“Thinking is not your strength, Kit,” muttered Wrexford.
Charlotte thought that rather harsh. The earl’s friend struck her as a very clever fellow. However, Sheffield did not look the least offended.
“But thank you. I may have to revise my opinion,” added the earl—which only confirmed to her that the bond between men could take peculiar forms.
However, at this moment the confrontation between Wrexford and the Runner was the only one that mattered. She shifted deeper into the shadows, intent on remaining inconspicuous.
Griffin eyed the burning building and signaled to one of his cohorts, who had come to a halt a short distance away. “Alert the fire brigade, Putney. The rest of you, block the street and keep onlookers away.”
The Runner then turned to the earl. “Where’s Lowell?” he demanded, echoing her own question.
“I would be happy to turn him over to the authorities, but alas, he’s already frying in hell,” answered Wrexford. “Which, by the by, saves the government the expense of a trial and the length of rope for the gibbet.” He curled a mocking smile. “You will just have to take my word about his guilt. Or are you still intent on arresting me? It would be a mistake—you’d only end up looking like a fool.”
Griffin narrowed his eyes. Charlotte expected a war of words to erupt, if not outright fisticuffs, given the accounts she had heard of the previous meetings.
But the Runner looked more unhappy than outraged. “I had already come to the same conclusion. If you had deigned to return to your residence this morning, milord, instead of taking justice into your own hands, we could have talked.” A baleful blink as another window shattered from the raging flames. “And avoided setting London ablaze.”
“Forgive my skepticism concerning your intentions,” replied Wrexford tartly. “Trust hasn’t exactly been thick on the ground between us.”
Sheffield fixed the Runner with a curious look. “What changed your mind about Wrexford’s guilt?”
“The accusatory letter Lowell gave me didn’t look quite right. I had a sample of Drummond’s handwriting, and in making a careful comparison between the two, I became convinced it was a forgery,” replied Griffin. “Its discovery also seemed a little too convenient. So I began to do some digging into Mr. Lowell’s background and discovered that he had told me a bald-faced lie when he said he had no interest in science. It seems he was involved in a deadly laboratory accident while a student, which his family covered up. He then spent a year in Scotland studying advanced chemistry. Which certainly shed a whole new light on Holworthy’s murder.”
“Going on facts rather than conjecture?” Wrexford arched a brow. “Have a care, Griffin. I might come to think of you as a man ruled by reason, not blind prejudice.”
“I am more of a cart horse than one of your fancy racing stallions, milord,” responded the Runner. “I plod along slowly, but I keep my ears and eyes open, perhaps more than you think.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Yes, I pushed you hard, to see if you would buckle. But I was also meticulous in following up every other possible clue. And they led me to the conclusion that Lowell might be involved in the murders—though I couldn’t figure out the how and why. That is what I wished to discuss with you this morning. But . . .”
The two men locked gazes. The silence held for several heartbeats and then Wrexford expelled a wry sigh.
“But I daresay you would have carted me off to Bedlam had I tried to explain the whole story.” He ran a hand through his wind-snarled hair. “Most of it is best left buried with Lowell beneath the rubble. Let us just say that all’s well that ends well.”
“That’s assuming we don’t burn down half of London.” Griffin blew out his cheeks. “Mother of God, what sort of explosion ignited that fierce of a blaze?”
“We’ll likely never know,” murmured Wrexford.
Charlotte ventured a quick glance back at the building. She had been so preoccupied with Wrexford she hadn’t yet taken a moment to commit the details of the scene to memory.
The movement must have caught his eye, for Griffin suddenly seemed to take notice of her. “Who’s the brat?”
“A Good Samaritan,” answered the earl without hesitation. “Luckily for me, the lad just happened to be passing by and came to my aid.”
The Runner fixed her with a flinty stare.
Charlotte quickly dropped her head. Her informants were all of the opinion that he was a hard man to fool. She had no intention of putting his abilities to the test.
“Lucky, indeed,” said Griffin slowly. He seemed to hesitate, but then turned his attention back to the earl. “I’m not sure what Lowell was involved in here, but I’m sure the government will want to explain his crimes as simply as possible. God only knows what lurid speculation A. J. Quill will provoke if he gets wind that Holworthy’s murder might be tied to some . . . explosive secret. It could stir panic throughout the city.”
“I suggest you simply tell the newspapers that Lowell and Holworthy fell out over money,” said the earl. “And that Drummond overheard the truth, forcing Lowell to do away with him, too. It’s close enough to the truth that it will stand up to scrutiny.”
“That could very well work,” mused Griffin. “My men can all be trusted to be discreet.” He glared at Charlotte. “And you, Master . . .”
“Smith,” she rasped.
“A word out of you to anyone about this night, and you’ll be answering to Bow Street for it.”
“Me?” Charlotte let out a low bark of laughter. “And just who would I be telling? The Prince Regent when he invites me te take tea wiv him?”
The Runner huffed a grunt, but seemed satisfied that she was no threat. “Be off with you, then.” He turned back to the earl. “You and Mr. Sheffield ought to disappear as well, milord. The less chance of that infernal artist’s spies seeing you here, the better.” A pause. “And if you’ll excuse me, I had best go organize things for the arrival of the fire brigade. But be advised that I shall be paying you a visit tomorrow to clear up some of the details of this case.”
* * *
“I thought it best for us to stay out of sight until the Runner toddled off.” Henning stepped out of the stairwell, holding both boys firmly by the scruff of their collars. “No easy feat with these—”
“Weasels,” said Wrexford.
They stopped squirming. The surgeon had smeared some greenish ointment on their bruised faces, making them look even more feral than usual. And then Hawk flashed a lopsided gap-toothed grin, and to his surprise, the earl felt a laugh well up in his throat.
“I did just what ye told me,” said Hawk. “I scarpered like the devil had his pitchfork pricking at my arse.”
“Don’t say arse,” chided his brother. “It isn’t gentlemanly.”
Wrexford saw Charlotte bite back a smile.
Henning released his hold, allowing Raven to shuffle forward. The boy looked up. He appeared to be struggling for something to say. Unlike his younger brother, words did not come easily to him.
Swallowing hard, he simply held out his hand.
Wrexford solemnly shook it.
A loud boom! punctuated the moment, as another window exploded in a brilliant shower of gold sparks and shards. Hawk chuffed an admiring gasp as tongues of fire rose up to dance against the somber silhouettes of the surrounding buildings.
Wrexford saw that Charlotte, too, was staring at the inferno, her profile limned in a reddish light. “I shall, of course, temper my caption, but this will likely outsell all the other prints in this scandal,” she murmured. “I may be able to ask Fores to raise my fees.” A cynical smile flickered on her lips. “At least for another week or two, until it’s time for a new peccadillo or murder to take its place.”
Murder. They had all come perilously close to death.
“Henning, take the weasels back to the house. Mrs. Sloane and I will go by a different route.”
“I’m not in need of an escort, sir,” she murmured.
�
��Nonetheless, I’m coming with you. Gentlemanly scruples, you see.”
“I’m too tired to argue.” She waited for the others to move out of earshot before adding, “You don’t have any gentlemanly scruples—or you’ve told me so yourself several times.”
“On occasion I lie.”
Charlotte let out a low snort. Or perhaps it was a laugh. The crackling of the fire made it impossible to tell. Turning, she beckoned him to follow. “This way. I know the area better than you do.”
Wrexford fell in step beside her. They walked on in silence, the tendrils of smoke and the crackling booms growing fainter as the darkness of the stews closed around them. It wasn’t until Charlotte led the way into a narrow alleyway that she spoke again.
“Thank you for everything, milord, especially saving Hawk—at no small risk to your own life. I . . . I am in your debt.”
“And you saved my life, at no small risk to your own. So the debt is of equal measure,” he replied. “Though I’d rather think that friendship does not require one to keep a ledger.”
She slanted an inscrutable look at him. “Are we friends, Wrexford?”
“That’s not a question I can answer for you, Mrs. Sloane. Ask me a scientific query, and I could give you facts and measurements. But as to feelings . . .” He shrugged. “That’s your bailiwick.”
“I think you underestimate yourself, sir.”
A sharp turn forced them closer. The earl was aware of her shoulder touching his. “Perhaps we both have things to learn about our hidden facets.”
A brief scudding of moonlight caught the flicker of a smile touch her lips. “A frightening thought.”
Despite being dressed as an urchin, she looked a little vulnerable, reminding him that the path she had chosen in life was not an easy one.
“Be that as it may,” she added slowly, “my answer is yes—I should like to think of us as friends.”
The answer pleased him more than he expected. He walked on for a few strides mulling it over.
“Then speaking as a friend, perhaps you should consider . . .” And then suddenly the words died in his throat. What right had he to ask that she give up her passion? Were someone to suggest he walk away from his scientific interests, he would tell them to go to the devil.
“You aren’t going to suggest I abandon my pen, are you?”
“Would you listen?” Wrexford gave a grudging smile. “In truth, I can’t imagine you without it. You keep Society honest. A needle in their highborn bums keeps them from becoming too arrogantly complacent.” His smile widened. “The truth is, I look forward to seeing who you skewer next.”
* * *
Charlotte bit back a laugh as she ducked under a rotting timber. “As long as it’s not you?”
The earl followed and quickened his steps to catch up. “Oh, come, you’ve seen for yourself that my life isn’t nearly as exciting as everyone seems to imagine. For the most part, Tyler and I potter away in my workroom.”
She was suddenly aware of how much she would miss his cynical, self-mocking humor. Gentlemen who could laugh at themselves were rarer than hen’s teeth.
Shoving aside the thought, she asked, “What do you intend to do with Lowell’s formula?”
“Like its creator, it went up in smoke.” He hesitated. “We haven’t yet figured out all the ingredients.” Another slight pause. “And perhaps my scientific talents, such as they are, could be put to more positive endeavors.”
Charlotte nodded. “There is great wisdom in that idea, milord.”
“Then perhaps you will allow me to offer another one.” Wrexford hesitated, appearing to choose his words carefully. “It seems to me that you should consider moving to a different part of the city. The miscreants have all been dealt with, but too many people may have been privy to their sniffing around for your secret.”
Her insides clenched. She was not unaware of the possible dangers, but hearing the words said aloud gave them sudden weight.
“Given the bargain we made concerning this case, you can now afford a better neighborhood,” he went on. “One with a school for the lads.”
So many choices to be made. But at the moment, she felt too exhausted to think past putting one foot in front of the other.
“I . . . I can’t contemplate the future right now,” said Charlotte softly. “I need some time to decide on the right course.”
“That’s quite understandable.” In Latin he added, “Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est.”
Life is more than merely staying alive.
Charlotte chuffed a laugh. “True.”
“You understand Latin, Mrs. Sloane—quite well, I might add,” murmured Wrexford. “You have a set of Shakespeare and the Greek tragedies on your work desk, so I can’t help but wonder about them. . . .”
As they emerged from the alley onto a wider lane, he looked up at the sky. The clouds had blown off, leaving a black velvet expanse dotted with a myriad points of winking light. “We’ve unraveled some complex conundrums tonight, and yet there is still an unsolved mystery here.”
“Perhaps not all mysteries are meant to be solved, sir.” She, too, glanced upward. “We all have secrets. Ones that are best kept to ourselves.”
“So you have said,” he replied. “Just as you have also said that no secret, however private, is ever safe.”
As they came to the head of her street, Charlotte stopped abruptly and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Lord Wrexford.”
“That sounds awfully final, Mrs. Sloane.”
“We move in different circles, sir,” she pointed out. “Ones that are far from overlapping.”
His fingers clasped around hers, and for a long moment they stood joined together, palm pressed to palm, as the chill breeze tugged at their clothing.
Then she slowly disengaged her hand and turned away.
“And yet,” murmured Wrexford as she started to walk off, “large as London is, the circles occupy a finite space.”
Charlotte paused, then hesitated for a heartbeat before darting one last look over her shoulder. She felt, rather than saw, the cynical amusement softening the chiseled planes of his face.
“So logic and the laws of chance,” he added, “dictate that our paths will likely cross again.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For me, Regency England is a fabulously interesting time and place. Not only was it a world aswirl in silks, seduction and the intrigue of the Napoleonic Wars, but society as a whole was undergoing momentous changes. Radical new ideas were clashing with the conventional thinking of the past, and as a result, people were challenging and changing their fundamental view of the world. Politics, social reform, literature, art, music, science—all were in a state of upheaval. Indeed, many historians consider the era the birth of the modern world.
While the plot twists in this book are purely fiction, I’ve tried to ground the science in the story and the ambiance of historical London and its different strata of society in actual fact.
With that in mind, here are a few historical notes:
Sir Isaac Newton really did spend much of his scientific time on alchemy. So, too, did many of the luminaries of seventeenth-century science. While much of their work may seem crazy to us in the present day, their experiments were often thoughtfully done with what for the day were quite rigorous methods. Absent an atomic theory, they just didn’t know the impossibility transforming one element into another through chemistry, no matter how carefully the experiment was performed.
The Royal Institution (which is still going strong in its impressive building on Albemarle Street in London) was one of the leaders in scientific research during the Regency. Men like Humphry Davy, its charismatic head, were treated like rock stars. London’s high society did in fact flock to attend the lectures, and scientific innovations were followed avidly by the public.
I’ve taken a little artistic license with the chemical secret in the book. It’s a very real invention, however I’ve shifted the tim
eframe of its discovery. Perhaps a brilliant scientist could well have figured out its formula a number of years before it actually happened.
And lastly, satirical cartoonists were the paparazzi of the day. Their work was wildly popular with both high and low society (in the days before photography, the prints were the sole source of images that poked fun at the rich and famous.) While Charlotte Sloane is fictional, artists like Thomas Rowlandson, James Gillray, William Hogarth and the Cruikshanks (George and Isaac) were celebrities in their own right.
For those interested in reading more about science in Age of Romanticism, I highly recommend The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes, a wonderfully engaging overview written for a general audience. For those interested in the era as a whole, The Birth of the Modern by Paul Kennedy is an impressively detailed history of the world in the early 1800s.
—Andrea Penrose
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