A rumpled Henning looked up from his untidy desk, a look of grim resignation winking behind the lenses of his spectacles. “I feared you might be paying me a visit, lassie. I don’t suppose I can convince you to let the past lie buried.”
“No,” replied Charlotte. “Not with demons alive and sauntering streets, their evil hidden beneath a thin veneer of well-tailored and smooth-as-silk lies.”
“Pay no heed to the rumors and gossip. Wrexford is a clever fellow, and tenacious as a bulldog when he has a bone between his teeth. I know him from the Peninsula. He’ll not shy away from bringing the truth to light, whatever it may be.”
“He’s an aristocrat,” she said softly. “Bonded by the blue blood of his class.”
Henning shook his head. “Nay, lassie. The earl possesses rather heretical views on the absurdity of inherited privilege.” The surgeon paused to flick a bit of ash off his sleeve. “And a great many other subjects. As I said, don’t underestimate him. He tends to surprise people.”
A challenge. She was used to that.
Charlotte met his flinty stare with a show of steel. “As do I, Mr. Henning.” A faint whiff of sparks and sulfur seemed to crackle in the air. “Whether or not you’re right about His Lordship, I’ve learned over the years to rely on no one but myself.”
He shuffled slowly through his papers. “It’s a pity you’ve had to learn so hard a lesson.”
“I have little patience with pity,” she replied a little sharply. “The strong survive. It’s as simple as that.”
Her answer appeared to amuse him. A twinkle flashed in his shrewd eyes. “You have grit, I grant you that.”
A signal of approval, Charlotte hoped. It was something the surgeon gave grudgingly.
“Will you help me?” she asked flatly.
“What is it you need?”
“Any books you might have on alchemy.”
Frowning, he scratched at his chin. “Not my cup of tea, Mrs. Sloane. I’m a pragmatist, not a dreamer. I care about lessening the misery of everyday ills, not chasing after imaginary miracles.” He pulled a face. “Though the secret of turning lead into gold would be a damnably practical one to possess.”
“Lead into gold? Wasn’t that just an obscure medieval fantasy?” said Charlotte. “Surely it’s been dead for centuries, along with the mad monks who had created it.”
“Greed is timeless,” answered Henning dryly. “And while the idea might seem mad, a number of serious men of science devoted their efforts to alchemy, believing it possible.”
She felt a shiver skate down her spine.
“As to books, I may have a few from student days at St. Andrews.” The surgeon levered to his feet and ambled over to the overflowing bookcases crammed around the perimeter of the room. “I warn you, though, a few of them are in Latin.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “That doesn’t present a problem.”
His brows winged up slightly, but he merely turned and began to search the shelves.
Stepping a little closer to the hearth, Charlotte sought to warm her hands over the barely glowing coals. Papers rustled, punctuated by a grumbled curse and the loud thump of something heavy falling to the floor. She remained tactfully silent.
“Auch, so that’s where you benighted buggers have been hiding,” he finally muttered.
He returned to his desk and set down an armload of books, along with several manuscripts, each one tied together in rough brown twine. “Here ye go, lassie: The Aurora of the Philosophers, a classic work by Paracelsus, the famous Swiss alchemist; The Triumphal Chariot of Antimony by Basil Valentine; a medieval translation from Arabic of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s work; and a handful of other titles, though Lord only knows what you hope to glean from them.”
Henning stacked the books in a haphazard pile. “And several copies of Newton’s notes on alchemy, along with a recipe called Preparation of Mercury for the Stone, written by Eirenaeus Philalethes.”
“The poor man,” murmured Charlotte. “His name sounds as if one is choking on a piece of rotten fish.”
“Alchemists were very secretive about their writing—and with good reason,” explained the surgeon. “It’s been illegal for centuries to practice alchemy, both here in England and on the Continent, and the penalties were quite severe, including death—transgressors were to be hung from a gilded scaffold.”
“That seems rather extreme,” responded Charlotte. “Was it for religious reasons?”
“Only partly,” he replied. “Governments—being made up of pragmatic souls like me—were aware that if individuals could make gold at will, it would devalue the country’s finances and destroy the economy.” A smirk. “That certainly put the fear of God into them.”
“Interesting.”
“So a number of men who practiced alchemy wrote under secret pen names. In the case of Eirenaeus Philalethes, his real name was George Starkey. He was an upstart American who studied at Harvard College in Boston, where he became enthralled with alchemy. After earning fame practicing medicine in his country, he came to England in 1650 and established himself as a leading physician,” went on Henning. “But he also became a leader in the occult arts, greatly influencing his contemporaries, including such notable men of science as Robert Boyle and the great Sir Isaac Newton himself.”
Henning ran a hand over the knotted twine wrapped around the manuscripts. “Newton was extremely careful to keep his interest in alchemy very quiet. He never published any of his writings on the subject, but his private papers show he spent a great deal of his time trying to formulate the philosopher’s stone—though he often disguised the chemical ingredients he was using by giving them fanciful names like ‘dove of Diana’.”
Chariot of Antimony, dove of Diana, the philosopher’s stone. Charlotte felt her head was beginning to spin with all the arcane terms.
Henning, a careful observer of others despite his own disheveled appearance, must have read something of her thought in her face. “So tell me, Mrs. Sloane, what exactly do you hope to find in all this?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered slowly. “Granted, unlike Lord Wrexford, I have no formal knowledge of chemistry or science. But sometimes bringing a different perspective to a problem can help in seeing the solution.” She hoped she sounded more confidant than she felt. “The untutored eye is not influenced by expectations of what it is supposed to see. It can respond to intuition, to . . . imagination.”
Henning’s mouth quirked in what may or may not have been a smile. “The art of perception?”
A faint flush rose to her cheeks. “It may sound silly to you—”
“Nay, not at all. These days, there are many very prominent intellectuals who believe that science and art have much in common.” After rummaging through one of his drawers, he found a large piece of oilskin cloth and set to wrapping the books and manuscripts against the inclement weather. “I don’t envy you the task, but I wish you well.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte took the package and started for the door.
“Two last things, lassie. My door is always open to you. Despite my snaps and growls, I’ll not bite your head off if you come to me needing help.”
The weight in her arms seemed to lighten ever so slightly. “I’m grateful for that, Mr. Henning.” Knowing it would nettle him—prickle for prickle seemed only fair—she added, “You’ve a soft heart under that crusty hide.”
He chuckled, but the sound quickly gave way to a harsh exhale. “Watch your step, Mrs. Sloane. As I warned Wrexford, I’ve already had two people connected to strange chemicals and strange writing end up as corpses on my slab. I’d like not to have a third.”
CHAPTER 13
Wrexford squeezed into the crowded lecture hall, followed by Sheffield, who reluctantly left off flirting with a young lady of his acquaintance to keep company with the earl. Few seats were left, though there was still a quarter hour to go before the talk was to begin. Finding a pair at the upper railing that afforded a good view of t
he stage, Wrexford quickly claimed one and turned his attention to the audience.
The buzz of conversation and trill of muted laughter filled the cavernous room, along with the swish of silks and satins as the ladies and gentlemen settled into their places. It seemed to his eye that in addition to the serious scholars of science, most of the beau monde was present.
“Humphry Davy has drawn quite a crowd,” he observed.
“Including his usual legion of adoring ladies,” quipped Sheffield, tugging at his carelessly tied cravat. His hair was uncombed as well, but the aura of raffish insouciance fit him like a glove. Wrexford had noted on their arrival that Davy wasn’t the only one attracting interested glances from the opposite sex. “It’s said they bring their notebooks and pencils not to record any intellectual thoughts but rather to write him billets-doux, which they pay the porters to deliver to his private office.”
“How edifying to hear that men of science have become London’s leading celebrities,” said the earl, not lifting his gaze from the crowd below his vantage point.
“What—have you not received a bundle of love notes? Perhaps you should pay more attention to amatory pleasures, seeing as the Runner seems to be striding closer and closer to having you arrested for murder.”
The earl ignored the barb. It was true—the meeting with Griffin had not gone well. The Runner had come to ask a number of pressing questions about what had brought the earl to Drummond’s laboratory, and had clearly been unsatisfied with the answers. So far, he had not dared arrest a peer of the realm, but the circumstantial evidence was building enough of a case to give him just cause.
All the more reason to uncover the truth.
“Might you pull your mind from the boudoir and focus on the reason you are here, Kit?” he retorted. Sheffield had made the rounds of the gaming haunts in St. Giles the previous evening, and though his inept play at cards had cost Wrexford a small fortune, he had come away with some very useful information. “See if you spot any members of The Ancients.”
Heaving a martyred sigh, his friend began a closer study of the hall. “Well, well, there’s Stoughton,” he murmured a few moments later.
Wrexford felt himself stiffen. “Where?”
“There, in the third row back from the stage, sitting next to Sharpley.”
“Sharpley isn’t on your list,” he said softly.
“No, but he recently inherited a tidy sum from a bachelor uncle, and Stoughton is drawn to money.”
Which made his interest in Mrs. Sloane’s late husband even more of a conundrum.
Wrexford took a moment to study the man. An elaborate cravat of perfectly starched white linen, anchored by a large ruby stickpin, immediately drew the eye to Stoughton’s face. His features were handsome—a straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, a well-shaped mouth with an easy smile. A crown of glossy chestnut curls accentuated the air of aristocratic confidence. Interesting, thought the earl. Stoughton was only of average height and build but he understood the subtle art of manipulation enough to accentuate his strength rather than his weakness.
“By the by, what led you to suspect Stoughton of evildoings?” asked Sheffield.
“The information was given to me in confidence.” Wrexford hadn’t told his friend about Charlotte’s story. It wasn’t his to share.
Humphry Davy’s arrival on the stage cut short any further speculation. Despite his diminutive stature, the charismatic chemist exerted a powerful magnetism on the crowd. An expectant hush fell over the hall as he stepped up to the lectern. Taking out his notes from a red leather document case, he graced the audience with a smile and began to speak.
Leaning back, Wrexford settled in to listen—the subject matter was of great interest—though he continued to observe his surroundings.
In the opposite gallery, he spotted Declan Lowell seated half in shadow, an expression of satisfaction on his face. He had a right to look pleased, thought the earl. It was an impressive turnout, and quite a feather in the Royal Institution’s cap that it had become so popular with high society.
Lowell, he knew, was a big part of its success. His charm and social standing allowed him to curry favor with arbiters of style, while his discipline and work ethic ensured that things ran smoothly behind the scenes. Did he perhaps have hopes of being named the next head of the Institution, as it was rumored that Davy would soon be stepping down from the position?
Lowell caught the earl’s gaze and acknowledged it with a polite nod and smile.
Sheffield noted the exchange and murmured, “Lowell plays the perfect aristocrat.”
“He seems a pleasant enough fellow. Are you implying you don’t like him?”
“Not really. It’s just that beneath the choirboy looks, he’s not an angel.” Sheffield pinched a wry grimace. “But then, neither am I.”
“Lowell has vices?” Wrexford didn’t much care about the fellow’s personal proclivities, but as the murders were proving so diabolically difficult to make sense of, he was trying not to overlook any detail, no matter how irrelevant it might seem.
Grasping at shadows. Or so it felt. Perhaps by luck he would pull a clue from out of the dark.
Sheffield shrugged. “No more than most of us. At least, not that I know of. He’s been known to rack up large gambling debts, and be late in settling them. But I, of all people, understand the travails of being a younger son—it’s hellish hard trying to live the life of a buck of the ton on a pitifully small quarterly allowance.”
“I see,” said the earl neutrally, sensing that his friend might be exaggerating the amount of the debts. Most every gentleman gambled. It wasn’t likely that Davy and the board of governors of the Royal Institution would entrust the job of superintendent to anyone whose reputation might be in question.
“Forget I mentioned it,” grumbled Sheffield, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m simply in a foul temper over my own execrable performance at the tables last night. And misery loves company.”
“Learn to count,” advised the earl.
“Ha, easy for you to say.” Sheffield slouched lower in his seat. “I am not blessed with intellect.”
“Like any muscle, the brain needs exercise to toughen it up.”
That drew a reluctant grin. “Touché.” As Sheffield shifted, his eyes suddenly narrowed. “Lowell may be a perfectly fine fellow, but the man sitting to his left—see there, deep in the shadows—is St. Aubin. A thoroughly dirty dish.”
“So you implied.” Wrexford inched forward in his seat for a better look at the man. “That surprises me. I’ve heard no hint of dark rumors about him.”
“You don’t circulate in the same dens of iniquity as I do on occasion,” replied Sheffield, dropping his voice to a whisper. His expression, normally one of cheerful cynicism, hardened to one of grim-edged anger. “He may look like an angel, but word is, he’s not welcome at some of the discerning brothels. The madams hate turning away money, but it’s apparently not worth the damage to their girls.”
He darted another glance at St. Aubin’s smoothly handsome face. Who would guess it to look at him? His gaze lingered, noting that the man’s carefully combed hair, cut in the latest a la Brutus fashion, was a light enough honey hue to be considered golden.
“It’s also said that he was encouraged to resign from his regiment,” added Sheffield. “There were rumors about cheating at cards, and though no formal accusations were made, his fellow officers didn’t trust him.”
Lordly privilege could cover a multitude of sins, reflected Wrexford. Some highly respected families boasted naught but a centuries-long line of scoundrels and wastrels. Glitter and glamor cast a bright enough sheen to disguise the rot beneath the surface.
“And yet he’s welcome within the highest circles of Society, and considered a catch on the marriage mart.”
“Yes. In fact, he’s courting the Marquess of Greenfield’s daughter.” His friend’s eyes had now darkened to the same gunmetal grey shade as a thundercloud. “I’ve known Harriet s
ince we were children. She deserves better—much better. And now she will have a chance to find a more suitable husband.” A harsh exhale squeezed from his lungs. “It may be an unspoken rule among gentlemen that we don’t tell tales on each other’s foibles. But in this case it would have been dishonorable to remain silent.”
“You spoke to Greenfield?” asked Wrexford. He suddenly thought of Charlotte, and how many women were at the mercy of men like St. Aubin. They could, quite literally, get away with murder.
“Of course I did,” said Sheffield. “Ye god, how could I have lived with myself if I hadn’t done my best to protect a friend.”
A smile touched Wrexford’s lips. “Perhaps we are both not quite the devil-may-care rogues that most people assume we are.”
“Hell’s bells,” Sheffield gave a mock shiver. “Don’t let that cat out of the bag.”
Wrexford darted another glance to the far gallery. “Any idea of the connection between St. Aubin and Lowell?” It seemed an unlikely friendship, given what he had just heard.
His friend thought for a moment. “I believe they know each other from Eton.”
Ah, the innocence of youth. Schoolboy bonds could be lasting, no matter how much a fellow might change.
“I wonder what brings St. Aubin here?” he mused. “To my knowledge he has no connection to the Institution. And somehow I doubt he has an intellectual interest in science.”
“Perhaps he’s stalking a new victim,” muttered Sheffield. “As you see, most of the leading ladies of the ton are attending.”
“Do me a favor, Kit, and see what more you can learn about St. Aubin’s activities from your sources. Let’s see if he does indeed have any connection to Holworthy.”
“With pleasure.” Sheffield shifted in his seat. “Though I’ll need another infusion of funds. I was bled dry last night.”
“God Almighty. No wonder your father longs to disown you.”
Before Wrexford could add any more barbs, the lecture ended to a loud and lengthy applause.
Davy exited the stage, and as the audience began to rise and make their way out of the lecture hall, Lowell reclaimed the earl’s attention. The superintendent had moved smoothly to the archway of the gallery in order to greet the spectators who were filing out. He watched him exchange words with the dowager Duchess of Ayrthorpe and her granddaughter. The ladies laughed at something he said, and allowed themselves to be led to a private salon off the lecture hall, where refreshments were being served to a select group of important guests.
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