CHAPTER 12 #2
Tyler perched a hip on the edge of the workbench. “Go on.”
“We know Drummond was a sneak, and spied on his fellow chemists. My guess is he either overheard something, or stole some papers from a colleague’s laboratory that put him in grave danger. And he didn’t realize just how lethal the threat was until it was too late.”
“So you believe he was in his laboratory the morning of his death trying to remove the incriminating evidence?” asked his valet.
“It seems a reasonable assumption,” he answered.
“Once I discovered the unlocked chemical cabinet, and Drummond understood that his laboratory had been broken into, he might have been spooked and realized keeping the papers there could be dangerous. He intended to hide them somewhere, however, the villain beat him to it.”
“And so the villain kills Drummond, and as it’s too dangerous to spend time searching for the evidence, he simply decides to reduce the laboratory to ashes,” mused Tyler. “I see no flaw in your thinking.”
The earl rose and began to pace around the room. “Then it stands to reason that the villain is a fellow member of the Royal Institution. I must learn more about the chemists working there, and what experiments are going on.”
“Modern men of science tend to be just as secretive as the ancient alchemists. They may not literally be trying to make gold, but certain chemical innovations would be worth a great deal of money,” pointed out his valet. “They won’t respond well to direct questioning.”
Tyler was right, mused Wrexford. A host of new technologies—steam-powered engines, cloth manufacturing, the mass production of common implements like nails and cutlery—were revolutionizing everyday life, and all branches of science were fueling the changes.
“Then I must be discreet in how I gather information.”
Tyler strangled a laugh with a brusque cough. “Discreet. An excellent strategy, milord.”
The earl conceded the humor of his statement. But Tyler was not aware that he had a powerful ally in the fine art of uncovering secrets.
He halted by the hearth, the smile fading from his lips as he stared at the banked coals. Though in all honesty he was still conflicted about allowing Charlotte to put herself in mortal peril. The murderer had proved ruthless.
And remorseless. He would give no quarter.
“There are also The Ancients to consider,” he murmured. “I mean to learn more about their private little circle.”
“How?” inquired his valet.
“By exerting a bit more pressure on Lord Canaday. I sense he’s hiding something that he doesn’t wish to come to light. I—”
“Hidden scandals?” Sheffield threw open the closed door without knocking and strolled into the workroom. “Excellent. The day has been deucedly boring. I knew I could count on some excitement stirring here.”
Wrexford regarded his friend for a long moment. “You are acquainted with Lord Stoughton, are you not?”
“Yes.” Sheffield adjusted his cuff. “A nasty little prick, if you ask me. More than a few people at the Wolf’s Lair suspect he cheats at cards, though no one has yet caught how he does it.”
“Honor among thieves? How quaint,” quipped Wrexford. And yet the truth was, there was no greater insult to a gentleman’s reputation—innuendos that he had strangled his grandmother would be far less damaging.
“Ha, ha, ha,” chuffed his friend. “Unfortunately, you have the right of it. Lady Luck has shamelessly picked my pocket of late.”
“You make it excruciatingly easy for her. If you would bother to apply mathematics to the game of vingt-et-un, the results would be different. Pascal’s essay on chance proves—”
Sheffield silenced him with an offhand wave. “I’m not nearly so erudite as you are, Wrex.”
“And not nearly so frivolous as you would have everyone think.” He placed a chunk of coal on the embers and paused to watch a flame lick to life. “I wonder why that is?”
His friend’s jaw tightened, and though his smile remained in place, it did not come close to reaching his eyes. The placid blue momentarily froze to a silvery shade of ice. “Do you really wish to engage in a discussion of our respective behaviors—both in private and in public?”
There were far more pressing battles to fight, and this one could be bloody. His advice to Sheffield on changing reckless behavior—admittedly rather like the pot calling the kettle black—might be well meaning, but his friend was clearly in no mood for their usual verbal thrusts and parries.
“I see I am hoist on my own petard.” Shifting from the center of the fire, Wrexford leaned an arm on the marble mantel. “Let us put our blades away and cry pax.”
Sheffield walked over to the set of decanters by the window and poured himself a brandy. “Pax.”
The earl waited for him to take several swallows before asking, “If you’re willing, I could use your help.”
“It’s hard to say no when you serve such a fine vintage.”
“Find out as much as you can about Stoughton. I have reason to suspect he’s involved in some very dirty dealings.”
“Including murder?” asked Sheffield quietly.
The earl considered the question carefully before answering. “I’m not sure. But be discreet, Kit.”
“Moi?” Sheffield contrived to look injured. “I am the very soul of discretion.”
Tyler lifted his gaze to the ceiling, making his expression impossible to read.
“When I so choose,” added his friend.
“I’m deadly serious. Confine your risk taking to the gaming tables.
Our unknown adversary is dangerous.” The earl suddenly realized that Sheffield had likely not heard of Drummond’s demise.
“There was another murder this morning, and likely connected to Holworthy, though I cannot yet connect how or why. But I intend to do so.”
Tyler cleared his throat. “As to that, milord, I have just recalled that there is an important lecture taking place at the Royal Institution tomorrow. Davy is delivering further thoughts on his Bakerian Lecture, which drew such accolades. All of the members will likely be in attendance, along with most of the beau monde.”
“A good place to begin,” mused the earl
“I’ll come along,” volunteered his friend. “Two pairs of eyes and ears may prove useful. I will, of course, need to know what we are looking for.”
Wrexford hesitated. “I—”
His reply was cut off by a soft knock on the door. “Forgive the interruption, milord,” intoned his butler, the dark oak making the man’s murmur even more muted. “But the man from Bow Street is here. And he is demanding to speak with you.”
Wrexford went to the decanter and filled a glass with a dark amber malt from Scotland. “Sláinte,” he muttered to his friend, raising a sarcastic toast. “To yet more chaos and confusion raising hell with my peaceful existence.”
“He is being very insistent, milord,” pressed the butler.
“Lucky you,” murmured Sheffield.
“Show him to the Blue Salon.” The earl tossed back a swallow. “I shall be there in a moment.”
* * *
Charlotte put away the bread remaining from breakfast and poured herself a cup of tea.
The boys had scampered off after the simple meal, leaving the house quiet.
A fresh sheet of drawing paper lay ready on her desk, ready for the idea that had come to mind in the midnight hours.
And yet, after the first few desultory lines had been sketched in, she set down her pencil, too distracted to focus on the task at hand.
Anthony. Alchemy.
When she had laid her husband’s body in the grave, she had tried to bury the memories of that terrible ordeal—and her terrifying suspicions—along with him, God rest his soul.
But recent events had brought them back to life.
Ghostly whispers begging for justice to be done.
A part of her was afraid to listen. She had managed to scrape out a niche for herself here in London, one that kept food on the table and a roof over her head.
Dare she risk destroying all she had worked for by challenging gentlemen of power and influence?
Gentlemen who could, with the flick of a finger, quash her like a bug.
“And yet, dare I risk living with my conscience if I choose prudence over principle?” whispered Charlotte. Wrexford had counseled caution, and she knew he was right.
But her head had rarely listened to her heart. Passions had always been the ruling force of her life, that fierce force of emotion that bubbled like liquid fire through her blood, that burned through reason and restraint like a flame through dry tinder.
Ironic, really, that she understood all too well the power of alchemy. Mix together the right combination of volatile elements and its sorcery cast a potent spell.
Huffing a sigh of surrender—a tiger was a tiger and could not change its stripes—Charlotte pushed aside her paper and rose to fetch her cloak.
Despite the spitting rain and swirling fog of the storm-tossed morning, the twenty-minute walk through the puddled streets did nothing to dampen her ardor.
Casting caution to the wind was no more a choice than breathing.
Arriving at a shabby brick building backing onto a back alleyway, she entered through the unlocked door and hurried down the ill-lit corridor to the back office.
A rumpled Henning looked up from his untidy desk, a look of grim resignation winking behind the lenses of his spectacles. “I feared you might be paying me a visit, lassie. I don’t suppose I can convince you to let the past lie buried.”
“No,” replied Charlotte. “Not with demons alive and sauntering streets, their evil hidden beneath a thin veneer of well-tailored and smooth-as-silk lies.”
“Pay no heed to the rumors and gossip. Wrexford is a clever fellow, and tenacious as a bulldog when he has a bone between his teeth. I know him from the Peninsula. He’ll not shy away from bringing the truth to light, whatever it may be.”
“He’s an aristocrat,” she said softly. “Bonded by the blue blood of his class.”