CHAPTER 18
The following day proved disappointing. As Sheffield predicted, Mademoiselle Benoit failed to appear at the appointed rendezvous spot.
As Wrexford watched a dispirited Charlotte and Cordelia trudge into the drawing room after lingering for more than an hour near the gate of Green Park, he offered encouragement.
“Don’t look so blue-deviled. There are a great many reasons as to why mademoiselle couldn’t join you,” counseled the earl. “She may be afraid of her co-conspirators, she may be committed to attend one of the conference panels, she may—”
“She may be guilty as sin,” intoned Sheffield. He gave the coals in the hearth another jab with the poker and turned to face them. “Let us be painfully honest. She is one of the villains, and I think we need to treat her as such.”
Cordelia bit her lip but didn’t argue.
“The Weasels and their urchin friends have her under surveillance,” said Charlotte. “If she does anything suspicious, we will immediately know about it.”
Wrexford couldn’t decipher Cordelia’s expression, save to comprehend that it was a mix of conflicting emotions. She wanted very much for her cousin to be innocent, but such a hope was fading with every passing day.
“Patience,” he counseled. “We all know that investigations lead us through shadows and darkness before we see a glimmer of light.”
Before anyone could respond, a discreet knock sounded on the closed door.
After a moment, it opened a crack. “Milord, Mr. Griffin is here,” said their butler, “and is requesting an audience on a matter of great urgency.”
“Show him in, Riche.”
The Runner entered the room and stopped short on seeing that the earl wasn’t alone.
“Bad timing, Griffin,” drawled Wrexford. “No meal is being served at this hour.”
Griffin didn’t crack a smile, which didn’t bode well for the coming conversation. “Forgive me, milord. Riche didn’t mention that you had company.”
“You may speak freely.” He gave a wry shrug. “You know damn well that I will immediately pass on any information you tell me in private to those who are present.”
“I would hope that we are all friends, not enemies,” replied the Runner after a meaningful look around the room.
“So would I.”
Griffin thought over the earl’s carefully chosen words before responding. “Then with that assumption in mind, I shall proceed.” However, his gaze fixed on Cordelia for a moment before he continued.
“I just had a second visit from Mr. Ezra Wheeler, who as you know, is a member of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society founded by Mr. Milton and Mr. Carrick. He seems an observant fellow.” A pause. “With a sense of public duty to report any suspicious activity to the proper authorities.”
“Sarcasm is my bailiwick, Griffin, not yours,” murmured Wrexford. “Do go on.”
“Wheeler said he saw Mr. Mercer Wayland, who is—”
“Yes, yes, who is another member of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society,” interjected Cordelia.
The Runner nodded. “Apparently Mr. Wheeler spotted Mr. Wayland working in a study room in the library of the British Museum. He said that Mr. Wayland had half a dozen rare mathematical books—including several by Sir Isaac Newton—open on the table, and there were a number of papers with calculations and drawings spread out around him—”
“That’s hardly suspicious. Mr. Wayland is a talented engineer who, like his fellow society members, is presently engaged in overseeing the building of roads and bridges,” pointed out Wrexford.
“Yes, but Mr. Wheeler said that Mr. Wayland appeared alarmed at being seen, and quickly shuffled all his papers together to hide their contents.”
Griffin looked at Cordelia. “However, Mr. Wheeler had caught a glimpse of them. And according to him, the incident seemed very odd, seeing as Mr. Wayland’s expertise is not in any area of mathematics that would require the type of book he was consulting.
Would you agree, Lady—that is, Mrs. Sheffield? ”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not familiar with Mr. Wayland’s current work, so I wouldn’t know,” she answered.
“And you, milord?”
Wrexford experienced a twinge of conscience at being less than forthcoming with the Runner, who had always been forthright with him. But for now, he felt his loyalties lay with Cordelia . . . at least until they knew more about Oliver Carrick and why he was missing.
“I’m afraid that I’m as much in the dark as you are.”
“Hmmph.” Griffin huffed a reproachful sniff and regarded the earl with a hard stare. “And you know nothing that might shed some light on the situation?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then . . .” Griffin twisted the hat he was holding in his meaty hands and inclined a stiff bow. “I won’t take up any more of your time, milord.” Without further words, he turned and left the room, closing the door with a touch more force than was necessary.
“Damnation,” said Charlotte softly.
“I don’t like withholding information from him either,” said Wrexford.
“But until we know more about what is going on, we can’t risk revealing what we have learned.
Griffin’s superiors care more about quickly apprehending a likely suspect than they do about scrabbling in the muck until they unearth the truth.
And that would put our friend between a rock and a stone.
We all know he’s scrupulously honest, but he must answer to them. ”
“I agree,” said Sheffield. “I suggest that tonight we make another visit to Wayland’s gambling haunt.
And if he’s not there, then let us pay a call on him at his lodgings and see what he has to say for himself.
Cordelia mentioned to me that during the first meeting she and Charlotte had with the Revolutions-Per-Minute society members, Wayland mentioned having had a peek at Milton’s scribbling book. That now takes on a more ominous ring.”
The earl nodded. “Indeed. It’s time we cut through the smoke and lies and start eliciting the truth from Milton’s so-called friends.”
* * *
Charlotte flexed her shoulders, feeling pleasantly exhausted by her latest fencing lesson with Harry Angelo.
“Which is, of course, an oxymoron, if ever there was one,” she said with a rueful sigh as she reached for a paintbrush to add the watercolor highlights to her finished drawing.
But life was all about contradictions . . . and how one dealt with them.
She sat back and regarded her drawing of a road twisting through rugged terrain and ending in an unfinished bridge that disappeared into a gathering of storm clouds. It was an eye-catching image, but composing the captions was a challenge.
Transportation—the movement of people and goods from one place to another—seemed like such a simple subject.
And yet it was fraught with so many important ramifications.
The French radicals had made her think about how the cost of transportation affected the common workers and their ability to look for work.
From Cordelia and Sheffield she had learned about the economic ramifications .
. . and then there was the question of communication and military movements, both crucial to any government.
“Transportation is fundamental to how society works, and I must make the public aware of how this matters to their own lives,” she said softly. “I must make them keep their eyes on how our government deals with the issue as all the new technologies open up a whole world of possibilities.”
After massaging the back of her neck, Charlotte set to work, and after an interlude of laying in the subtle washes of color, she put aside her palette, satisfied with the finished drawing, the first in a series that she hoped would raise uncomfortable questions.
Especially for whoever had murdered Jasper Milton and stolen the papers containing the secrets of his innovation.
Her work done, she cleaned her brushes and headed downstairs to the Blue Parlor. Early evening had given way to the deeper darkness of night. Wrexford and Sheffield had just left to search for Wayland, while the Weasels . . .
“Have you finished your work? inquired McClellan, looking up from the sock she was darning.
“Yes,” said Charlotte.
“Then I’ll fetch some tea,” said the maid, rising and putting aside her sewing basket.
“Tea would be most welcome,” she said, repressing a wince as she took a seat in one of the armchairs.
Cordelia, who had decided to wait at Berkeley Square for Wrexford and Sheffield to return with their report, was reclining on the sofa, reading a novel.
“I thought you had already read Pride and Prejudice,” commented Charlotte as she caught sight of the title. “Several times, in fact.”
“Yes,” admitted Cordelia. “But in times of stress, a favorite book is a comfort.” She smiled. “The foibles, the fears, the absurdities of the Bennet family and their friends are a reminder that we are all far from perfect.”
The observation drew a sympathetic sigh from Charlotte. “All too true. But speaking of stresses, I’m so sorry that you have had no peace and quiet in which to adjust to married life.” She made a face. “I doubt many brides are gifted with the task of solving a murder on the day of their wedding.”
Cordelia allowed a chuckle. “Ah, well, neither of us has chosen to lead a conventional life.”
“Indeed,” she replied. But marriage was complicated under the best of circumstances. “How are you dealing with all the changes? And I mean it as a serious question. Please don’t fob me off with platitudes.”
The book closed with a whispery rustle of pages. “It would have been interesting if Miss Austen had chosen to write about the newly wed Lizzie and Darcy.”
“Yes, but as insightful and observant as she is, I wonder if she would handle it quite as well,” mused Charlotte. “So much of the complex dynamics of marriage is uniquely personal.”