CHAPTER 20
Finding a small foothold in the brick, Charlotte scrambled to the top of the garden wall and dropped down on a patch of soft grass bordering a graveled path. A breeze ruffled through the well-tended ornamental plantings, stirring a swirl of mist fragrant with roses and the piney tang of yew.
The scent of money, she thought, taking an extra moment to fill her lungs with its sweet, clean perfume. Outside of bastions of privilege like Berkeley Square, the London air was always edged with far less salubrious smells. But the rich, they lived in their own world, swathed in luxury.
And their own insular arrogance. Which was, Charlotte reminded herself, why she was here.
Rising, she dusted the dirt from the knees of her breeches and followed the path to the stone terrace at the rear of the mansion.
Even though it was illuminated in nothing but the muted moonlight, its classical lines and elegant simplicity were striking.
Pale Portland stone cornices and moldings faced the deeper-hued blocks of limestone, giving the tall building an airy, graceful feel despite its solid bulk and steeply pitched slate roof.
A light shone through the dark draperies of the high mullioned double windows at the left corner. One of them was cracked open to the night air. She hesitated, but with her blood up, anger won out over prudence.
A man raised his head from the eyepiece of a large brass apparatus as her boots tapped down upon the polished wood floor. “And who,” he asked calmly, “might you be?”
“Where’s Wrexford?” she demanded. Was he a servant? His clothing said no. He was dressed casually, with his coat off and linen sleeves rolled up. A distinct brownish stain occupied the spot on his shirt where a cravat should have been.
“Out,” he replied. His face was too thin and bony to be considered handsome, but there was something arresting about the sharpness of his hazel eyes.
“So I suspected.” Charlotte moved to the large pear wood desk and took a seat in the very comfortable-looking chair. “I’ll wait.”
He seemed amused by the statement. “Would you care for some warm milk and biscuits while you do so? I imagine it’s way past your bedtime, lad.”
She was quite sure his basilisk stare had not failed to discern her sex. Had he learned from the earl that sardonic humor tended to intimidate people? Well, he was wasting his breath. In her current state of mind, nothing short of bodily force was going to remove her from the premises.
There were a number of open books piled atop each other on the desktop. Others, she noted, were spread out over the work counters. Ignoring his question, Charlotte picked up one of them and began to read.
That wiped the insouciant smile off his lips. “Put that down,” he said rather sharply. “It’s a rare edition and very difficult to come by.”
A Scottish accent. Which explained his pale complexion and ginger-colored hair.
Without looking up, she turned to the next page.
A curse—at least, she suspected it was one. Everything said in Gaelic sounded a little rough around the edges. He rose abruptly. “I really must insist.”
“Very well,” answered Charlotte calmly. “You may bring me the biscuits. But I would prefer brandy over the warm milk.”
His jaw tightened. He was, she observed, no doubt trying to decide whether gentlemanly scruples allowed him to toss her out on her ear. Or perhaps his uncertainty centered around the small pistol she had seen him ease out of the workbench drawer the moment she had dropped into the room.
Whatever the moral dilemma, it was interrupted by Wrexford’s hurried entrance.
He appeared agitated. “Tyler—”
Be damned if the book was rare. Before he could say more, Charlotte smacked it down on the desk with a ferocious thump and shot to her feet. “You, sir, are an unmitigated arse.”
The earl stopped short.
“How dare you!” she continued. “I swear, if I had a piece of rope right now, I’d hang you myself.”
He had the grace to look a little abashed. “They were in no danger.”
On hearing his curt reply, all her pent-up fears came bubbling up.
“Has God suddenly given you the powers of Almighty omniscience to go along with your lordly arrogance? Or is it simply what the devil does it matter if two homeless brats get shipped off to the penal colonies half a world away! There are hundreds—nay thousands—of such worthless weasels roaming the streets of London.” To her dismay, Charlotte felt tears well up, but quickly blinked them back. “Of course they wouldn’t be missed.”
His face expressionless, Wrexford fixed his stare not on her but rather on some spot on the far wall.
Detachment, she thought bitterly, was a great gift to have when faced with inconvenient truths.
Tyler didn’t move. The only sound was the sinuous whisper of the heavy silk draperies as they stirred in a gust of air.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You are right. It was wrong of me to involve the boys without first discussing it with you.”
She blinked again.
“But rest assured, I would never have allowed them to come to any grief.”
The unexpected apology drained away the rush of righteous anger, leaving her feeling naught but hurt and exhausted.
Charlotte sat down again and folded her hands in her lap.
There was an ink smudge on her calloused thumb, an all too visceral reminder that in both action and thought, her behavior was beyond the pale of Polite Society decorum.
A black mark. She contemplated the thought, then decided to see it instead as a badge of honor. A pattern card of propriety had no more substance than the pasteboard on which it was printed.
Let the beau monde consider her disgraceful for having passions.
As to what the earl was thinking of her . . .
It didn’t matter.
Charlotte made herself look up and pretend to possess more strength than she felt. “I hope that the risk proved worth it.” Strangely enough, her voice sounded strong and steady.
“It did,” answered the earl with equal calmness. “Indeed, we may soon know the truth about at least part of the mystery.”
Without further ado, he gestured at the ginger-haired man. “Tyler!” Turning to her, he added, “By the by, this is Tyler. A mediocre valet but an excellent laboratory assistant.”
Tyler inclined a courteous nod.
“Allow me to introduce . . .” Wrexford hesitated.
“A. J. Quill,” said Charlotte. Seeing as the valet was privy to the other secrets, it seemed silly to keep this one.
If Tyler was surprised by the announcement, he hid it well. “What a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured. “I am a great fan of your work.”
“Never mind that.” The earl had already moved to the central worktable, and with great care he took a wad of silk from inside his coat and placed it down as if he were handling the most fragile of eggs. “I need two of our thinnest glass squares, and be quick about it.”
Tyler hurriedly prepared the items and carried them over. “Milord, I have been reading about Howard and his experiments while you were out—”
“Hand me a scalpel,” said Wrexford, as he unwrapped a tiny glass vial and examined its top. “A sharp one.”
The surgical tool was promptly handed over. “The top has been double sealed with wax. Which likely means—”
The blade slipped as a chunk of the wax suddenly broke off, causing the earl to momentarily juggle the vial, spilling some of the contents.
Moving with lightning quickness, Tyler grabbed the earl, and in the same violent movement hustled him away as the grains fell to the floor.
Charlotte cringed, expecting the worst.
Nothing happened.
“What the devil!” exclaimed Wrexford
“My apologies, sir. After what I had read, I expected the substance to be extremely volatile. And extremely unstable.” Tyler stared balefully at the sample. “Apparently I was wrong.”
“Unstable in what way?” asked Wrexford, looking curiously at the spill.
“It should have exploded at the slightest impact.” The valet looked a little disappointed. “Land’s research was on—”
Before Tyler could finish, the earl dropped a polished marble paperweight atop the grains—and was nearly knocked on his arse by the force of the thunderous bang.
“Hmm. That’s very odd,” said Tyler, squinting at the charred oak flooring as the shower of sparks and smoke subsided.
“Milord! Your trousers are on fire!” cried Charlotte.
Tyler quickly smothered the flames with a rag.
“Have you suffered an injury, sir?” she asked.
“Only to my vanity. I take pride in always being faultlessly attired.”
Sarcasm—blatant sarcasm. Lately his attitude had softened, so this sharpness clearly showed he was as unhappy with her as she was with him.
Wrexford looked down at the badly singed wool and then at the vial, which was still clasped between his fingers. “Odd, indeed,” he mused, his full attention shifting back to the chemicals. “That had far more force than ordinary gunpowder.”
“Quite a bit more,” agreed Tyler.
“We had better take a closer look at Lowell’s hellfire invention. I wonder . . .”
“Allow me, sir, just in case.” The valet held up a small pair of tongs padded in chamois.
Taking hold of the glass, he carefully tipped out a small measure of the powder onto one of the pieces of glass, and ever so carefully covered it with the other, then stoppered the vial with a tiny piece of cork.
“The microscope is ready to be calibrated, milord,” he said as he placed the remaining sample upright in a metal tube rack and then handed the slides to the earl.
“How does looking at the powder tell you anything meaningful?” Charlotte couldn’t hold back her curiosity. Even magnified, the grains would be . . . simply grains, and the substance looked to be colorless.