CHAPTER 14
Charlotte slowly unwrapped the oilskin and set the twine-tied bundle of manuscripts aside for later. After examining the books, she decided to begin with the one filled with exotic imagery. Setting her notebook and a pencil close at hand, she returned to the beginning and started to read.
All things are concealed in all. One of them all is the concealer of the rest—their corporeal vessel, external, visible, and moveable. All liquefactions are manifested in that vessel. For the vessel is a living and corporeal spirit....
The pictures ranged from simple geometric shapes and complex symbols to elaborately detailed engravings, and the deeper she delved into the pages, the more mystified she became.
Many of them appeared based on ancient mythological or biblical references, while other weirdly fantastical images had no point of reference in her scope of knowledge.
In some ways, the sheer scope of imagination was extraordinary. But Charlotte found she could not admire them. Some, in fact, were deeply disturbing. Their essence was all about seeking control and power.
Even if it meant making a Faustian pact with the Devil.
As she read, she stopped occasionally to make a rough copy of an image in her notebook and add a few notes on its meaning. With each new chapter, it felt as if another portal was opening, drawing her deeper and deeper into a strange and mystical world.
It took several loud raps on the front door to jar Charlotte into reality. Her nerves already unsettled by the images, she slipped a small pocket pistol out of her desk drawer before rising and moving quietly into the foyer.
“Bloody hell.” The oath, edged with exasperation, rumbled through the thick oak.
She slid back the bolt. “To what do I owe the honor of yet another visit? Is someone else dead?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Wrexford. “I wanted to ask you a question about . . .” He paused, his words pinched off by a quizzical frown.
“Yes?” she encouraged. “About what?”
“Might I come in?”
“That would be best.” Charlotte quickly stepped aside.
“If you are going to make a habit of paying a visit, you might try to be a trifle less conspicuous.” She eyed his exquisitely tailored clothing and tasseled Hessian boots.
“I live quietly and simply, milord, and do nothing that might draw attention to my home. I’d prefer to keep it that way. ”
“My apologies. I will be more careful in the future,” he murmured. Her movement must have set off a glint of metal, for his gaze had dropped to her right hand. “I am glad to see that you heeded my earlier warning to take precautions for your safety.”
“I’m always careful, Lord Wrexford.” The hammer uncocked with a tiny snick. Loath to appear rag mannered, she added, “Alas, I can’t offer you pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop, but would you care for a cup of tea?”
Wrexford followed her into the main room. “Thank you, but no need to trouble yourself. I’ve just come from imbibing ample refreshments.” He took a seat at the table, and crossed his legs. An odd sort of mood seemed to have hold of him.
But then, Charlotte reminded herself, she was hardly in a position to judge the nuances of his moods. Despite their recent conversations, most of what she knew about him was based on rumor and innuendo. And she knew all too well how those prisms could distort reality.
“A surfeit of champagne and lobster patties, no doubt,” she murmured as she returned to her desk.
“You appear to know a great deal about the extravagances of the beau monde parties.”
“Of course I do,” she replied. “Have you forgotten that I make my living by knowing all the gory details of how Polite Society amuses itself?”
“That would be rather difficult to forget.” A sardonic smile flashed for an instant.
“By the by, this morning’s print of Drummond’s demise was particularly striking.
The scene was rendered quite well, save for the details of the body.
You made it appear terribly gruesome. I did mention there was very little blood from the wound, didn’t I? ”
“Artistic license, milord. The public is not looking for subtlety.”
Another smile. “Is that why you insist on exaggerating the beakiness of my nose? Were I a sensitive soul, your pen would cut to the heart of my vanity.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a low laugh. “Word is, you don’t have a heart.”
He gave a mournful sigh. “True. Cut me and likely I would bleed claret, not blood. But it would be from an excellent vintage.”
“I shall keep that in mind for a cartoon on a day when scandal is quiet. I’m sure all of London would lap it up.” As she shifted, the open book on her blotter caught her eye, a reminder that she should be concentrating on more serious endeavors than trading clever quips with the earl.
“Now that we’re done with social pleasantries, sir, you said you had a question for me. What is it?”
Rather than reply right away, he turned away and let his gaze wander around the room.
You are wasting your time, Lord Wrexford. If the answers to life’s mysteries were hidden in the woodwork, I would have found them by now.
Charlotte, however, decided to let him speak first.
“Likely I’ve come on a fool’s errand,” he finally said.
“I wanted to show you a sketch and see if it meant anything to you. Not that I expect it will.” His eyes shifted back to meet hers.
“I suppose I simply wanted an excuse to discuss the investigation. Each clue along the way has been a Pandora’s box—lifting its lid for a closer look has released a whole new slew of conundrums instead of answers.
” His dark brows pinched together. “There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to how they are all connected.”
On impulse, Charlotte reached for her sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. “And that troubles you?”
“It troubles me greatly,” he confirmed, though she would not have guessed it from the Sphinx-like smoothness of his face. “As a man of science, I am skeptical about the notion of random coincidences. In my experience, most things can be explained by logic.”
“Your experience,” said Charlotte softly as she began to draw, “has been different than mine.”
His expression altered, and yet remained a cipher. She had never met a man so hard to read.
“Sometimes random patterns can be just that, like the way the pigment spatters from a brush onto drawing paper when one makes an errant flick of the wrist.”
“Newton’s laws of motion,” he murmured.
“You are being too literal, sir. Sometimes one must apply artistic sensibilities to a problem in order to see it clearly.”
“I shall take your word for it, Mrs. Sloane.” The lamplight flickered over the contours of his face, accentuating the shadow of doubt pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked tired, and tense. Charlotte guessed it wasn’t often that he second-guessed himself.
She could assure him that it wasn’t a feeling that grew more comfortable over time.
“What are you doing?” Wrexford asked, suddenly taking note of the movement of her hands.
“Making a drawing of your face,” Charlotte replied. “Remember, it was part of our agreement.”
Uncertainty shaded his face. She guessed he wished to protest, but something was holding him back.
“I’ll be done in a moment. I just wanted to capture the way the light is playing over your features.” In truth, it was the conflicting look of hardness and vulnerability that had caught her eye. “Keep talking. You truly think everything can be explained by strict rules of logic?”
He didn’t answer right away. The light from the lamp showed the crinkling of his eyes as they narrowed in thought. That pensiveness was something she had noticed from their very first meeting.
“There is an underlying order to the way things work,” he finally replied.
“One only has to look at the natural world to see that. So yes, I do believe there are universal rules. For eons, the change in seasons was thought to be ruled by divine whim. But Kepler, through careful observation and the application of mathematics, formulated his laws of planetary motion, which rationally explain them. Many complex forces may be beyond our power to comprehend right now, but that does not mean they can’t eventually be figured out. ”
“A very intriguing philosophy, sir.” Charlotte added a few quick strokes, hoping to catch the look in his eyes. “You like pushing the boundaries.”
“That is the essence of science.” He turned to face her full on. “Just as it is the essence of art.”
“If the two have anything in common, it is imagination. It’s what inspires discovery.”
Wrexford’s gaze was suddenly unnerving. As if he were able to see through her skin.
She set her pad aside, the drawing done. “Where is the sketch you wanted to show me?”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and wordlessly passed it over.
“Is that blood?” she asked as she gingerly set it on her desk and smoothed it open.
“I imagine so. And given that it came from Henning’s mortuary notebook, blood is likely the least offensive substance gracing its surface.”
The image quickly dispelled all such distractions. Leaning closer, Charlotte carefully studied the penciled lines and felt her flesh begin to prickle. “Where did this come from?”
“Drummond had drawn it on his palm,” answered Wrexford. “God only knows for what reason.”
God—or the devil, thought Charlotte. “Is it an accurate rendering of the original? I am trying to make out this tangle of squiggles at the bottom. . . .” She looked up in question.
The earl gave an apologetic shrug. “I have no pretensions to being an artist. My rendering is likely crude. But Drummond used a pencil and appeared to have been in a rush.” He rose and joined her at the desk. “What a hodgepodge. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know—”
His voice cut off abruptly as he spotted the open books she had pushed aside. “Hell’s teeth, what are those?” he demanded.
“Books on alchemy,” she replied. “I borrowed them from Mr. Henning.”