CHAPTER 17
Charlotte waited for the gentleman in question to drift away from the group of diplomats gathered by the punch bowl, then discreetly followed as he wandered over to admire a display of rare botanical engravings hung in one of the side salons.
“I couldn’t help but notice your sash, sir,” she said, joining him in front of a colorful floral specimen by a renowned botanical artist from the seventeenth century. “You are a representative of the Kingdom of Württemberg, are you not?”
“You have a very discerning eye, madam,” responded the gentleman with a smile.
He was younger than most of the other foreign representatives in the room, and while only of average height, he held himself with an athletic grace that made him stand out from the crowd.
“Not many people here would recognize the coat of arms of my tiny country.”
“You are likely right,” replied Charlotte. “Even though they should, given that your ruler is married to the eldest daughter of our king.”
He acknowledged her statement with an admiring nod.
“You seem very well versed on international politics.” An apologetic cough.
“I know it is considered unmannerly by London’s Polite Society for a gentleman to introduce himself to a lady, but might I have the honor of formally making your acquaintance? ”
Charlotte responded with a light laugh. “Rules are vastly overrated, don’t you think?”
A spark of interest lit in his ice-blue eyes. “Indeed. Those who are unwilling to improvise rarely transcend the ordinary.” With that, he took her proffered hand and inclined a graceful bow over it. “I am Maximilian Conrad von Hauser.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” replied Charlotte. “And I am Lady Wrexford.”
“Enchanté,” murmured von Hauser. He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a liveried servant and passed one to her.
They exchanged a number of observations concerning the importance of the upcoming conference before she broached her real objective in seeking von Hauser’s company.
“As it happens, sir, the reason why I know a bit about the Kingdom of Württemberg is because I am acquainted with someone from your country.”
A twinkle glimmered in his eyes. “I do hope that he didn’t disappoint you, milady.”
“Not at all. I found him quite interesting and engaging.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” answered von Hauser. “Might I inquire who it was?”
“Of course. His name is Ernst Joseph von Münch, librarian to King Frederick,” replied Charlotte.
A look of puzzlement flitted over von Hauser’s features. “I didn’t realize that you had actually visited my country—”
“Oh, but I haven’t,” she said. “I met him here in London several months ago.”
“But . . .” He shifted uncomfortably. “But Herr von Münch is quite elderly, and these days he never leaves the Ludwigsburg Palace.”
“Yes, strangely enough, that is what I was told later,” responded Charlotte. “So I can’t help but be curious.” She looked around before adding, “Can you think of anyone from your country who might have had reason to impersonate Herr von Münch?”
If she hadn’t been watching carefully for any reaction, Charlotte might have missed the tiny ripple of alarm in his eyes before von Hauser quickly covered it with a baffled shrug. “Good heavens, no. I can’t for the life of me think of anyone, Lady Wrexford.”
“Ah, well, I suppose it was just a silly jest,” she said lightly. “No harm done.”
“On the contrary, I take this impersonation very seriously, indeed. You may be assured that I shall look into the matter,” he said, his voice bristling with indignation. “Such puerile pranks are undignified and reflect badly on the Kingdom of Württemberg.”
Seeing Alison appear in the doorway and waggle her cane, Charlotte quickly patted his arm. “Please don’t give it another thought. I’m sure you have more important things weighing on your mind.”
Leaving him muttering under his breath, she hurried away to join the dowager.
* * *
“Ah, how edifying that you have suddenly found a conscience, Mr. Garfield,” remarked Sheffield.
“You have every right to mock me, sir. I don’t claim that what I did was admirable. But Jasper was my friend, and I care just as much as you do about seeing his killer brought to justice.”
“Let us hear him out before we pass judgment on his actions,” murmured the earl.
Sheffield acknowledged the suggestion with a reluctant nod.
Garfield gave Wrexford a grateful glance before commencing his explanation. “Two of my fellow members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society are also in Town to attend the symposium given by the Royal Institution.” He hesitated. “One of them is Mercer Wayland.”
“Wayland was also one of Cordelia’s good friends during his university days,” explained Sheffield to the earl, “and along with Milton and Carrick, he helped her sneak into university lectures disguised as a male student.”
Garfield confirmed the statement with a nod. “We all respected her intelligence and determination.”
A smile touched his lips for an instant, and then his expression turned deathly serious again.
“About Wayland . . .” He slowly shuffled his feet.
“Even back then, he was quite a dandy and enjoyed hobnobbing with his aristocratic friends. But such revelries take money, especially here in Town, and he recently admitted to me over supper that his gaming debts have become overwhelming from trying to keep his pockets plump enough to carouse with his rich friends.”
Wrexford knew of more than a few reckless young men who had gambled themselves into ruin.
“And after we had a few more pints of ale,” continued Garfield, “Wayland muttered that the answer to his prayers would be coming up with a momentous engineering idea that could be patented.”
A pause. “The trouble is, he is quite smart, but he’s not brilliant enough to come up with such a discovery on his own.”
“So you’re saying that he might have killed Milton to steal his idea?” said Sheffield.
“Since you apparently overheard my conversation with Monsieur Montaigne and Mademoiselle Benoit—though Lord knows how—you are aware of the fact that I made a thorough search of Jasper’s lodging and found nothing. So I assume that he had his work papers on his person when he was murdered.”
“What about Carrick?” asked Wrexford. “Do you think he could be the murderer?”
Garfield gave an involuntary shudder. “I can’t imagine that is true. They were such close friends.” A grimace. “But neither do I wish to think that Wayland—or Wheeler, for that matter—would be capable of such a heinous crime.”
“Then why do you think Carrick hasn’t been seen since Milton’s murder?” pressed the earl.
“I—I haven’t a clue.” He hesitated and swallowed hard. “Perhaps you should ask Sarah Guppy.”
That Guppy was again linked with Carrick put Wrexford on full alert.
“What makes you suggest that?” he asked.
“She and Oliver formed a friendship during the past spring when he was working on a bridge repair project near Bristol,” replied Garfield. “She’s an unofficial leader within the world of mechanical engineering, and my sense is she took him under her wing.”
“Thank you.” The earl stepped aside. “I think we’ve heard enough, Kit.”
“A-Am I free to go?” asked Garfield in a small voice.
“Where are you staying?” inquired Wrexford.
Garfield replied with the address of a modest but respectable lodging house on Gerrard Street near Leicester Square.
“Yes, you may be on your way,” said the earl.
“But don’t think of leaving London.” As the fellow started to hurry away, the earl added, “And I suggest that you abandon your plan to buy the Chaucer book. The advance payment you received from the French radicals is blood money, and unless you wish to repay it in the same currency, I would give it back without delay.”
The fleeing figure was soon swallowed in the shadows, leaving behind just as many unanswered questions as revelations.
“I take it we may now head back to Berkeley Square,” said Sheffield, “where you are going to offer me a very fine glass of Scottish malt to wash the bad taste from my mouth.” He grimaced. “Perhaps the ladies have learned something useful from the elusive Mademoiselle Benoit.”
“Not quite yet,” answered the earl. “Tyler’s sleuthing also included gathering information on Wayland and Wheeler, the other two members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society, as well as Garfield.
Apparently, Wayland favors a certain gambling hell in St. Giles, and since Garfield has just thrown him to the wolves, I suggest we go there now and see whether it’s worth sinking our teeth into him. ”
“And here I was looking forward to a decent drink.” Sheffield blew out a mournful sigh as they started walking east.” Please tell me we’re not also planning to confront Wheeler with whatever guilty secret he’s been hiding.”
“Actually Tyler couldn’t find one.”
“Ye gods, is he a saint?”
“I have no idea,” answered Wrexford. “But according to Tyler, aside from working in the library of the Royal Institution on mathematical calculations and technical drawings for his current project, Wheeler’s only other forays are to the Survey Office, where he pores over pieces of land for sale near the River Thames in Berkshire. ”
“He sounds like a bore rather than a saint,” quipped Sheffield.
“According to those who work with him—I wouldn’t call them friends, for he doesn’t appear to have any—Wheeler is a very serious, aloof fellow,” continued Wrexford.
“He’s much in demand as a project manager and bridge designer and is well-paid for his services.
That he wishes to acquire land where he can put down roots rather than fritter his money away on sybaritic pleasures shows a pragmatic approach to life.
Most unmarried men his age are out sowing their wild oats, without a thought for the future. ”