CHAPTER 20
Charlotte put down her pen and leaned back to study her drawing.
It might be more provocative than Wrexford would like.
However, she felt that she had erred on the side of caution, saying just enough to raise questions about who would profit from winning the race to build a revolutionary oceangoing nautical propulsion system without stirring overly lurid speculation.
If the government found that uncomfortable, so be it.
“Perhaps they will even thank me for it,” she whispered as she picked up a brush and began to add colored washes to the inked lines. Assuming the attack on their own Royal Navy laboratory had not been a cunning ruse.
With Lord Grentham and his cadre of clandestine operatives, one could never be certain.
Cat and mouse. Though in this case the cat was no mere tabby but a shadowy panther with razor-sharp teeth and claws.
A shiver touched her spine, but Charlotte shook it off.
“Perhaps I’ve been too careful of late,” she said, “allowing all my concerns—Wrex’s pain, Mac’s silence, Peregrine’s imminent departure—to make me tread with too tentative a step.”
I need to slip out of a lady’s confining layers of silk and don unfettered urchin rags.
She quickly finished painting in the last of the highlights on her drawing, then rose and headed to her bedchamber.
Wrexford had returned earlier in the evening, armed with the information that Taviot had indeed been part of a diplomatic delegation to the Peninsula.
A friend within the Foreign Office had given him a dossier filled with the specifics of the group’s duties and travels, but that had been set aside for later.
They had both agreed that tonight was a time for action.
Wrexford and Sheffield were headed to Dowgate Wharf. While she had proposed her own mission.
A tug loosened the ties of her gown, and a sinuous shrug had her skirts pooled on the carpet. A mission that fits me like a kidskin glove.
After pulling on a pair of threadbare breeches and tattered boots, Charlotte paused to pick up a package wrapped in oilskin, then hurried down the corridor to fetch Raven and Hawk for a foray into the slums of Seven Dials.
She had already informed Peregrine that she couldn’t allow him to be part of the mission.
The boy had taken the announcement with his usual quiet good grace.
But Charlotte knew that it had cut him to the quick.
Perhaps the package of newly arrived scientific books that Tyler had ordered from Hatchards would help assuage his disappointment.
She quickened her steps. Wishful thinking, perhaps. But it couldn’t be helped.
* * *
Wrexford rapped on the trap of the hackney, bringing it to a halt in an unlit side street near London Bridge. “It’s best that we get out here and go the rest of the way by foot,” he said to Sheffield.
As he climbed down, a fug of unpleasant odors assaulted his nostrils, the stink of low tide twining with the earthy smells of rotting garbage and open cesspools.
“The laboratory is located in a cul-de-sac off the northeast corner of Dowgate Wharf,” he added.
After some argument about the dangers, the Weasels had been allowed to reconnoiter the area just before dusk—that section of the docklands was rife with urchins and day laborers looking for any way to earn a crust of bread—and discovering the exact location of the consortium’s clandestine workspace had proved easy.
The earl looked around at the aged warehouses sagging cheek to jowl against each other. “Stay alert,” he cautioned as they started forward into the gloom.
“Are you expecting trouble?” His friend was also checking the surroundings, though the weak dribble of moonlight did little to penetrate the shadows. “The consortium has no reason to suspect that we are aware of this location.”
“Any number of things can go wrong when attempting an illegal search.” Wrexford stopped to peer into a black-on-black sliver of space between two buildings. “You ought to know that by now.”
He pulled a pair of black knitted toques from his pockets. “Leave your hat here and put this on. Pull it low on your brow to hide your hair. The thick cuff will shadow your features.”
“But I’m very fond of this hat.”
“You’ll have no need of it for quite some time if we’re spotted by the night watchmen and hauled off to Newgate Prison.” He switched his own head covering and signaled for them to resume walking.
A breeze pulled at a rusted sign hanging above a padlocked door, setting off a fitful groaning that amplified the aura of tension in the air.
Wrexford fingered the pocket pistol tucked in his coat. “Have your weapon ready. As someone seems overly fond of using a knife, it’s best not to be caught by surprise.”
“Getting shot several weeks ago earned me a great deal of sympathy from Cordelia,” drawled Sheffield. “Perhaps another injury will help soften her current anger.” It was said lightly but couldn’t quite mask the fear behind his words.
“Let us survive this current investigation, and then we shall see what we can do about winning back her heart.”
“You think she will—”
“Sshhh,” hissed Wrexford as they approached the end of the alleyway.
“The laboratory is there,” he said, pointing down the sloping footpath to a large soot-dark brick building which sat behind the high perimeter wall that surrounded the wharf area.
A wrought-iron gate guarding an archway in the chiseled stones gave access to the cul-de-sac.
As they crept closer, Wrexford saw that it looked to be chained shut with a fancy German puzzle lock.
“Is that a problem?” whispered Sheffield.
“None whatsoever,” answered the earl. He pulled a steel probe from his boot and crouched down. “These mechanisms are quite ingenious.” Click-click. “They simply require patience and a good sense of touch.”
The night was turning chilly as a gusty breeze swirled up from the river. Sheffield blew on his hands, his breath turning into a puff of silvery mist. “I imagine the night watchman makes regular rounds.”
“Quiet,” growled Wrexford. “I need to hear what the lock is saying to me.” He twisted his probe several more times, earning a subtle snick. “Ha, we’ve come to a meeting of minds.”
After unwrapping the chain, he eased the gate open just wide enough for him and Sheffield to slip through.
“Any idea where we should attempt to enter the building?” asked his friend as the earl rearranged the gate and chain to disguise any signs of tampering.
There was a large, cobbled loading area fronting the wharves within the walled area, the rhythmic whoosh and gurgle of dark water among the wooden pilings rippling the stillness of the night.
On the opposite side rose the silhouette of the laboratory building, unlit save for a scudding of moonlight.
“The main door is set beneath a shallow portico at the near end of the building,” replied Wrexford.
“The windows are all barred, and the portals for loading the supply wagons are forged of iron and fastened shut from the inside with chains. However, there’s a recessed door around back, by the chimney for the forge and foundry, that will give us access directly to the laboratory workspace. ”
“How the devil do you know all that?”
“The Weasels have their ways of wheedling out information.” A pause. “I prefer not to ask for the details.” The earl peered into the gloom, checking for any movement around the docks. “Follow me.”
He made quick work of opening the foundry door, allowing them to step inside.
The air was thick with the acrid smells of burnt coal and sooty smoke.
Wrexford took a moment to light the small folding candle lantern he had brought with him.
As the wick flared to life, the beam illuminated a massive anvil and a work counter filled with the usual assortment of blacksmithing hammers, chisels, and tongs.
A cursory inspection revealed nothing of interest.
The earl turned, the lantern’s glow revealing an iron-banded oak door on the other side of the forge. A hurried check on what lay behind it showed a huge cauldron for melting iron and a collection of molds for casting engine parts.
“Let’s move on,” said Wrexford, retracing his steps. “But quietly, Kit. The place looks to be deserted, however it’s best to err on the side of caution.”
He moved stealthily through the gloom to a corridor leading deeper into the bowels of the building. As they came to the next workshop, a pungent fug of odors made him pause and take a few experimental sniffs.
“Chemicals,” he muttered, as he signaled for them to enter. “Be careful not to knock into anything. Some of the substances being used here are highly volatile.”
Holding the lantern high above the stone counter that ran the length of the side wall, Wrexford angled the beam to light up the array of laboratory beakers and bottles.
Colors refracted off the beveled glass, pale yellows flickering with sparks of gold and amber.
Lurking in the shadows at the far end of the counter sat a selection of blue liquids ranging from cerulean to an ominous shade of cobalt.
He studied the entire collection for a long moment before summoning Sheffield to hold the lantern.
“For God’s sake, don’t drop it,” he warned, then moved slowly along the orderly procession of glassware, examining the individual labels. Halfway down the row, he paused to remove the glass stopper from a bottle of greenish liquid and waved it under his nose.
A burning sensation bit at his nostrils.
Sheffield repressed a gagging cough as the noxious smell wafted his way. “Double, double toil and trouble . . . fire burn and cauldron bubble,” he mumbled.
“Ye heavens, you’ve actually read Shakespeare’s Macbeth,” quipped Wrexford as he plucked a small vial from a shelf and carefully transferred a sample of the chemical compound into it.
“Only the ghoulish parts,” replied his friend. “What unholy mischief are they brewing in here?”