided to toss out her own challenge. “Aunt Alison mentioned your name and said you have a gift for mathematics. For me, adding and subtracting seem more of a chore than an interesting pursuit.”
“Oh, numbers are far more creative than that,” replied Cordelia. “One can make them do all sorts of fascinating things.” A pause. “Things that explain the mysteries of the universe.”
Charlotte suddenly felt as if a finger were tickling at the nape of her neck. “I see I have much to learn from among those who attend this salon. Have you a mystery in particular that interests you?”
“Must I choose just one? Hmm, let me think . . .”
But their tête-à-tête was interrupted as a hail from their hostess rose from the hum of conversation near the bank of windows. “Lady Cordelia, you must come and explain Pythagoras and his theory of mathematics and music!”
“If you will excuse me, Lady Charlotte . . .”
“But of course.”
Cordelia gathered her skirts, but hesitated for a heartbeat. “I do look forward to continuing our conversation.”
And our verbal feints and parries, thought Charlotte as she watched Cordelia move away to join the others. No question the lady had a rapier-sharp tongue and a spine of steel. But whether that ought to be held as a mark against her remained to be seen.
“So, I see you’ve met Lady Cordelia.” Alison settled into the chair next to her and took a sip of her ratafia punch. “I’m curious as to your impression.”
“She seems fond of testing the mettle of those she meets.”
The dowager chuckled. “I think it is her way of separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Then I imagine she’s more at home here than she is in any other Mayfair drawing room,” replied Charlotte, her gaze still on Cordelia.
Alison set aside her glass and regripped her cane. “I believe Lady Julianna is in one of the side salons. Shall I introduce you?”
* * *