CHAPTER 10
Wrexford was still sorting through his feelings as he entered his townhouse. It felt as if something had changed between him and Charlotte....
“Though I’m damned if I can say exactly how,” he mused. Words didn’t come easily when it came to articulating emotions.
They had both spoken—however obliquely—of the future. What that signified—
“Where the devil have you been?” demanded Sheffield, looking up from the sheaf of notes in his lap as the earl pushed through the door of the workroom. “And why is Tyler not here?”
“Because . . .”
Because, thought the earl, he and I are running ourselves ragged trying to pull your cods out of the fire.
Reminding himself that he wasn’t the only one who was struggling with fear and worry, Wrexford drew a breath to quell his momentary ire.
“Because he is pursuing a lead as to the location of Professor Sudler’s private lair.
As for my whereabouts, I was meeting with Lady Charlotte, who also undertook some sleuthing last night—in a very dangerous area, I might add. ”
“Forgive me.” Sheffield pressed his palms to his brow.
His face was pale and drawn, with ink-dark lines of anxiety etched at the corners of his eyes.
“I feel so bloody useless.” He grimaced.
“Hell, mere children are more skilled than I am at breaking into a house and knowing how to conduct a clandestine search on their own.”
“The Weasels aren’t mere children,” said the earl dryly. “They’re afreets—demon spirits who possess unnatural powers for navigating the dark world of mischief and mayhem.”
“Ha-ha.” A weak laugh, but it seemed to break the tension in the air.
“When was the last time you slept?” asked Wrexford, feeling a bone-deep weariness as he slumped into his desk chair.
“Dunno.” Sheffield blinked, looking like a startled owl as he turned away from the lamplight. “I can’t remember.”
“Exhaustion does no one any good.” With his own nerves tied in knots, the earl was in no frame of mind to deal with his friend’s emotions. “Go home and get some rest.”
“But . . .” Sheffield held up the papers in his lap. “I’ve found something in Woodbridge’s correspondence that may be another clue.”
“The devil be damned, it can wait until morning, Kit.”
Sheffield looked as if he had been punched in the gut. He sat for a moment in stunned silence, then rose and inclined a stiff nod. “Again, my apologies. I had no right to draw you and Lady Charlotte into this mess.”
Wrexford expelled a harried sigh. “Sit.”
His friend hesitated.
“Lady Charlotte is making another foray into the stews around the docklands tonight, after attending Lady Havemeyer’s musical soiree.” The earl’s hands fisted. “Alone.”
Sheffield pivoted and retreated into the shadows. A muted clink, a whispery splash. He returned and handed Wrexford a glass.
“It seems we both could use some liquid courage.” The candlelight caught in a swirl of amber as he raised his own whisky to his lips. “Slàinte.”
The earl drew in a mouthful of the fiery malt. Would that it could melt the ice in his belly.
Sheffield returned to his chair. “Is there nothing we can do to . . . help?”
Wrexford shook his head. “She’s meeting with another woman who she thinks may have some information that will help us.
” Reminding himself that Sheffield didn’t yet know of the possible connection between the murder at Queen’s Landing and Lady Cordelia’s disappearance, he didn’t elaborate.
“And she told me in no uncertain terms that my presence might be noticed and might put her in danger.”
“But why—”
Wrexford silenced him with grunt. “She said she’ll explain it to me later.”
Sheffield stared down into his glass and gave it a swirl. They both took another sip, savoring the comradely silence of longtime friends. “It seems we’re both cursed with caring for ladies too smart and too fearless for their own good.”
A mirthless laugh. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Slàinte.” Sheffield repeated the Gaelic toast and downed the rest of his whisky before rising and fetching the bottle to refill their glasses.
At this rate they would soon be four sheets to the wind, thought the earl. And perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing, given where the conversation was headed.
“For now, let’s focus our attention on finding our elusive Cambridge professor,” he muttered after another swallow of spirits. “Though it may only be a wild goose chase.”
“No, I think we’re on the right trail.” Sheffield’s voice held a note of veiled excitement as he suddenly sat up straighter. “I’ve just recalled that Woodbridge attended Cambridge!”
“So did a great many other gentlemen,” said Wrexford. “Granted, it’s a connection, but a very tenuous one.” He spun the glass between his palms. “We must also address Lady Cordelia’s financial activities.”
* * *
The sonorous notes of a string quartet swirled through the softly flickering candlelight, the graceful melody echoing the elegant furnishings and muted hues of the grand music room.
Quelling her impatience, Charlotte sat amid the appreciative audience, hands folded primly in her silk-swathed lap, and made herself concentrate on the music.
Mozart, not murder, ought to be the only thing on her mind. ...
As if sensing her thoughts, Alison shifted slightly in the chair next to hers, the brush of skirts a subtle reminder that the guests would be watching Charlotte’s performance, as well.
The beau monde’s polished manners and gilded smiles masked a darker side to its glitter.
Those who didn’t fit the pattern card of privilege and power would find themselves savaged by gossip and innuendo.
Idleness and boredom beget bad behavior, Charlotte reflected, noting the bejeweled ladies and faultlessly tailored gentlemen seated in the front row of chairs.
She thought of Sheffield and Cordelia, and how they had to hide their involvement in business from Polite Society.
Heaven forfend that aristocrats, no matter how smart or how hard pressed financially, sully their hands in trade.
It was a bloody foolish stricture, like so many of the old rules. Perhaps the future would bring . . .
Another discreet nudge from Alison brought her back to the present moment. The music had ended, and the guests were beginning to rise and move into the main drawing room, where the clink of crystal goblets and the lilt of laughter and conversation would serve as the soiree’s serenade.
And gossip is the real reason I’m here.
The dowager gathered her cane, and the two of them joined the festivities. Candlelight cast a mellow glow over the opulent furnishings, the myriad tiny flames catching the sparkle of the wine as liveried footmen moved through the crowd, ensuring that no one’s glass was empty.
“Ah, there are Miss Greenfield and Miss Greeley, standing by that hideous painting of Lady Havemeyer’s great-grandfather.” Alison was aware of what sleuthing Charlotte wished to accomplish. “Come, let us go join them.”
The two ladies welcomed them with friendly greetings, and Charlotte found it easy to respond with a genuine smile.
When the dowager had first assured her that she would find kindred spirits within intellectually minded Bluestockings of the beau monde, she had been skeptical.
But she had, in fact, made friends among the members of Lady Thirkell’s weekly salon.
The talk quickly turned from the evening’s musical performance to a recent essay on politics, and then, as several other ladies drifted over to join them, to a complex mathematical problem recently posed in the Ladies’ Diary.
“I daresay Lady Cordelia will figure out the answer,” mused Charlotte.
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Miss Greeley. “She finds such computations simple.”
“Her mind,” said Charlotte, “seems to run like a . . . a steam-powered engine. After allowing a tiny pause, she added, “Did I hear mention of her being interested in mechanical devices that can perform mathematical calculations?”
“Not that I know of.” Miss Greeley raised her brows at the other members of the salon.
“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Greenfield. “She can solve even the most complicated problems in her head.”
The others in their group all nodded in agreement.
“Indeed, Lady Cordelia has often mentioned that she’s all thumbs when it comes to tasks requiring manual dexterity,” continued Miss Greeley, “like embroidery or watercolors.” A tiny furrow creased her brow.
“Speaking of Lady Cordelia, she hasn’t attended her usual meetings lately. Does anyone know why?”
The only reply was a puzzled silence.
“Ah, look. There is Miss Mather, and she’s with her younger brother, Mister David Mather.” After a moment, Lady Arabella Marquand, one of the younger and more outspoken members of the salon, gave a quick wave to a nearby couple. “They may know something.”
Charlotte watched the young lady—a petite blonde whose pale features and cream-colored gown appeared to be made out of spun sugar—take hold of her brother’s sleeve and hurry to join them.
He, too, was fair haired, his golden curls artfully arranged in the latest à la Brutus style.
An intricately tied cravat, an evening coat tailored to an impeccable fit, snug pantaloons festooned with an ornate watch fob .
. . David Mather struck her as a fop who was trying a little too hard to appear a Tulip of the ton, an impression confirmed by the petulant curl of his well-shaped mouth.
“Mr. Mather,” said Lady Arabella as soon as his sister had finished introducing him to the group, “you’re a very good friend of Lord Woodbridge, so we were wondering if you happen to know if anything is amiss with Lady Cordelia.”
Charlotte might have missed the subtle changes in his face if she hadn’t been surreptitiously studying his features. His skin turned a bloodless color and tightened over his cheekbones, making them look sharp as knife blades.