“I have no doubt it will, Coggs.” Whittingham smiled, though his mouth was tight from the harsh temperature. “One cannot publish a journal article in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society without the correct proof of knowledge, and I intend to investigate and repudiate the claims made, if for no other reason than to defend the truth. While Lord Talbot may know his way around scientific theory, his lack of detail leaves me curious and more than a little suspicious. The hypothesis presented in the article failed to contain the precise proof expected from someone of Talbot’s notable reputation. The earl hadn’t the decency to answer my inquiries through post but has now unexpectedly agreed to meet. That’s an adequate start that I intend to see to a satisfactory conclusion. I couldn’t wait around in London at risk Talbot might change his mind. His invitation was surprising but fortuitous. And so there you have it. Despite the ill weather and spontaneity of our travel, I had little choice but to act immediately once I received his response.”
“Indeed.”
“It could be my own perspicuity that raised false suspicions, though Talbot hasn’t lectured in London or sought attention for any of the evidences proposed in his series of articles, and it’s been several years since his breakthrough experiments have warranted news. Most leaders of academia strive to share knowledge, not hoard it. No one at the Society for the Intellectually Advanced can understand his reclusive behavior. A commitment to speak to the most elite intellectual organization in all of England would be a rare and gratifying opportunity, most especially if I brought it forward as chief officer.” He flicked his eyes toward the sky and then to the roadway just as quickly. “And as the members of the Society continue to question the validity of the claims made, verifying the article and engaging the earl to speak in London—or exposing him for fraud—will accredit my newly gained position.”
“So, with this jaunt into nowhere, you have a multipurpose agenda.” Coggs turned toward him, his brows lowered in question.
“Don’t I always?” Whittingham answered. “Science is truth. Thanks to my sister’s interference, my succession into the position of chief officer was less than smooth. Ferreting out faulty, half-baked experimental reporting will prove I’m qualified for the position, knowledgeable and otherwise worthy.”
“I see.” Coggs nodded.
“That said, putting past publication aside, Talbot might be nothing more than a charlatan. A dreamer. A man who knows nothing about scientific philosophy other than how to manipulate syntax to thread together a credible suggestion and bamboozle trusting souls. Wouldn’t that be an interesting turn?” He looked toward Coggs with a knowing stare. “Either way, I intend to find out.”
* * *
Theodosia Leighton, granddaughter of the earl of Talbot, stood before her work table and stared intently at a glass beaker filled halfway with a mixture of agitative liquids. She checked her grandfather’s notations scribbled on the page of the open journal in reference to the measurements. Something should have happened by now, but the clear liquid inside the glass remained unchanged. She blew a breath of exasperation and stepped away.
“I don’t know what went wrong, Nicolaus.” She didn’t expect an answer; he was accustomed to her thinking aloud. She paced to the hearth and back again as a way to expend energy while she waited. Curious now, Nicolaus approached the beaker, leaned in, sniffed the liquid inside and withdrew right after.
“I know.” She understood his displeasure. “The formula smells horrible and Grandfather hasn’t a notation anywhere to explain the chemical change. With the remaining pages of his journal missing and only half an accounting, I’m at a loss to reproduce the outcome.”
Disinterested in disappointment or any recitation of complaint, Nicolaus silently left the room. Theodosia watched him go, hardly blaming his reaction. She’d recreated the experiment several times without success, and yet her grandfather was the most knowledgeable and meticulous scientist Oxfordshire had ever produced.
At least, she believed so.
What had she missed in his documentation? She’d honed her skills of observation and detail to an exacting degree. Through practice, sampling and sketching every specimen available to her, she’d created a catalog of scientific knowledge in her brain. With an excellent memory and concise methods of deductive reasoning, the idea that she had failed to reason out the problem with the experiment irked her.
At a loss for the time being, she strode to the window and glanced at the foreboding clouds. Snow. Everything about the view outside predicted an imminent snowfall. A strong wind bent the tree limbs of the sole remaining chestnut tree spared by the fire years ago and not a creature could be seen. Most likely they burrowed beneath the hedgerows or sheltered by the dense Scotch firs that lined the perimeter of the property, farther from the house. Even the air seemed raw and crisp, no matter that she remained inside and viewed the world through glass. These conditions were a precursor to significant precipitation. She would record her observations in her weather journal later that evening, when she was too tired to do more than move a pencil across a page.
Snow complicated even the simplest tasks. Before dinner she would check with the housekeeper, Mrs. Mavis, and ensure they had provisions in case this sudden unsettling cold spell hampered them for a few days. They were too far from town to be caught unaware in bad weather. Food items, candles, firewood and the necessary supplies for daily living, would all need to be secured. A few of the stable hands would see to the work of bedding down the horses. Eggs would have to be collected, and then there were all her animals to tend.
These tasks would have been accomplished with a smile if she’d mastered her research this afternoon. Instead, she could only review her grandfather’s notes and attempt to understand his reasoning. It had taken her the better part of half a year to learn his notation system and decipher many of his complicated trials. But omitted text . . . that created a difficult hurdle, far beyond her until she fully understood the theory behind his work. When questioned, Grandfather waved away her inquiries, as if his notebooks were no longer a language he understood.
Returning to the table, she stared down at the open book. She needed the missing pages. Nearly a third of the entries were gone and the current passage was incomplete. She touched the paper and smoothed a fingertip over the scrawled notes, careful not to smudge the graphite. If only she had someone other than Grandfather to ask for assistance. When she closed her eyes and wished hard enough, she could still hear her parents’ voices, though so many years had passed, she wondered if it wasn’t an imagined attempt to soothe the bottomless ache in her heart.
Her parents had perished in the fire nearly twenty years ago. Theodosia was carried to safety in her grandfather’s arms. At five years old, she mourned the loss of her parents, but she never anticipated the loneliness that was to follow despite the loving attention of her grandfather and the extensive kindness of the household staff.
She shook her head and forced her eyes open wide, quick to blink away the threat of tears. She wouldn’t conjure memories now. She couldn’t. Seeking distraction, she flipped the journal closed and moved away from the table. She had animals to attend to and other important tasks before dinner. Where was Nicolaus anyway? Only a fool would go out in the unforgiving winter cold.
She needed to check on Grandfather before it grew much later, but first she would find Mrs. Mavis. If the weather was to rack havoc on Leighton House, the least she could do was prepare for the worst.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anabelle Bryant holds a BA, MA, and is ABD in earning her PhD in Education. She has studied at Rutgers College and Kean University of New Jersey and is an avid traveler. When not in front of a classroom she can be found in front of her laptop writing Regency romance and pursuing daydreams. Visit her at www.anabellebryant.com.
LONDON’S WICKED AFFAIR
In Anabelle Bryant’s wickedly romantic new series, secrets and seduction go hand in hand . . .
Lunden Beckford
, Duke of Scarsdale, has chosen to exile himself far from London, with its painful memories and cruel gossip. Forced back to town on business, he’s eager to make his stay as brief as possible. But first, he must honor his promise to find a suitable husband for his friend’s little sister. On one hand, Amelia Strathmore has grown into a stunning, statuesque beauty.
On the other, the willful chit is more likely to scandalize a drawing room with her outspoken opinions than blush prettily.
At least she agrees to accept his help—if he fulfills certain conditions . . .
Though duty-bound to marry, Amelia longs to secretly enjoy some of life’s freedoms first. In this, as in many things, Lunden proves an excellent guide. In fact,
Amelia’s girlhood admiration for her brother’s friend is fast becoming something far less innocent.
Lunden believes he’s known too much darkness to offer any woman happiness. Yet Amelia is starting to see how much pleasure can lie within the right partnership—especially if one is willing to be a little wicked . . .
London's Best Kept Secret Page 27