CHAPTER 21 #2
“Do you think m’lady can scare Satan Eyes into making a mis . . .” began Peregrine, and then stopped abruptly.
“What do you mean?” demanded Hawk.
“N-Never mind.” Peregrine picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, refusing to look up. “It was a stupid thought.”
“What were you about to say?” pressed Raven. “Remember our oath—there are no secrets between blood brothers.”
“Yes, there are,” came the whispered reply.
Trust. A fraught silence shuddered between them.
Hawk blinked in dismay. “S-Some secrets are complicated. They aren’t ours to share.”
“I understand that,” replied Peregrine.
Raven expelled a reluctant sigh. “How did you guess about her art?”
Peregrine hesitated. “I wasn’t spying—I swear it. My Uncle Jeremiah taught me to have a good eye for detail. M’lady showed me some sketches that she had done of us fencing, and I was fairly certain that I recognized her style of drawing.”
Seeing their dismayed expressions, he hastily added, “This is my real family in every way that matters. I would never betray any of you.”
“I don’t doubt that for an instant, Falcon,” said Raven.
“Still, we need to inform Wrex and m’lady that you now know our most closely guarded family secret.
” A fleeting grin. “I doubt that they’ll be surprised.
And while Wrex grumbles that we’re too damn clever for our own good, I think he’s actually quite pleased that we possess sharp wits and know how to use them. ”
“Does that mean we are starting our council of war now?” inquired Hawk.
“Yes—” began his brother.
“Excellent,” interjected Peregrine, “because you need to hear what I discovered earlier this evening.”
“You weren’t supposed to be sleuthing,” pointed out Raven.
“I assure you, I didn’t break any house rules.
I was merely reading one of the new scientific books that m’lady gave to me earlier this evening,” replied Peregrine.
He got up and rushed into his room for a moment.
“It is quite astounding what remarkable discoveries one can make within the pages of a book,” he continued as he returned to his spot on the rug and held up a slim volume bound in nondescript blue cloth.
Hawk squinted at the title embossed on the cover. “What’s a Yale?”
“In my history class at Eton, we learned that it’s a mythical beast in medieval lore,” answered Peregrine. “Like a unicorn, only with two long horns that can rotate around its head to ward off danger coming from any direction.”
“Fascinating,” muttered Raven. “But what does a Yale have to do with our investigations?”
“Actually, it has a great deal to do with finding the truths we seek. You see, it’s also the name of a small, provincial college in America.
” Peregrine opened the book and started thumbing through the pages.
“And this is an engineering treatise written by an undergraduate student who studied there during the time of our war with the former colonies.”
Raven stopped fidgeting.
“His name was David Bushnell, and he invented an underwater warship—a submarine!”
Hawk’s eyes widened in wonder. “Did it work?”
“It did, though there were technical difficulties with detonating the explosive that he planned to attach on the hulls of our war frigates. But that’s not what is important about his invention.”
Peregrine held up the book which was opened to display a large diagram that ran across both pages. “Look closely at what he used to propel his submarine.”
“Holy hell.” Raven’s eyes widened. “We need to show this to Wrex and m’lady.”
* * *
“Finish searching the shelves for any other piece of incriminating evidence, Kit,” said Wrexford, “while I go through the desk drawers. Every little bit will help tighten the noose around Taviot’s neck and ensure that he and his co-conspirators are punished for their crimes.”
The methodical rustling of paper resumed as they went back to work.
Sheffield finished checking through the books and moved to the hearth as the earl riffled through the drawers.
“Nothing more of interest,” muttered Wrexford.
“Come have a look at this.” His friend was crouched down, his fingers black from poking around in the coals. “Bring the lantern.”
The beam picked up the fragments of paper that Sheffield had fished out from the still-warm ashes.
Though badly singed, there was enough left to show that the scraps were part of a technical drawing.
The earl could make out part of a mathematical equation scribbled beside part of an undulating curve.
“Those damnably odd shapes again,” growled Sheffield. “What the devil do they signify?”
Wrexford fetched a small book from the shelf and carefully slipped the fragments between the pages. “It looks as though Maitland was being very careful to keep his actual work a secret. However, he made a critical mistake in consigning this sketch to the fire. It left us more pieces of the puzzle.”
He slipped the book into his pocket next to the rough draft of the speech. “Which bring us closer to fitting together the whole picture.”
Sheffield gave a grim nod and wiped his hands on his trousers. “So, it appears that Cordelia was right to have a bad feeling about Taviot and his consortium.” A look of self-disgust flitted over his features. “How could I have been so bloody, bloody blind to the evil behind their promises?”
“They’ve pulled the wool over the eyes of a great many intelligent and influential people.
It is a curse of human nature that we are inclined to believe things that we wish to be true.
Evildoers have exploited that weakness since the Garden of Eden,” replied the earl.
“Give yourself some credit. You were wise enough to take your time to assess the investment opportunity and make the necessary inquiries.”
“Only because Cordelia smelled a rat from the beginning.”
“Which shows that the two of you make a good pairing.”
“Assuming she’ll still have me.” His friend gave an uncertain grimace. “A husband ought not make mistakes—”
“Ye gods, what fustian! Stop being so terrified of matrimony. Perfection is the last thing Cordelia expects, or wants,” growled Wrexford. “For some absurd reason she loves you as you are . . .”
Hope chased away the worst of shadows hovering beneath his friend’s lashes.
“Whatever bumps lie ahead, trust that you will smooth them out together.” Wrexford gave a last look around the dimly lit room. “Besides, the sins at the root of all these crimes lie with Taviot. However, what we’ve found here tonight will help ensure that he answers for them.”
He turned for the door. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s return to Berkeley Square.”
They slipped out to the corridor, and after relocking the door the earl took the lead in retracing their steps. Moving swiftly but silently, they crossed through the chemical laboratory and were about to turn into the foundry area when the sound of steps scuffed through the stillness.
Wrexford blew out his candle and grabbed his friend’s arm.
Sheffield signaled that he, too, had heard the sounds.
“Stay here,” whispered the earl. Keeping close to the wall, he crept to the corner.
A moment later came the telltale rasp of hinges as the door to one of the connecting workrooms opened and closed.
He waited.
A moment later, a piercing beam of light speared into the corridor, probing, probing . . .
Wrexford uttered a silent oath as it grew brighter. A man stepped out from the gloom, making no effort at stealth.
“Maitland?” Raising his lantern higher, the man moved toward the foundry and took his time in illuminating the nooks and crannies.
One of the conspirators, concluded the earl, rather than a night watchman. The man was wearing a dark cloak over his coat and had a broad-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow. A dark length of cloth—the sheen indicated silk—was wrapped around the lower part of his face.
However, further speculation was cut short as the conspirator turned and started toward the chemical laboratory.
Retreating as quickly as he dared, Wrexford motioned for Sheffield to follow him. He had noticed an archway set within one of the laboratory’s alcoves, and it appeared to lead back to the room holding the lathes, allowing them to escape notice.
Choices, choices. The earl decided that he didn’t have the moral right to draw his weapon. To shoot the man would be murder. And that would make him no better than men like Taviot, who thought themselves entitled to play God in order to achieve their own ends.
Quickening his steps, he slipped into the murky shadows.
Up ahead, a faint glow of moonlight flitted over the silent machinery.
Making a split-second decision, Wrexford cut between two massive lathes—only to find a wall looming straight ahead and the way blocked on either side by the rods and pistons of the steam-powered behemoths.
“Keep low and creep back to the opening,” he whispered to Sheffield.
“My guess is he’s headed to Maitland’s private office, and we should be able to slip free once he’s passed through the laboratory.
However, if he comes this way, wait for my signal and then bolt for the exit while I knock him down. ”
“Two against one would provide better odds,” replied his friend.
“Absolutely not,” he shot back. “In any case, you’re forbidden to do anything foolhardy. Otherwise, Cordelia would have my guts for garters.”
“Don’t worry,” responded Sheffield. “You know me—I haven’t got a heroic bone in my body.”
Ignoring the quip, Wrexford cocked an ear. The ensuing silence was a good omen. A second ticked by, followed by another, and another.
Wrexford edged forward, deciding that after several more silent ticks it would be safe to move—
A pebble skittered over the stone floor. Then a dark-on-dark shadow fell over the opening.
Damnation. For a big man, the conspirator was awfully light on his feet when he so chose.
The earl glanced around, but he already knew that there was only one option.
“Go!” he cried to Sheffield as he sprang to his feet and launched himself at the masked conspirator.
The man turned just as the earl reached him and lashed out a vicious kick. Twisting away, Wrexford sent the lantern flying and grabbed for the fellow’s coat collar. His fingers fisted in the fabric, but a glancing punch knocked him off balance.
His feet skidded out from under him, but he kept his grip and managed to land a fist to the man’s jaw . . .
And then, with an audible rip, the wool tore away.
His handhold gone, Wrexford crashed to his knees.
A boot struck his midriff, the blow smashing the wind from his lungs and knocking him to the floor.
As he fell, a flare from the burning lamp oil showed the conspirator had pulled a pistol just as Sheffield slid to a halt halfway down the center aisle.
Run, you bloody fool! Wrexford tried to bellow out a warning, but the words wouldn’t come.
With a primal growl, Sheffield pivoted and charged.
The conspirator raised his weapon and took dead aim.
A thunderous bang rent the air.
Ears ringing, Wrexford watched in stunned disbelief as the conspirator hit the floor, knocked off his feet by the iron canister that had come hurling down from atop one of the lathes.
His pistol skidded harmlessly off into the gloom as several more canisters crashed in rapid-fire succession onto the flagging and bounced away.
Another momentary burst of light sparked from the pool of flames, and for an instant he caught a shadowy movement behind the massive gears and levers atop the lathe.
Then it was gone.
Rousing himself, Wrexford scrabbled to his feet. Sheffield had fallen in the melee but was up as well—and rubbing at the fast-purpling bruise on his cheekbone.
“Bloody hell,” bellowed his friend, “the dastard is getting away!”
The clatter of fleeing footsteps echoed from deep in the bowels of the building.
“Let him go, Kit.” The earl blenched and flexed his shoulders.
“We have what we came for, so if he’s more than a hired lackey, he’ll get his just punishment.
” He began to pat his pockets to check that the vial was still intact and the papers hadn’t disappeared, only to realize that he still had the scrap of wool torn from the conspirator’s coat collar in his hand.
Without thinking about it, he left it stashed in his pocket.
Sheffield made a face but didn’t argue. “Yes, but it would have felt supremely satisfying to punch him in the nose.”
“What a bloodthirsty fellow you have become.” Wrexford stamped out the lingering flames licking up from the spilled lamp oil.
“Speaking of bloodthirsty . . .” Sheffield gazed up at the lathe. “We were extraordinarily lucky that those canisters fell when they did. In another instant—”
“In another instant, you might have been lying dead.” He took a moment to choke down a spurt of raw fear. “What the devil were you thinking?”
Sheffield shrugged. “That only a craven coward runs and leaves a friend in mortal peril.”
Unable to summon a retort, Wrexford changed the subject. Looking up, he studied the top of the lathe. “It defies reason to imagine that the canisters fell at exactly the right moment,” he muttered. “I thought I saw a flutter of movement.”
“A guardian angel?” Sheffield pursed his lips. “Who?”
“Haven’t a clue,” answered Wrexford. He had been asking himself the same question and couldn’t begin to conjure up a logical answer.
“Ye heavens, do you think that the Weasels could have followed us?”
The earl froze for an instant as a chill took hold of his heart. But then he recalled the plans for the night. “No, Raven and Hawk accompanied Charlotte. And despite their ungodly cleverness, even they can’t manage to be in two places at once.”
An odd sound rumbled in Sheffield’s throat. “That’s assuming they are actually human, and not two afreets who used their sorcery to slip free from the pages of The Arabian Nights.”
“Whatever black magic is swirling through the night,” responded Wrexford, “let us take our leave of it and return home.”