CHAPTER 11
The glittering light from a myriad of candles blazed through the diamond-paned windows of the town house on Curzon Street, bathing the cobblestones in a golden glow as Wrexford and Charlotte descended from their carriage.
Hedley had arranged for them to receive a last-minute invitation to the French ambassador’s soiree.
“I never cease to be appalled at the egregious waste of money frittered away on sumptuous pleasures for the rich that would be far better spent on feeding and clothing the poor,” muttered Charlotte. “The beau monde simply doesn’t care.”
“That’s not entirely true, my love.” The earl tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm. “You and your pen make a number of them care.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Not yet.”
On that note, they passed through the portico into the grand entrance hall and made their way up the curved marble staircase.
After greeting their host and his wife, Wrexford moved to the archway leading from the main drawing room to the side salons and paused to survey the crowd.
“Let us part ways here. I wish to find Hedley.”
Charlotte spotted the dowager near the refreshment table and raised a hand in greeting. “And I will join Alison and her friend Sir Robert. If the female member of the French scientific society is in attendance, they will see to it that I meet her.”
He watched her walk away—the sight of rippling silk accentuating her lithe grace always took his breath away—and then turned his thoughts to the task at hand. There was one guest in particular whom he wished to meet . . .
“Ah, Wrexford, there you are!” William Hedley approached in the company of another gentleman.
“As you requested at our meeting the other evening, I am bringing over Mr. Marc Isambard Brunel to make the formal introductions. Though I must say, I’m surprised that the two of you have never met before. ”
“”Our paths have often crossed, but only from afar,” replied the earl after exchanging polite bows with the well-known engineer. Having missed finding Brunel the previous night, he was glad to finally meet him face-to-face.
“Your reputation precedes you, milord.” Brunel had lived in Britain for nearly twenty years, but his accent still spoke clearly of his French origins. He was a powerfully built fellow with broad shoulders and a long face accentuated by strong features and dark eyes that flashed with intelligence.
Brunel shifted, and although dressed in well-tailored evening clothes, he didn’t look entirely comfortable in such finery. His thick, callused hand held his crystal champagne flute a little awkwardly, as though he feared an errant twitch might snap the delicate stem in two.
“As does yours, sir,” said Wrexford. “Your engineering design for mass-producing pulley blocks for the Royal Navy was a stroke of genius.”
Brunel gave a Gallic shrug at the mention of his innovative factory in Portsmouth, which was capable of producing 130,000 blocks per year—a key factor in ensuring that the British Navy ruled the oceans.
“It was Henry Maudslay who brought my scribbles to life by building the actual machines. He’s the true genius. ”
“Progress in so many industries owes a great debt to him,” agreed the earl, who had encountered Maudslay and his engineering work during several previous murder investigations.
“His lathes and milling machinery, which allow for making better and more accurate parts for other machines, have indeed revolutionized our ability to create new technologies.”
“Quite right.” Brunel raised his glass in silent salute.
“But I have a feeling that you did not seek me out simply to discuss the general advancement of science in Britain.” He took a sip of champagne.
“Through several of my friends, I’m aware that your talents occasionally go beyond solving chemistry and other scientific problems.”
“As it so happens, I do have a few specific questions unrelated to laboratory results,” replied Wrexford.
“I am happy to be of assistance if I can, milord.”
“I’m interested in the members of the Society for Practical Science who have come from Paris to attend the conference on transportation at the Royal Institution.”
“It has been years since I left France,” said Brunel.
“I nearly lost my head during the Reign of Terror—as did the lady who is now my wife—so I have no official ties to the country.” Another sip.
“However, the new generation of scientific-minded individuals in France do often seek my counsel, and so I happen to be well acquainted with the members of the Society for Practical Science. What is it that you wish to ask me?”
“I understand that the primary interest of the society is roads and bridges,” explained the earl. “To your knowledge, are any of the members doing innovative work in bridge design? Or are they simply engaged in working with current technology and building principles?”
“An interesting question.” Pursing his mouth in thought, Brunel considered it.
A string quartet seated in a nook by the windows overlooking the back gardens began playing a Mozart sonata, the pianissimo tones softening the trills of laughter and clink of crystal.
The engineer quaffed the last of his wine and set his glass on a marble plinth.
“Most of the members—I believe that they number twenty-five—are engaged in the practical demands of rebuilding a network of transportation ravaged by over a decade of marching armies and warfare. Their efforts are devoted to practical work, not theoretical thinking.”
His gaze circled the ornate drawing room before coming back to Wrexford. “There are, however, two individuals who I would say are the intellectual leaders of the group.”
“Tell me a little about them,” pressed the earl.
“Jean-Paul Montaigne is the society’s president. I believe he has some family connection to England—an aunt, perhaps—and spent a year of university study here.”
Wrexford made a mental note of the fact. “Do you perchance know where?”
“I don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Does Monsieur Montaigne have a special interest.”
“Bridges,” answered Brunel without hesitation. “His background is engineering, but he’s also apparently very talented in mathematics and is interested in creating bridges with longer spans, which would give greater flexibility in routing roads through rugged terrain.”
“A possibility that is far more momentous than it might sound,” observed Wrexford.
“Indeed.” Brunel took a moment for reflection before going on.
“Important transportation projects, like Telford’s ambitious Ellesmere Canal, often run into monetary problems because the terrain demands lengthy detours which may make the cost prohibitive.
New technological innovations can help us conquer those obstacles. ”
“Is Monsieur Montaigne here tonight?” asked the earl.
“I have not yet spotted him or any of his delegation,” answered Brunel. “However, if it is bridges which interest you, I would recommend you focus your main attention on Isabelle Benoit, who is secretary of the Society for Practical Science.”
“A woman as an officer?” he mused.
Brunel quirked a faint smile. “You have no great regard for the intellectual powers of the fairer sex?”
“On the contrary, I happen to think that women are every bit as smart as men, but we give them precious few chances to prove it.”
“That’s exceedingly enlightened thinking, milord.”
“Some might call it exceedingly radical,” replied Wrexford. “Be that as it may, I’m aware that France is more liberal than our country, where most intellectual societies don’t permit women to be members, much less to serve as officers.”
“Allowing women to have both rights and responsibilities was one of the few good legacies that Revolutionary France left to the country. It allows the best minds to flourish regardless of sex.”
A pause. “So if it is bridges that interest you, speak with Mademoiselle Benoit. Her expertise in mathematics is even more impressive than that of Montaigne.”
Brunel once again surveyed the crowded drawing room with his sharp-as-steel gaze. “Ah, I still don’t see Montaigne. But that is Mademoiselle Benoit over by the bust of Julius Caesar, conversing with the lady wearing the smoke-blue gown.”
The engineer’s eyes remained riveted on the Frenchwoman’s companion. “Would you like me to introduce you to mademoiselle? The lady in blue is unknown to me—”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” said Wrexford. “The lady in blue happens to be my wife.”
* * *
“Here I go away to school for a month and already the family is involved in another murder investigation,” observed Peregrine. “Do you think that His Lordship has concocted some sort of special magnetic solution that draws him to dead bodies in need of someone to find justice for their souls?”
“Ha, ha.” Hawk gave a weak laugh. “Don’t ask me to explain the chemistry. I think it just naturally happens.”
Raven looked up from the mathematical puzzle he was trying to solve. “I heard Tyler say to Mac that Wrex was very much looking forward to an interlude of peace and quiet in the country.”
“Wrex does seem unsettled about something,” said Hawk. “I wonder what it is?”
Harper, who was stretched out in sleep by the front of the hearth, opened one eye and gave a gusty sigh.
“Nooo, I don’t think Wrex is hungry, Harper. Though perhaps he’s worried because you are eating him out of house and home,” quipped Raven, which drew a chortling from the others.
But it quickly died away as he set down his notebook and frowned in thought. “M’lady did mention to Aunt Alison that Wrex has been thinking about fathers and sons . . . and said something about him feeling that he hadn’t been very good in either role.”
“I wonder what makes a good father?” mused Hawk. Abandoned in the slums of the city as children, he and his brother had only had each other.
Raven raised his brows at Peregrine. “What do you think, Falcon? You’re the only one of us who has had a real father.”