CHAPTER 16
Smoothing the creases from her walking dress, Charlotte did a slow turn in front of the cheval glass.
She had lost weight since last wearing the patterned silk and it now hung too loosely from her hips to be fashionable.
Not that a four-year-old gown could ever hope to be a la mode here in London.
Still, it brightened her spirits to feel it against her skin.
Memories, memories. The finespun fabric and delicate flowers reminded her of Italian sunshine and the smell of country air washed clean with summer rain.
Her reflection stared at her in mute reproach.
“Yes, I know. It does no good to think of the past.” Charlotte reset a few of her hairpins before putting on a plain chip-straw bonnet and tying the ribbons in a neat bow.
Her hair, she noted, had long since lost any of the golden highlights from her time abroad.
Mouse brown, which perhaps was fitting as her present life was all about creeping through the shadows and avoiding notice.
A dark merino cloak, more iron grey than blue, completed her outfit. One that wouldn’t draw a second glance from the beau monde.
Thank God for that.
A fool’s errand, perhaps. In return for the latest favor she had asked of him, Jeremy had demanded one of his own—being allowed to take her to Gunter’s Tea Shop for a treat of their special ice cream confections after they finished their serious business.
She should have insisted on a different forfeit.
After all, classical mythology was rife with warnings on the dangers of crossing back and forth between two worlds.
With a turn of the key, she carefully locked the front door behind her.
But of late, Charlotte reflected, she seemed to be testing the goodwill of the gods.
“You look tired,” said Jeremy as she joined him on the bench in Green Park an hour later. “You shouldn’t have walked here.”
“Beggars can’t be choosy,” she replied, then instantly regretted it on seeing his face tighten. “It’s just a common saying, Jem.”
“But no less true for being so. If you would let me—”
“No.” Charlotte summoned a show of steel.
He sighed. “I won’t give up, you know.”
“And I won’t give in.” There, the game had played out, as it had in the past and would again in the future. They both understood the rules.
That made him laugh. Even as a boy, Jeremy could never stay angry for long. Leaning back against the slats, he looked up and watched the clouds scud by, wisps of white against the sun-washed blue sky.
Charlotte used the silence to observe her surroundings. Lush green grass, tidy walkways, two well-dressed children at play, their governess hovering close by.
“Thank you for finding the book, Jem.” Knowing a lone woman asking for arcane writings would raise too many unwanted questions, she had asked her friend to look around in the scholarly bookstores on Sackville Street for a certain work by Eirenaeus Philalethes, the American whose alchemical ideas had greatly influenced Newton, Boyle, and the other scientific titans of the late seventeenth century.
“It led me on a merry dance, I’ll tell you that.
A Breviary of Alchemy, or, A Commentary upon Sir George Ripley’s Recapitulation: Being a Paraphrastical Epitome of His Twelve Gates—I assure you, I received some odd looks on asking for that title.
” He grinned. “I likely now have the reputation of being a half-mad eccentric.”
“My apologies—” began Charlotte.
“Oh, no need for them,” he interrupted. “It was actually quite exciting to feel like a clandestine agent, helping to ferret out hidden secrets.” He lowered his voice. “Holworthy was burned with chemicals, so I’m assuming this has something to do with the recent murders.”
“I’m not sure.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, she told herself, simply an evasion. “I’ve heard some strange things and am trying to learn a little about the secretive world of alchemy in Newton’s day.”
“Secretive, indeed, and with good reason. The penalty could be death for trying to turn lead into gold.” Jeremy handed over the small, neatly wrapped package he had been holding in his lap.
“I owe you a great debt of thanks for this,” said Charlotte, as she tucked the book into her reticule.
“Which I shall collect very shortly,” he reminded her.
The idea of having to venture into the heart of Mayfair sent a shiver of trepidation down her spine. But a pledge was a pledge. She would not renege on her word.
“You know, I had a friend at Cambridge,” mused Jeremy, “a member of Trinity—Newton’s old college—who was fascinated by the subject of alchemy.
I remember him regaling me with the fanciful names the practitioners used to disguise their basic chemicals.
” A chuckle. “Like green lion, liver of sulfur, and dragon.”
“Dragon?” Charlotte covered her rising excitement with an amused laugh. “Did your friend ever discover what the terms meant?”
“Not all of them.” His brow furrowed in thought. “Though I seem to remember that ‘dragon’ referred to mercury.”
A sudden roaring seemed to fill her ears. She had seen many images of dragons within the books lent to her by Henning. And now, with this vital clue sparking a new way of looking at the scribbled lines, the sketch found on Drummond’s palm became clear.
That was it—the dead man had taken pains to draw the symbol of mercury on his flesh.
She plucked at a fold of her gown, trying to hide her excitement. One mystery was solved. As to the greater conundrum of what it meant . . .
That would be up to Wrexford.
“Come,” said Jeremy, interrupting her thoughts.
“Enough of secrets and science. It’s time for more frivolous pursuits.
” Rising, he offered his hand. “I highly recommend the strawberry ice cream. It’s their most popular flavor.
Though you may prefer to try a more exotic one, like bergamot, white coffee, or parmesan. ”
Quelling her impatience to rush home and dash off a note to the earl, Charlotte forced a show of good grace and followed her friend’s lead. He deserved no less.
Still, she felt her chest tighten as they crossed Piccadilly Street.
“Relax,” he murmured.
“I am,” she answered.
“Liar.” Jeremy turned their steps up Bolton Street. “You forget that I know you too well—the right corner of your mouth twitches whenever you are telling a bouncer.”
Was she really so easy to read?
Charlotte smiled in reply, but inwardly chided herself to learn from Wrexford how to keep her emotions better masked.
That proved even more of a challenge once Jeremy had escorted her inside the elegant tea parlor and had the waiter seat them at a table looking out through the large windows onto Berkeley Square.
A parade of fancy carriages rolled by, the wheels clicking smoothly over the smooth cobblestones.
Ladies frothed in silk and satins strolled along the neatly raked gravel paths of the central garden, accompanied by gentlemen dressed in the first stare of fashion.
“A sunny day always draws even more business,” explained Jeremy.
He, too, was stylishly attired. He had always had exquisite taste, and now with the unexpected inheritance of a title, he had the money to afford fine clothing.
His subtle choices of fabrics and colors created an understated elegance that complemented his fine-boned features.
He was, mused Charlotte, a very attractive man—and by the sidelong looks he was drawing from the other ladies in the shop, it hadn’t gone unnoticed here in Mayfair.
She shifted in her chair.
Agile waiters darted around horses and curricles, carrying confections from the shop to the groups of laughing couples who were loitering under the stately maples, enjoying their treats alfresco.
All the glitter of the brass buttons, silver-threaded trim, and bejeweled rings was making her eyes ache.
Nodding absently to Jeremy’s suggestion of strawberry ice cream, she turned her gaze to the mansions on the opposite side of the square.
The columned entryways, the high mullioned windows, the carved limestone facades glowing like burnished gold in the afternoon sun—this was the heart of aristocratic London, a charmed rectangle of power and privilege.
It was ironic, thought Charlotte with an inward smile, watching the tea shop’s famous gilded pineapple sign gently swaying in the breeze. Pineapples were a symbol of hospitality, yet only the wealthy were welcome here.
She was an intruder.
Jeremy noticed her faraway look. “Shall we eat our ice cream outdoors?” he inquired as the waiter delivered their treats. The garden had a number of benches beneath the shade of the trees.
She nodded gratefully, happy to escape the cloying sugar and spice scents of the shop.
They found a quiet spot between two tall ornamental shrubs and made light conversation in between spoonfuls of the creamy confection.
Which was, Charlotte admitted, sinfully good.
She was sitting still, savoring the delicious sensation of cold melting into sweetness on her tongue, when the sound of footsteps on the other side of the shrubbery caught her ear.
They came to a halt.
“Are you sure?” The voice was pitched low but couldn’t quite disguise the Scottish accent.
“I’ve just come from White’s. Featherton is a good friend—and he’s also the brother-in-law of one of the justices in the Bow Street magistry.
” The second voice spoke with a perfectly polished London accent.
“So he confided that he just heard new evidence has been discovered concerning Drummond’s murder. And it’s not good for Wrexford.”
A muttered oath.
“Have you any idea when he’ll be returning to Kent?”
Every muscle in Charlotte’s body tensed.
“He didn’t say, Mr. Sheffield, but my guess is tomorrow,” replied the Scottish voice. “He was in no mood to linger there.”
“An arrest warrant has not yet been issued. However, the chances are it soon will be. Is there any way to warn him?”