CHAPTER 8 #2
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied after a moment of thought.
“There’s little debauchery in Sheffield, merely an aimlessness.
He’s considered charming, but his caustic wit and meager allowance—he’s a younger son of the Earl of Marquand, who’s known to be a nipcheese—frighten the matchmaking mamas of the ton.
It’s clear he’ll need to marry a girl with a very plump dowry to ensure a comfortable life.
However, without the title and influence that his eldest brother carries, he’s not considered a very good catch. ”
Jeremy quirked a humorless smile. “A wealthy father expects more from his investment.”
Partnering money and power. A dance that had involved a dizzying array of steps and spins.
“In every strata of Society, there is a price to pay for admission to its highest circle.” Charlotte shrugged. “So, how is it that Sheffield and Wrexford are friends? Sheffield seems a fribble, and my sense is, the earl is not.”
“I believe they formed a bond during their years at Oxford.” Jeremy paused again to give her question careful thought. “My impression of Sheffield is that he has a sharp mind, but he has no way to put his intellect to practical use. And boredom often begets cynicism.”
God forbid that a gentleman sully his lily-white hands in business or a profession other than the military, the government, or the church. Charlotte didn’t envy the aristocracy. The cage might be gilded, and filled with sumptuous pleasures and glittering amusements.
But it was still a cage.
“You’ve been incredibly helpful. I . . .” She couldn’t think of any words that might lessen the hurt of their earlier exchange. Choices, choices. Hers had been made a long time ago.
“I ought to be going,” finished Charlotte softly. “I’ve a drawing to finish by this evening.”
Jeremy rose, and knowing better than to offer her an escort home, he held out the unopened box of pastries. “Please take this. The lads are fond of apple tarts.”
She accepted it with a nod of thanks.
“I may not like your decision, Charley.” The knuckles of his gloved hand brushed against her cheek. “But that doesn’t change our friendship, or our current arrangement. I am here for you whenever you need my help.”
“I’m grateful—truly grateful, Jem.” Charlotte wished she could banish the demons lurking deep within the recesses of her being. But they had always been there. In that the two of them were kindred spirits. But Jeremy had always been by far the wiser in how to deal with his inner devils.
“If it makes you uncomfortable,” she went on, “I will not ask again for information about the foibles of your peers.”
He forced a smile. “And miss the point of your quill puncturing the pompous, puffed-up arrogance of Polite Society?” His expression turned serious. “You keep them honest, Charley. I applaud your courage, even though it terrifies me.”
It terrifies me as well.
Touching the brim of his hat in salute, Jeremy turned without further words and crossed to the open iron gate.
Charlotte stared down at the tips of her half boots, unwilling to watch him disappear into the shadows of the side street. She sat for several more minutes, curling the fringe of her shawl around her fingers so tightly that the pain brought tears to her eyes.
Pain is good. It reminds us that we are alive.
She opened the box and took a small bite of a tart, savoring the thick grains of crystallized sugar flecked with spicy cinnamon. So, too, did the small moments of sweetness.
She was strong. She would not let the darkness consume her.
* * *
Wrexford paused in the corridor to consider his options.
Which were virtually nil. Although he was a member of the Royal Institution, he had no official authority to ignore the Runner’s orders, and given the circumstances, it would not be wise to test just how far he could push the man.
“Bloody bad timing,” he muttered.
“I take it you saw something you wished to examine more closely,” murmured Tyler.
“Yes. But Griffin’s ham-fisted handling of things will likely destroy it.”
“Perhaps I can help.” His valet darted a look at the group of porters emerging from the stairwell with their buckets and brooms. “I can switch coats and hats with one of these fellows, and Griffin may not notice me in the commotion.”
“It may work,” said the earl. “There are several half-burned papers atop the charred books. Try to find a way to smuggle them out. It won’t be easy—they are damnably fragile and it’s key not to have them—”
“Lord Wrexford!” A slender man of medium height shouldered his way past the porters. “I didn’t realize you were here in the building.” He heaved an out-of-breath sigh as he hurried to join them. “Good Lord, what a hideous business.”
“Indeed it is, Lowell,” agreed the earl.
Lord Declan Lowell, younger son of the Marquess of Carnsworth, served as superintendent of the building.
A skilled administrator, as well as a man interested in science—Wrexford couldn’t recall his specific field of focus—he had been asked by the Royal Institution’s head to handle the logistics of the public lectures and research laboratories.
At the present moment he didn’t envy him the job.
“As it happens, I came to have a word with Mr. Drummond. But it seems someone else arrived here first.”
Lowell blanched, his well-shaped features pinching to a mask of harried concern.
“I came in quite early, in order to sort through the paperwork for the upcoming chemistry lectures. In a sense, it’s a blessing in disguise, as I’m able to deal with the terrible news and have some control as to how it becomes public knowledge. ”
He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed auburn hair. “I hope you don’t think me callous. Of course I am devastated about Drummond—a terrible loss of a respected member. But, to be honest, I am concerned about the Institution as well.”
His lips thinned in a momentary grimace.
“There are many people who don’t like what we do here—the forward thinking, the modern ideas, the willingness to change the way things are traditionally done frightens them.
I fear they will use this as some sort of sign from heaven that our experiments are against the natural order of the world. ”
Wrexford gave a curt nod of sympathy. “I don’t doubt that you are right.
” Lowell had always struck him as a smart, shrewd, and pragmatic fellow.
He moved in a circle of up-and-coming young and influential intellectuals—Babbage, Herschel, Peacock—and like them was a voice for reforming old rules.
Perhaps he could use those qualities to his own advantage.
“We men of learning understand each other—you may count on me to do all I can to keep the details from leaking out.”
Lowell chuffed a sigh of relief.
Lowering his voice, he went on, “Like you, I have an interest in seeing this solved quickly and quietly.” He shot a meaningful look at the porters, who were huddled a respectful distance away, waiting for a signal from the superintendent on how to proceed.
“I’d like a look at the laboratory before your men fling around their sand and cart away the debris. ”
Lowell instantly came alert. “Anything in particular?” he asked softly.
“I simply want to get a better impression of the scene,” lied Wrexford. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the man, but there were too many strange pieces to the puzzle scattered around. Until he could begin to make sense of them he was wary about revealing anything.
“However, the Runner has taken an unreasonable dislike to me.” A sardonic smile. “And so has tossed me out on my ear.”
Lowell nodded in understanding. Drawing a large ring of keys from his coat pocket, he moved quickly to the other side of the corridor and unlocked a storage room. “Wait in here. I will handle the matter.”
Wrexford and Tyler slipped into the cramped space. The door closed quietly, leaving them in darkness.
A few minutes later, the agitated clop-clop of boots beat a hobnailed tattoo on the corridor floor. The sound receded fast.
Silence. Wrexford smiled to himself.
Lowell returned and eased the door open. “I told him I needed to clear the dangerous chemicals from the room and couldn’t permit him to stay. However, he’ll be returning in a half hour. That was all the time I dared demand.”
“It’s quite enough. Thank you,” replied the earl, grateful for the superintendent’s coolheaded and decisive handling of the situation. “As for you and your men . . . in order to work quickly and efficiently, it would be better if my assistant and I could have the room to ourselves.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lowell looked around. “Haversham is out of Town. I’ll take my men into his laboratory, which is identical to Drummond’s layout, and go over the procedures for dealing with the damage.”
“Much obliged,” said Wrexford, signaling Tyler to proceed. “I shall come let you know when we are finished.”
He wasted no time in following his valet into the laboratory, and took the precaution of locking the door from the inside.
The reek of smoke hung heavy in the still air, pungent with a harsh chemical tang that burned the throat with every breath.
The main Argent lamp had given up the ghost, and the two surviving oil lamps were burning low, their weak flames casting ghoulish shadows over the jumbled furniture and equipment.
Drummond’s body lay half turned on its side, the dark pool of blood spreading slowly through a spill of powdered sulfur. Wrexford repressed a twinge of pity as he stepped over the chemist’s lifeless legs. Would anyone care about his passing?
However odious, no man should die unmourned.