CHAPTER 11
Charlotte leaned back against the squabs as the carriage rolled through Mayfair and entered the slightly raffish environs of Bloomsbury.
Wrexford had sent word that he would not be home until late, as his meeting at the British Museum had led to one of the curators arranging an evening meeting at White’s with an expert on rare books and manuscripts.
Having finished her latest drawing for Fores’s printshop—another commentary on the plight of soldiers returning home from the wars to find no way of supporting themselves or their families—Charlotte had not been looking forward to an evening alone brooding about the two daunting challenges that she and Wrexford were facing.
Greeley’s death, which had her normally unflappable husband off balance .
. . the potential threat to Britain’s economic and military power, an issue that A.
J. Quill could not in good conscience ignore .
. . The afternoon visit from the dowager and the need to explain about the new set of crimes—even though she had been careful to deny that they were pulling her and Wrexford into a web of intrigue—had only exacerbated her worries.
And so she had been grateful for Cordelia’s last-minute invitation to join her in attending Lady Thirkell’s biweekly gathering for intellectually minded ladies. Or rather, the Bluestockings, which was the less complimentary term used by many gentlemen of Polite Society.
One would assume such name-calling was provoked by fear, she mused. No doubt they felt threatened by females who possessed a brain and the courage to use it.
A smile touched her lips. “With good reason,” she murmured, thinking of herself and Cordelia.
The high-and-mighty gentlemen of the beau monde would likely be quaking in their boots if they had any inkling of what power ladies were already secretly wielding in Society, their iron fists daintily disguised in velvet gloves.
However, Charlotte’s humor quickly gave way to puzzlement over why Cordelia was so insistent that she attend this evening’s meeting.
It so happened that Lady Kirkwall had been invited to appear as a special guest speaker, and given that Cordelia had clearly taken a strong initial dislike to her, it seemed an odd request.
While I, on the other hand, see Lady Kirkwall in a more positive light despite her steely self-confidence.
Or perhaps because of it. Charlotte understood only too well how difficult it was for a woman to forge an independent life for herself in a man’s world.
It took courage and cleverness, for a lady who wished to test her mettle was always dancing on a razor’s edge.
The slightest slip could bring disgrace and censure from Society.
And so she couldn’t help but admire Lady Kirkwall’s obvious intelligence and was not averse to deepening the acquaintance.
As the carriage turned down a side street, Charlotte leaned back against the squabs and conceded that the opportunity to learn more about the players and ramifications of the race to build an oceangoing steamship was an added reason that she had accepted the invitation.
As for why Cordelia was attending . . .
But perhaps that mystery would become clearer once she had a chance to speak privately with her friend at Lady Thirkell’s residence.
Which was, as Charlotte recalled, an exceedingly eccentric abode.
Her memory was confirmed as the carriage came to a stop in front of a brick townhouse faced with Cotswold limestone that glowed a mellow gold in the setting sun.
The main entrance was flanked by ornate Corinthian columns carved from white marble.
. . and the front door was painted a shocking shade of fuchsia pink.
Lady Thirkell was just as colorful. Tonight she was wearing an Indian caftan made of shimmering green silk embroidered with tigers and elephants. Atop her silvery curls was a velvet turban festooned with peacock feathers and chunks of unpolished turquoise.
“Welcome, my dear!” Her hostess bustled around the footman who had opened the door. She grabbed one of Charlotte’s hands and gave it a masculine shake in greeting. “It’s lovely to see you here tonight. We’ve all missed your company of late.”
“I’ve been a bit busy,” apologized Charlotte.
“Yes, I imagine that marriage makes a great many demands on a lady’s time.” A mischievous twinkle lit in Lady Thirkell’s eyes. “That’s why I’ve taken pains to avoid it.”
“Understandably so,” replied Charlotte. “I doubt that Horus and Sethos would tolerate another male presence in the house.”
Her hostess let out a peal of delighted laughter. “And given the choice between my Egyptian cats and a Tulip of the ton—”
“Ha, the gentleman wouldn’t stand a chance,” said one of Lady Thirkell’s elderly friends who hurried over to join them. She, too, was attired in an exotic confection of silk and feathers.
“That goes without saying, Hortense,” replied Lady Thirkell. To Charlotte she added, “Come, there’s champagne as well as ratafia punch being served at the refreshment table.”
Charlotte followed the colorful swirls of fabric down the central corridor and into the main salon, whose entrance was guarded by a towering ancient statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom . . . and of war.
An acknowledgment, she mused, that the ancient Greeks were wise enough to know women understood the complexities and contradictions of human nature better than men.
The room itself was a study in contrasts.
The wallpaper and draperies featured muted tones of taupe and cream, a quiet counterpoint to the eclectic jumble of decorative objects.
Antiquities from Italy rubbed shoulders with exotic painted sculptures from India and Cathay; formal Meissen china sat next to ancient Aztec gourds; two ornate Louis XIV clocks flanked a simple pinecone from the wilds of America. The effect should have been horrifying.
And yet it wasn’t.
Charlotte vowed that next time she would bring her sketchbook and travel paint box, and try to do the scene justice—
“Ah, there you are.” Cordelia appeared from behind a cluster of potted palms. The trill of laughter and buzz of feminine voices raised in conversation mingled with the clink of crystal. “Shall we go somewhere quieter?” she suggested, indicating the archway that led to the side salons.
They found an empty room and sat on the sofa facing a fireplace whose banked coals gave off a cheery glow.
“Kit has told me about the murder of Wrexford’s friend,” began Cordelia before broaching her own business. “Have you and Wrex any further ideas on who might have wished Greeley dead?”
“Alas, no. The only clues—a missing manuscript and the fact that Greeley was overheard mentioning Wrexford’s name—are baffling.” Charlotte explained the details of the murder and how there was no rational explanation as to why anyone would want to kill the reclusive librarian.
“You’re right,” muttered Cordelia after taking a moment to mull over the facts. “I don’t see how it adds up.”
Cordelia was a brilliant mathematician. Like Wrexford, she saw the world through a lens of logic.
“I suppose we must accept that Life doesn’t always conform to orderly expectations,” said Charlotte.
“Perhaps Wrexford will learn something useful this evening.” She mentioned his meeting with an expert on rare books and manuscripts.
“And Griffin has gone to Oxford to begin searching for more clues.”
“If anyone can help Wrex find a trail and follow it to the Truth, it’s Griffin,” said Cordelia.
After a small hesitation, she added, “Kit also told me that you and the boys discovered disturbing information at the King’s Dockyard—something to do with the current competition to create a marine propulsion system for ocean travel. ”
“Yes.” Charlotte lowered her voice, even though they were alone.
“And coupled with the fact that the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory was arson, it compels me—or rather, A.
J. Quill—to look more closely at the groups involved in creating the new technology.
” A pause. “And to discern whether any of them might be willing to employ illegal methods to beat their competitors.”
“Good,” muttered Cordelia.
The curt reply gave Charlotte an opening to probe into what was clearly a fraught subject for her friend. “Given your appreciation of innovative ideas, you seem surprisingly opposed to the idea of oceangoing steamships.”
Coals crackled in the hearth, releasing a tiny hiss of smoke.
Eyes narrowing, Cordelia watched the vapor shiver and dissolve into thin air before responding. “I’m not at all opposed to the concept.”
Then what, she wondered, was the thorn in her friend’s derriere? Charlotte thought for a moment. “It was clear that you took umbrage at Lady Kirkwall’s manners, but—”
“I couldn’t care less about Lady Kirkwall’s manners.”
She frowned in frustration. “Then why don’t you stop shilly-shallying and tell me what’s bothering you?”
Silence—and for a moment she feared that her friend wasn’t going to reply. But after fisting her hands in her lap, Cordelia surrendered a sigh.
“Lord Taviot arranged a meeting with Kit this morning.” The initial coolness in her voice had now turned to ice.
“He had heard of Kit’s early investment in Hedley’s steam locomotive and decided that Kit would make an excellent addition to the consortium’s Advisory Board.
And so Lord Taviot offered him shares at a very special charter investor price if he would agree to promote the new company among his friends in both Polite Society and the scientific world. ”
“And I take it that you don’t approve of the idea?” asked Charlotte.