CHAPTER 2
Despite the long night, Charlotte awoke early, only to find that Wrexford had already risen. Perhaps he, too, had been plagued by unsettling dreams.
She dressed in a rush, unsure why a feeling of misgiving still plagued her thoughts.
The fire, however unfortunate, didn’t spark a reason for A.
J. Quill to bring it to the attention of the public.
As for the so-called race to discover an oceangoing marine propulsion system, she didn’t know nearly enough about the subject to make an informed commentary.
Not yet. She had already done a series of prints on steam engines and their momentous effect on society. But if this new development was as revolutionary as Sheffield had implied, perhaps it merited a closer look.
The ambrosial scent of fresh-brewed coffee drew her to the breakfast room. Wrexford wasn’t there, so after pouring herself a cup, Charlotte headed to the rear of their townhouse.
She paused in the doorway of his main workroom. He was sitting at his desk, head bent, his face half in shadow. She guessed that he hadn’t heard the whisper of her slippers in the corridor, for he didn’t look up.
Charlotte took a moment to study his profile. Even hazed in the half-light of early morning, she could recognize all the little subtle shades of his expression, all the tiny fissures and angles of his face that had become so inexpressibly dear to her....
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Have you learned something more about the fire?”
“No, no.” He gave a wry grimace. “I doubt Kit will rouse himself from sleep until suppertime.”
Yet there was an undertone of agitation in his voice that stirred a frisson of alarm. “Then what’s troubling you?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” confessed Wrexford, still staring at his desktop.
Spotting what looked to be a letter lying on the blotter, Charlotte moved to his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Would you care to explain?”
In answer he handed her the single sheet of paper. “This arrived in the early morning post.”
It was a short missive, written in a neat hand and punctuated with a looping signature.
“Lord Wrexford, I beg you to come visit me in Oxford at your earliest convenience,” she read aloud.
“I have something of the utmost importance that I wish to discuss with you—and given its momentous significance, I dare not commit it to paper.”
Charlotte looked up. “Who is Neville Greeley?”
“A fellow I knew only slightly at Oxford, when we were both students at Merton College, and later encountered briefly in Portugal during the war.”
He paused, but Charlotte refrained from asking the obvious question. She sensed there was something more complicated lurking beneath the earl’s simple explanation. And so she waited, leaving it up to him to decide whether to tell her what it was.
“However, he was—” Wrexford looked away, but not before Charlotte saw a darkness ripple beneath his lashes. “—my brother’s closest friend.”
Ah.
Her heart clenched in sympathy. The earl’s younger brother, Thomas, had been killed during a reconnaissance mission in Portugal when his cavalry detachment had been caught in an ambush set up by the French.
The two of them had been very close, and she knew that Wrexford, however unreasonably, blamed himself for not being able to keep Thomas safe.
“In fact,” added the earl, “Greeley was part of the detachment that rode into the French ambush. He was badly wounded but survived—the only man who did so, I might add.” Wrexford paused to draw a breath.
“However, from what I’ve heard, he’s never fully recovered from the horrors of seeing his comrades slaughtered. ”
“How awful.” She pulled over a chair so she could sit beside him.
“I helped arrange—privately, of course—for him to be appointed head librarian of the Merton College Library. He was an excellent scholar at Oxford, and I’ve been hoping the tranquility of the academic world would help quiet his inner demons.”
Charlotte leaned in to feather a kiss to his cheek.
“Poor fellow. He’s had a dauntingly difficult path to tread.” Wrexford took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “And here I am—a lucky devil blessed with all the good fortune in life that a man could wish for.” A sigh. “Though I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
She said nothing. We both know that Life is unfair would sound like a platitude, which both of them despised.
They sat in companionable silence, and Charlotte knew her husband well enough to sense that her closeness was providing more solace than any words could give.
“I feel beholden to go see him, of course,” he finally said. “As soon as possible.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “Let us summon Tyler.”
“He’s probably still sleeping. One would think he is the indolent aristocrat, not me.”
“Ha! I heard that.” The earl’s valet, who also served as his laboratory assistant, stepped out of the adjoining storage area with a load of freshly polished glass beakers cradled in his arms. “Most men would take that to mean that their services weren’t properly appreciated.”
“But not you, Tyler,” said Charlotte. “You know quite well that Wrexford couldn’t survive without you.”
The earl made a rude noise.
“True,” said the valet. “Who else would put up with having to remove all sorts of noxious chemical stains from his clothing?”
“Speaking of clothing,” she added, “His Lordship needs a travel case packed for a visit to Oxford.”
Tyler came instantly alert. “Do you wish for me to accompany you?” The valet was also an excellent sleuth and had played a part in their previous investigations.
“That really isn’t necessary,” replied Wrexford. “It’s a social call, nothing more.”
“Oh?” said Tyler, his brows tweaking up. “Since when have you become sociable?”
Repressing a smile, Charlotte quickly rose and gathered her skirts. Theirs was, admittedly, an exceedingly eccentric household. “Come, the sooner we pack, the sooner Wrex—”
She stopped abruptly. “Drat—I just recalled that as a favor to the hostess, I accepted an invitation for us to attend Lord and Lady Marquand’s soiree tomorrow evening in honor of the visiting diplomatic delegation from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.”
But her expression suddenly brightened. “However, it is of no matter. Kit and Cordelia are also invited. I shall go along with them so as not to disappoint Her Ladyship.”
Wrexford, she noted, looked a little relieved. He didn’t enjoy the superficial swirl of Polite Society.
“You are sure?” he asked.
“Quite sure,” answered Charlotte. To Tyler, she added, “Let us make haste. If Wrex catches the next Royal Mail coach, he can be in Oxford by early evening.”
* * *
“Back so soon, milord?” The head porter came out of his lodge in the gatehouse to greet Wrexford as he passed from the street into the entrance archway of Merton College.
The earl smiled. He and Charlotte had lodged at the college during the recent gala banquet and award ceremonies held for the visiting monarchs of Europe. “So it would seem.”
“Perhaps you have come to realize that the life of an academic is an idyllic one.” The porter added a mournful sigh. “You were a brilliant student during your days as an undergraduate here at Merton, sir. A pity that is no longer an option for you.”
Dons of the college were not permitted to be married. The male camaraderie of High Table, with its nightly ritual of elegant dinners and fine wines, was considered the only relationship that really mattered in life.
“Despite the undeniable charms of Merton, I’m not regretting my choice,” replied the earl.
The porter looked unconvinced. “The Warden has been saying that as one of the leading luminaries of the scientific world in Britain, you would have added great luster to our beloved college had you not . . .”
“Been caught in the parson’s mousetrap?” finished the earl.
A sniff. “Your words, not mine, milord.”
“Are you married, Jenkins?”
The porter’s eyes widened in horror. “Heaven forfend.”
“Yes, well, aside from the fact that our views on the pleasures of matrimony differ, I would find monastic academic life far too quiet for my temperament.”
Wrexford looked around at the ancient-as-Methuselah stone buildings and caught the glimmers of colored light flickering off the magnificent stained-glass window gracing the chapel.
The college had stood in scholarly splendor since 1264, when Walter de Merton, chancellor of England and later bishop of Rochester, had first established a self-governing “house of scholars” on this hallowed spot.
Though part of Oxford University, Merton, like all the individual colleges, administered its own affairs, led by its Warden, the titular head of the college.
Merton’s high outer walls now surrounded a cluster of courtyards and gardens that had grown over the centuries, creating an oasis of tranquility.
A world unto itself.
An important one, reflected the earl. But I prefer the messy chaos of the real world, where ideas collide and ignite controversy, sparking frightening new ideas that knock old traditions arse over tea kettle—
“Oh, aye, milord.” The porter’s gravelly voice interrupted his thoughts. “We all know your penchant for solving murders.” A brusque cough. “I imagine that’s why you’re here.”
Wrenched from his reveries, it took the earl an instant to react. “What the devil do you mean?” As far as he could recall, the only thing to suffer a violent death within these hallowed walls was the hope of getting the students to spend their hours studying instead of drinking and wenching.
“Terrible it was, sir. So much blood.” Jenkins made a pained face. “Some of it spattered on several valuable books.”
The mention of books stirred a sharp foreboding. “Who was the victim?” he demanded.
“Our head librarian, Mr. Greeley,” answered the porter. “The poor fellow was—”
But Wrexford was already rushing across the sloping stones of the main courtyard and heading for the archway that led to Mob Quadrangle.