Chapter 25
Sheffield turned from warming his hands at the blazing hearth while he and Wrexford waited for Charlotte to join them in the drawing room and head off to Ainsley’s soirée.
“Are you sure you aren’t pushing yourself too hard?” he asked, noting how the earl winced slightly as he reached for a book on the side table.
“I’m fine,” growled the earl. Charlotte had made much the same comment as he had dressed for the coming evening soiree at Ainsley’s townhouse. “I’m not about to stick my spoon in the wall. The wound was barely more than a scratch.”
Sheffield raised his brows but refrained from further comment.
“Forgive me for being tardy!” Charlotte hurried into the room, smoothing the sash of her gown. “Mac had to restitch one of the fastenings that had come loose and—”
She stopped abruptly and looked around. “Where’s Cordelia?”
“Alas, a bilious stomach,” answered Sheffield. “There must have been a bad oyster in the seafood stew she had for her midday meal yesterday while working at our office.”
“Shall I have Mac fix her a ginger tisane—”
“Our cook has already made her a posset, and she’s now sleeping,” said Sheffield. “I think she’s quite relieved that I’m going out this evening so I can’t hover over her and keep her awake.”
Charlotte nodded and smiled at his wry humor, but not before glancing at Wrexford and frowning. “Sleep is usually the best medicine for all ills.”
“Shall we be off?” suggested the earl before she could follow up on the statement. “Our carriage is waiting.”
It was only a short drive to their destination, and as Charlotte and Sheffield chatted about the new novel by Jane Austen that was due to be published shortly, Wrexford slouched back against the squabs and tried to shake off the strange sense of foreboding that was darkening his mood.
Perhaps Kit is right, and it’s simply fatigue that is making me feel so out of sorts.
Forcing his jaw to unclench, he assumed a less fraught expression.
It wouldn’t do to squander the opportunity to elicit important information from the assembled guests and their hosts.
A preliminary plan had already been made—Charlotte and Sheffield would contrive to converse with the artistic Damien Manchester, while he would look to have a private conversation with Ainsley and Stoneham—who, he reminded himself, was also their host’s brother-in-law.
Brass torchieres flanked the entrance steps of Ainsley’s stately townhouse, the dancing flames casting a fire-gold glow over the pale, polished marble and mellow Portland stone as the three of them descended to the street.
The windows were all ablaze with diamond-bright candlelight, and the sonorous sounds of the string quartet wafted into the chill night as a porter opened the door with a graceful bow.
“Welcome to the festivities.” After taking their wraps, he gestured to the ornate curved staircase beyond the entrance hall, where a line of guests was already snaking its way up to the main reception room.
“Ainsley serves a very fine champagne,” murmured Wrexford after the three of them had been handed crystal flutes of sparkling wine and he had taken a sip. “Let us hope that it proves useful in loosening lips.”
As Wrexford moved away to find their host, Charlotte surveyed the crowd of guests over the rim of her glass.
Manchester had been pointed out to her once at an art exhibition given by the Royal Academy, and she was fairly certain that she would recognize him.
His brown hair, threaded with silver at the temples, and pleasant features were nothing out of the ordinary, but it was his eyebrows—dark and slanted slightly upward— that had made his face intriguing to her.
“Ah.” She nudged Sheffield. “I see him.”
They began a slow promenade of the perimeter of the room, making a point to stop and chat with several acquaintances.
As they passed by the refreshment table, Charlotte angled her steps toward a nook near the bay window overlooking the street, where their quarry was studying an ornate candelabra set on a Louis XIV gilt table.
“A bit de trop for my taste,” she murmured as they approached him. “But Mr. Sheffield tells me you are the real expert on decorative arts, sir.”
“Chacun à son go?t,” replied Manchester in flawless French. “But yes, I couldn’t agree more with you, madam. This is rather like swinging a sledge hammer at the senses.”
Charlotte smiled. “It does make one wince.”
Manchester chuckled. “Do introduce us, Sheffield. I have heard that your wife is both charming and intelligent—”
“She is, indeed,” interjected Charlotte. “And Mrs. Sheffield is also my closest friend.” Extending her hand so that he might perform the ritual bow required of a formal introduction, she added, “I am Lady Wrexford.”
Manchester waggled his dark brows as he straightened. “Lady, are you two perchance being naughty?” he asked, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“And risk the unholy wrath of Wrexford?” Sheffield gave a mock shiver. “I don’t have a death wish.”
“Forgive my impertinence, milady—I couldn’t resist.” Manchester flashed a genial smile. “I meant no offense, but I’m aware that my sense of humor is not to everyone’s taste.”
“A bit of spice keeps life from being too bland,” she replied. “Be assured no offense was taken.”
“Lady Wrexford is also a cognoscente of art,” said Sheffield. “And a very fine watercolorist in her own right.”
“Watercolors are a challenging medium to master. One must have the dexterity and confidence to make quick decisions.”
“Very true,” agreed Charlotte. “But I like challenges.” She took a moment to smooth a wrinkle from her glove. “Sheffield was just telling me that you appear to enjoy challenges, too, as you’ve agreed to serve on the committee seeking to create a banknote that can’t be counterfeited.”
Raising her brows in a question, she added, “He mentioned that you are an expert in the guilloche designs created by rose engines, which I am told are a type of geometric lathe. I’ve looked at those patterns, especially the ones from the Renaissance, and find them fascinating.
Do you really think the concept will work on banknotes … ”
The two of them quickly fell into a lengthy discussion, and Charlotte found herself impressed, not only with his technical knowledge but also with the thought he had given to the specific problem at hand.
“You see,” he explained, clearly warming to her question, “I have a feeling that a single traditional guilloche will not be an insurmountable obstacle to a skilled forger. So I agree with the late Lord Langdon that Ibbetson has veered off in the wrong direction.”
“Then what do you think will work?” pressed Charlotte.
“From what I hear, an American inventor named Jacob Perkins is in the process of creating a very innovative system of printing that combines multiple dies of guilloche designs onto a single master printing plate. Mind you, I don’t know any of the technical details of how he does this.”
He emphasized his last statement with a baffled shrug, then added, “But I do hope the rumors are true and that he is planning on coming to London and participating in the Bank of England’s contest.”
“But isn’t Sir Joseph Banks adamantly opposed to an American printing British currency?” pointed out Sheffield.
An exasperated sigh. “For the moment, yes. It is to be hoped that someone can talk some sense into the old fellow. He lives in the glories of the last century’s achievements, while we should be looking at the new innovations that shall take us into the future.”
Charlotte nodded thoughtfully.
“But forgive me for boring you with technical details, milady,” he quickly added.
“Not at all. Your explanations have been very illuminating.” Seeing Ainsley coming their way, she flashed an apologetic smile. “I fear that I’ve been keeping you from sharing your insights with our host and the other committee members who are present.”
A rueful grin. “They’ve all had more than an earful of my ideas,” he answered.
“Well, I hope they’ve listened carefully. For what you say makes a great deal of sense to me. Perhaps Congreve—
“Congreve is not an artist,” muttered Manchester. “I don’t think he’s capable of seeing the big picture.”
Interesting. But before Charlotte could react, Ainsley arrived and requested her permission to take both Manchester and Sheffield off to a private meeting in one of the side salons.
Charlotte graciously agreed and then turned to find herself face-to-face with her hostess, who had come up quietly behind her.
“I’m so sorry if I startled you.” Up close, Clarissa Ainsley was even more striking than from afar. Her high cheekbones accentuated the heart-shaped symmetry of her face, and a luminous porcelain-pale skin brought out the smoky emerald color of her eyes.
“Bertram was a step ahead of me in saving you from our dear friend Damien. He and my husband have been close since their school days at Cambridge, and much as I enjoy his company, he does tend to rattle on interminably when speaking of art. His new passion appears to be touting rose engines, which create intricate designs called guilloches, as the answer for creating banknotes that can’t be counterfeited. ”
She gave a sympathetic smile. “I do hope he wasn’t boring you to perdition.”
“Not at all,” assured Charlotte. “I am always very curious to hear about anything artistic, and according to him and my husband, this particular subject is potentially very important to the Bank of England’s efforts to prevent counterfeiting.”
Mrs. Ainsley released a long-suffering sigh. “That topic is all I’ve heard about lately.” She offered Charlotte her arm. “Come, let us take a stroll around the room and talk about more cheerful subjects. Are you perchance interested in gardens?”
“Only in that I glean great enjoyment from the toil and sweat of others,” she replied dryly.