CHAPTER 5
Charlotte awoke the next morning, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep as she squinted at the flickers of sunlight playing over the tangled bedcovers.
Once again, an unsettling nightmare had plagued her fitful slumber, but unlike her reveries on the fire, this one had been on a far more personal level.
... Mac fleeing into a dark forest, and when she tried to follow, she had become tangled in a maze of vaporous shadows and thorny vines, the spiky points tearing at her flesh—
“It was just a bad dream.” She sat up in bed and chafed at her chilled arms, acutely aware of the empty space on the bed beside her.
Strange how Wrexford’s absence felt like an integral part of her was missing.
Fiercely independent, even as a child, she had always imagined that letting someone take hold of her heart would make her weaker, not stronger.
And that, Charlotte decided, was the magic of Love. It was a beautifully inexplicable contradiction.
She smiled. Not even Wrexford, with his incisive logic and scientific genius, could offer a rational explanation for how it defied all the clockwork laws of the universe.
Buoyed by that thought, she rose and dressed, determined to keep her blue devils at bay.
After a simple repast of coffee and fresh-baked sultana muffins in the breakfast room—McClellan had bustled in and out, acting as if nothing was amiss between them—Charlotte retreated to her workroom.
Decisions, decisions.
She sat down at her desk and pondered her next piece of art for Fores’s printshop.
“My pen has power,” Charlotte reminded herself. She knew that her drawings influenced public opinion. To her that was a solemn responsibility, one that weighed heavily on her conscience. “And I have promised myself that I will never wield it recklessly.”
Her gaze moved to the rough sketch for a drawing that lay on her blotter from the previous day—the first in a series that she planned to do on the plight of soldiers returning from the wars and unable to find employment.
It was an important subject. Now that peace reigned and the army was reducing its ranks, the streets of London were filling with ragged men—many of them with injuries to both body and mind from serving their country on the brutal battlefields of Europe—who had nowhere to go.
The cost of bread was rising, begging was rampant .
. . and the government seemed stubbornly determined to ignore the growing crisis.
Even though they were sitting atop a powder keg, and a single spark could ignite a conflagration.
Charlotte paused. The idea of an innovative marine propulsion system and how it would change the world still tickled at her consciousness.
From what Sheffield had said, it was a hugely important topic.
However, she reminded herself that to do it justice, she needed to know far more about it.
Not just the technical complexities but also the conflicts and ramifications of who would ultimately control such a revolutionary invention.
It was just the sort of challenge that quickened her pulse. The elemental reason for taking up the pen of her late husband, who had created A. J. Quill, was to bring such important issues to the attention of the public.
Pursing her lips, Charlotte began to think about how to begin her investigation. But the ticking of the mantel clock soon drew her back to the present moment. She had a drawing due today, so for now . . .
Charlotte picked up her pencil. “The public needs to care about our discharged soldiers and the fact that they need help and support in returning to their former lives,” she murmured as she set to work, refining the visual elements of the drawing and carefully composing the captions.
* * *
Tired and frustrated by a day spent searching for any clues that might shed light on Greeley’s murder, Wrexford returned to his rooms at Merton College and poured a glass of brandy from the decanter that the porter had supplied. Its fire, however, did nothing to warm his inner chill.
The visit to Greeley’s spartan abode had been dispiriting.
He had discovered nothing to shed light on why the poor fellow had been murdered.
Indeed, aside from his books and academic journals, Greeley’s life seemed depressingly empty.
No sign of hobbies or hidden vices, no sign of romance or friends . . .
Save for ghosts from the past.
Wrexford took another mouthful of brandy, letting its burn trickle down his throat before reaching into his coat pocket for the miniature portrait he had found propped up on Greeley’s desk.
It was painted on an oval of ivory and fitted into a silver case that closed like a pocket watch to protect the delicate brushwork.
He drew a shaky breath and willed himself to flick open the clasp.
And felt his heart clench.
The artist had captured the three young officers in a light-hearted moment.
It was an excellent likeness of his brother, who was flanked by Greeley and an Oxford friend from the King’s Regiment of Dragoons.
The artist had caught the gleam of good-natured humor that always seemed alight in his brother’s sky-blue eyes .
. . and the curl of his lips, where a smile looked about to burst into bloom at any moment.
“You were always the Sun, Tommy.” Feeling a salty sharpness prickle against his eyelids, Wrexford looked away. “While I was the Moon.”
He rubbed at his brow. “Dark. Moody. Irascible. In contrast to the light you brought to all of our lives.” The silver case closed with a muted click. “God, I miss you.”
After sliding the portrait back into his pocket, he rose and refilled his glass, though he knew that no amount of brandy would dull the ache in his heart. He could remember his brother and Greeley—the best of friends—as always so full of life. Confident, cheerful young men. Brave and honorable.
And then in a cruel twist of Fate, they were both destroyed. One in the space of a heartbeat while the other had suffered a slow, painful loss of his true self.
Wrexford closed his eyes, welcoming the blackness. “I promise you, Tommy,” he whispered. “I will find whoever robbed your friend of what little he had left of life and see that the miscreant is brought to justice.”
* * *
Heaving a silent sigh, Charlotte forced a smile as Sheffield handed her down from the carriage and turned to assist Cordelia.
She was heartily tired of the endless parties—the pomp and pageantry of the Peace Celebrations and the Royal Centennial had kept Mayfair aswirl in glitter and gaiety throughout the summer.
Polite Society had feasted on an excess of sumptuous splendors. . . .
Money that would have been far better spent feeding the poor.
However, Charlotte pushed such thoughts away for now. She had accepted Lady Marquand’s invitation to attend tonight’s festivities, and it was only right to do so with good grace.
A glance at Cordelia showed that she, too, appeared less than enthusiastic about the evening. But then, her friend—a brilliant mathematician and noted Bluestocking—had little taste for beau monde frivolities either.
Sheffield smiled. “Shall we go in?” he suggested, offering each of them an arm.
The drawing room was ablaze with candles, the crystalline light from the chandeliers fluttering over the colorful silks, sparkling jewels, and peacock splendor of the military medals and diplomatic sashes.
A footman appeared and offered them champagne.
“Quite a crush, especially for August,” observed Sheffield. At this time of year, the aristocracy usually left the city for their country estates and the start of the shooting season.
“With so many prominent people still gathered here in London from all over the Continent and beyond, nobody wishes to miss out on all the intrigue and gossip swirling through the drawing rooms,” said Charlotte dryly.
Indeed, the side salons off the drawing room were also filled with guests and the convivial sounds of clinking crystal and conversation. Following Sheffield’s lead, the three of them began to circulate through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with various acquaintances.
“Ah, Lady Wrexford!”
Charlotte turned as she and her friends entered one of the side salons.
A gentleman approached and bobbed a friendly bow. “Is His Lordship here tonight?” he asked.
“Alas, no, Lord Mulgrave,” she answered. The Earl of Mulgrave had served as First Lord of the Admiralty until several years ago and was currently Master-General of the Ordnance. He had recently consulted with Wrexford over a metallurgy problem with a certain type of mortar shell.
“He was planning to attend,” added Charlotte, “but an urgent request from an old friend called him away to Oxford.”
“In that case, please pass on my thanks for his help in solving our artillery issue. I’m very grateful,” answered Mulgrave, who had a keen interest in scientific subjects.
“He also suggested that I attend the recent lecture by his friend Hedley on the latest developments in his steam locomotives, which I enjoyed very much.”
“As did I,” said Sheffield.
The comment made her smile. William Hedley was a brilliant engineer and had helped her and Wrexford on several of their previous investigations.
During one of them, Sheffield had been captivated by Hedley’s “Puffing Billy,” a prototype steam locomotive, and invested in the project—which had proved to be a very lucrative decision.
Charlotte had also attended the recent lecture and responded with enthusiasm. “Wasn’t it fascinating! The idea that we will soon travel with astounding speed over rails . . .”
A spirited conversation began among the four of them. Mulgrave was both knowledgeable and thoughtful, and Charlotte found herself enjoying the party more than she had expected.
“Indeed, Mr. Sheffield,” said Mulgrave. “Hedley mentioned to me that you were an early investor in “Puffing Billy.” What a prescient choice on your part—”