CHAPTER 1
A plume of steam rose from the bubbling crucible, the curl of silvery vapor floating ghost-like against the shadowed wood paneling before dissolving into the darkness.
After consulting his pocket watch, the Earl of Wrexford scribbled a few more notations in his ledger, the scratch of his pen punctuated by the soft pop, pop, pop of colorless chemicals.
“The Devil’s brew,” he murmured, leaning back in his desk chair and staring at the brightly colored satirical print propped up against a stack of books. “Though I give the artist credit for coming up with a far more poetic phrase.”
Satan’s Syllabub. Pitchforks had been drawn in to replace the two l’s of the print’s red-lettered title. As for the caricature of him . . .
A mirthless laugh slipped from his lips.
A pair of scarlet horns poked out from the tangle of long black hair. “I must remember to visit my barber this week,” he murmured, brushing a strand of the shoulder-length locks from his collar. “And is my nose really that beaky? I have always thought it rather elegantly aquiline.”
Shifting his gaze lower, he saw that the artist had drawn him without his trousers on and that his bare hairy legs—a gross exaggeration—ended in cloven hooves.
The fine print of the caption explained that he was in the habit of concocting his noxious brews right after enjoying an amorous interlude with his latest conquest.
“Lies,” muttered Wrexford wryly, taking a moment to eye the clever caricature of a near-naked lady peeking out from the large copper crucible cradled between his knees. The deft pen strokes had captured Diana Fairfield’s petulant pout with frightening accuracy.
Yes, the face was perfect, but the implied timing was all wrong.
“I never mix business with pleasure.” For one thing, performing chemical experiments in the nude could have very painful consequences.
But then, he supposed the artist couldn’t be blamed for taking poetic license. A. J. Quill had earned a reputation for creating London’s most scathing satirical prints, and no doubt earned a pretty penny for his merciless skewering of those caught up in the latest Society scandal.
Be damned with truth. Ruthless images, cutting commentary—that was what the paying public wanted. Misery loved company, especially when the sufferer was one of the Privileged Few.
“Ah, I see you’ve found today’s delivery from Fores’s print shop.” The door to the workroom closed quietly behind Tyler, the earl’s valet and occasional laboratory assistant, as he carried a tray of chemicals to the small worktable by the spirit lamp.
“Yes. And this latest one is really quite upsetting.” Wrexford glanced back at his timepiece and waited ten more seconds before turning off the flame. “Quill has made my legs look awfully spindly, and you know how vain I am about my shapely calves.”
“It’s gone beyond a jesting matter, milord.”
A gentleman’s gentleman would not ordinarily dare to rebuke his master.
But Tyler was no ordinary valet, reflected the earl.
To begin with, he didn’t swoon over the task of removing foul-smelling stains and singe marks from a finely tailored evening coat.
More importantly, his scientific education made him far more useful in other matters.
Tyler cleared his throat with a brusque cough—never a good sign.
It meant a lecture was coming, a blunt one, delivered in a rough-cut Scottish brogue.
“Perhaps you ought to consider ignoring Reverend Holworthy’s attacks from now on.
Engaging in a public war of words isn’t doing your reputation any good. ”
Wrexford picked up the half-empty glass of brandy by his inkwell and drained it in one prolonged swallow.
He hadn’t initiated the hostilities. The first salvo had been fired off several weeks ago when the Reverend Josiah Holworthy, a clergyman of rising oratorical note, had preached an emotional Sunday sermon decrying the corruptive influences of dissolute debauchery on a civilized society.
Holworthy had used the earl as an example of Wickedness Personified, describing his recent behavior in lurid detail.
Wrexford knew restraint would have been the wiser course of action, and had the man’s rhetoric been halfway clever, he would have let sleeping dogs lie. But the attack had been crude and so he couldn’t resist sending a rebuttal to the editor of the Morning Gazette.
It had been published in the newspaper the following morning, and from there, the trading of insults had escalated, much to the glee of the rest of London.
A miscalculation. He wasn’t as careful in his personal life as he was with his scientific experiments. Holding his empty glass up to the Argand lamp, Wrexford watched the shards of light refract off the cut crystal for several long moments before replying.
“Since when have you known me to care about my reputation?”
His valet carefully rearranged the chemical vials into two neat rows before fetching one of the decanters on the sideboard and crossing the carpet to pour out a fresh measure of brandy.
Or perhaps it was hemlock. Of late, his mercurial moods had no doubt made him an awfully difficult fellow to deal with.
“It’s just as well, I suppose,” intoned Tyler.
“For if that sanctimonious, self-anointed saint keeps attacking you as the Devil Incarnate, and you keep stirring the flames to a hotter burn with your outrageous comments on Society’s narrow-minded morality, the only reputation you’ll have will be black as sin. ”
“But it’s so amusing to stick one of those clever French self-igniting matches up his pompous arse,” muttered Wrexford, “and watch smoke come out his ears.”
“Playing with fire is dangerous, milord.”
He expelled a sigh. “He called me a witch.”
“And you promptly corrected him,” said Tyler, “pointing out that ‘witch’ refers to a female and he should properly refer to you as a warlock.”
“I was right,” retorted the earl. “The man is a bloody idiot.”
“I believe what you called him in print was an illiterate widgeon, whose brain could fit twice over on the head of a pin.”
“Ye god, can you blame me? All that blather about how my soul needs to be transmuted to a higher plane—”
Tyler cleared his throat to cover a snicker.
“Remind me again why I keep you in my employ,” grumbled Wrexford. “Aside from your obsequious respect for my exalted person.”
“I have concocted a polish for your boots that outshines Beau Brummel’s secret recipe,” replied Tyler.
“Dare I hope that you will tell me what’s in it before I toss your insolent arse into the street?”
“Eye of newt, frog sweat—”
The earl let out a bark of laughter. The fact that Tyler didn’t take his ill-tempered caustic comments to heart was also a mark in his favor.
“Pray tell, what is the point of all your chidings?” When his valet didn’t answer right away, Wrexford pressed, “You think I should take steps to end this debate?”
Tyler shrugged. “It might be wise. Things appear to be on the verge of getting out of control.”
“I shall consider it.” Wrexford rose and stretched. Keeping precise control of the liquid’s temperature and timing the addition of each ingredient had left him feeling fidgety. The conversation hadn’t helped. Tyler was right—baiting a religious fanatic had been a bad decision.
Only one of many he had made in recent weeks.
But Wrexford pushed such musings aside for now. “There’s no need for any further work here this evening. The liquid must cool completely, so we will wait until morning to continue with the experiment.”
“You are going out again, sir?”
“Yes. I need a walk to clear my head.” He reached for the print and folded it into a neat square before tucking it into his coat pocket. “And then I may stop at the new gaming hell on St. James’s Street. Don’t wait up. I shall likely be late.”
“Good luck at the tables, sir. But then again, you usually do come away with your pockets stuffed with blunt.”
“Luck is said to be a Lady, and you know that I have the devil’s own way with women.
” The more accurate explanation probably lay in not giving a damn whether he won or lost. He gambled because watching the frenzy of brandy-fueled emotions—sweaty fear, giddy exultation, blank despair—play across the flushed faces was a diversion that kept boredom at bay.
“So we shall see how the cards fall.”
* * *
“M’lady! m’lady!” The boy skidded to a breathless stop in the entrance hall and poked his head into the tiny parlor. “Bloody hell, ye’ve got te move yer pegs! The fancy church cove wots roasting His Nibs—”
Charlotte Sloane set down her pen and waved for silence. “Speak English, Raven.”
“But I was!”
“The King’s English. Pronounced clearly and like a gentleman,” she chided. “And no swearing.”
“Gentlemen swear,” he shot back. “A lot.”
Charlotte bit back a smile. “True. But under this roof, you must temper your tongue.”
“I—”
“Hurry! Hurry!” Raven’s younger brother peltered through the front door. “Wot’s keeping ye?”
“Put a cork in it, Hawk. I’m trying te tell her.
” Drawing a deep breath, Raven turned back to her.
“You must come quickly, milady,” he said, this time enunciating his words like a proper little Etonian.
“The churchman in your drawings has just been murdered. Skinny, the streetsweep who works the corner by St. Stephen’s Church on Black Swan Lane, heard the watchman scream and run off to fetch the magistrate.
If we move fast, you’ll have time for a peek before they return. ”
Murder?
Charlotte flinched, nearly spilling the bottle of ink over her unfinished cartoon.
“Skinny said it’s horrible,” volunteered Hawk in an awed whisper. “The reverend’s head is near cut off and there’s enough blood pooled round the body to float a forty-gun frigate.”
She hesitated. It wasn’t that she was a ghoul, but a look at the scene would give her a great advantage over her competitors. In her business, knowledge was money.
And God knows, she needed money.