Charlotte nodded slowly. “An excellent idea, milord. It makes sense that whoever is looking to make a fortune from the invention would want to partner with someone who already manufactures steam engines.”
“It would, indeed.” Wrexford cast his gaze on Ashton’s technical drawings, which Charlotte had place on the table by the sofa. “Miss Merton, I know you’ve gone to great trouble to retrieve these, but I’d like to keep them for now. Not only will they be safe in my townhouse, but it will also give me and my laboratory assistant the chance to understand on what sort of revolutionary innovation Ashton was working.”
“Valves,” whispered Octavia. “It’s all about valves.”
Steam power, he knew, had to do with heat, condensation and creating a vacuum. The quicker and more efficiently an engine could cycle through the process, the more pressure—and power—it could create.
“I’ve not the technical expertise to give you more than a rudimentary explanation of how the design works. It involves four valves in each cylinder. The linkages for open and shutting them are independently controlled, which keeps the temperature at a constant. The result is far more power. In addition, Eli and Benedict calculated that the new engine will be far more efficient, and run on thirty percent less fuel.”
“Revolutionary, indeed,” murmured Wrexford.
“As for keeping the drawings, I’m hardly in a position to argue,” added Octavia with a cynical shrug. “Besides, I agree that they are probably most secure in your hands.”
As the earl leaned down to pick them up, Charlotte cleared her throat. “A thought just occurred to me. Without these as reference, would someone have the knowledge or expertise to build the new engine?”
A good question. Wrexford was already taking a closer look at the schematics.
“The toolmakers who’ve been fashioning parts for our experiments have an inkling of what Eli was doing,” answered Octavia. “And some of the investors might have a general idea that a new concept of valves is involved. But the devil is in the details. The exact design is exceedingly complicated, and I doubt there is anyone capable of imagining his creative thinking.” The tiny tic of hesitation seemed amplified by the stillness of the room.
“Except, of course, for Benedict,” she added softly, “who knows the plans by heart.”
“Then I daresay we need to find Mr. Hillhouse,” said Wrexford, “as it appears he is a key to unlocking this mystery.” Paper crackled as he tried to focus on the tiny mathematical equations scrawled on the margins. His mind suddenly felt muzzy with lack of sleep.
“However, there’s nothing more to be accomplished at the moment. We all need clearer heads before attacking our appointed tasks.” He touched a hand to his jaw and felt the faint prickle of whiskers rasp against his flesh. It stirred the uncomfortable sensation that he was missing something.
And yet he couldn’t put a finger on what it might be.
The demands of the here and now pushed the thought aside. “Sterling, you must see Miss Merton safely back to Mayfair. And I suggest you do it now, before the city begins to stir to life.”
Jeremy nodded. Octavia rose and gathered her cloak.
“One of the lads will lead you out to where a hackney can be flagged down without attracting unwanted attention.”
Raven nudged his younger brother. “Ye heard His Nibs. Take them out te High Street, and be quick about it.”
Charlotte waited until the sound of hurried footsteps had faded into the night before asking, “So, what do you make of this latest twist, sir?”
Wrexford couldn’t help but quirk a smile. “You’re the one who’s attuned to interpreting intuition, Mrs. Sloane. My limited intellect must depend on facts and logic. Both of which are proving damnably elusive in this case.” He took a moment to twist the drawings into a tight roll. “Fetch me some twine, Weasel.”
Raven looked loath to leave, but hurried toward the kitchen.
“My sense is that Miss Merton is telling the truth,” said Charlotte.
“The truth as she understands it,” muttered the earl.
The candle sputtered as wax dripped down the pewter stick. It was burning low.
“There’s that,” conceded Charlotte. After a lengthy pause, she continued, her voice betraying a troubled note. “There are tantalizing leads, but precious few facts. So much seems to depend on Mr. Hillhouse, and whether he’s a force of good or evil.”
“Kind o’ like a complicated mathematical equation.” Raven materialized from out the gloom and held out a length of twine. “Ye know, where ye have te figure out the value fer x or y before ye can work out the correct answer.”
“Precisely, lad,” replied Wrexford. He started to secure the roll but was only half-aware of his fingers working the knots. Out of the mouth of babes . . . the boy’s words had stirred an even sharper sense that he was forgetting something.
Charlotte looked up with a start “Mathematics!” she exclaimed. “Why, we’ve made no mention of the page of numbers you found in Hollis’s rooms. And yet his dying words said the answer to Ashton’s death was in the numbers.”
Damnation. Wrexford felt like an idiot.
“I take it you haven’t heard anything from the professor at Cambridge?” she asked.
The earl shook his head. “I shall write to him again. But Henning came earlier this evening with proof they were written by Hollis.” He quickly explained about the note left for Nevins and how they still had no clue how to interpret the strange jumble. It was a reminder of how his usual clarity had been strangely clouded during this investigation. The reason why was not something he cared to contemplate.
And yet he must.
“Wrexford . . .”
Charlotte’s sharpness roused him from his momentary brooding.
“I must ask you an uncomfortable question.”
“Go on,” he drawled. “I daresay you’d do so with or without my permission.”
She didn’t smile. Not a good sign, he decided, though he wasn’t sure what misdeed of his had brought such a serious expression to her face.
But first Charlotte turned to Raven. “It’s time to return to your aerie. You must get some sleep if you are to be sharp enough to keep watch on our suspects.” Seeing he was about to argue, she raised her voice a notch, something she rarely did with the boys. “Go.” Her lashes flicked, darkening the shadows around her eyes. “I need to have a word with His Lordship in private.”
Raven looked unhappy, but reluctantly obeyed. Charlotte waited until she heard the creak of the stair treads before clearing her throat.
Another bad sign, thought Wrexford. She never shied away from crossing verbal swords with him. It was one of the things he respected about her.
This strange hesitation put his nerves on edge.
“It seems to me that your usual dispassionate detachment has been missing from the very beginning of this case,” she began. “Is there a reason?”
“If you’re implying that I ought to be able to solve any crime, no matter how complex or—”
“That’s not at all what I mean,” she interrupted brusquely. “I think you’ve let your emotions become involved—and as you once warned me, that’s asking for trouble.”
Wrexford couldn’t summon any clever quip. He wouldn’t insult her by pretending he didn’t know to what she was referring. Charlotte, with her unholy gift of intuition, appeared to have sensed the truth even before he had.
Not that he thanked her for it.
Charlotte took his silence as confirmation of her surmise. “I’ve met Mrs. Ashton. The widow has . . .” A tic of hesitation as she chose her words carefully. “. . . a powerful presence. She’s attractive. Alluring. And—”
“And you think her womanly wiles have seduced me?”
“I think they have clouded your judgment,” replied Charlotte flatly. The candle guttered and with a dying hiss went out. Uttering a low oath, she fetched an oil lamp from the side table. It took her several strikes of the steel
and flint to light the wick.
“Whether she’s warming your bed is none of my business,” continued Charlotte. “What does concern me is your emotional state. If you can’t view the investigation with a dispassionate eye, it puts us all in an untenable position. Not only will it make it nigh on impossible to uncover the truth, but it may also place people who are dear to me in peril.”
In other words, thought the earl, she worried that he was being ruled not by his brain, but some other portion of his anatomy.
“I must be able to trust you, Wrexford.”
For a moment, he kept his gaze on the carpet, watching the flitting of dark, nighttime shapes dart through the weak aureole of lamplight.
Then he looked up and met her searching stare. “Mrs. Ashton is, without question, a beauty who exudes an innate sensuality.”
Charlotte’s expression didn’t change. Like stone—impervious to the elements swirling around it.
“That’s not uncommon among the beau monde. Women have little else but their allure to use as bargaining chips when negotiating with men,” he went on slowly. “However, the widow also possesses a sharp intellect, which is far rarer. Granted, I found that intriguing. So, yes, . . .”
Was it merely a quirk of light, or did Charlotte’s eyes betray a flicker of pain? It was gone so fast he decided he was mistaken.
“So yes, perhaps that was a distraction.”
She released a pent-up breath, softly, so that it barely stirred the surrounding air. “One that might prove deadly.”
“It might,” agreed Wrexford. “Assuming, as you so delicately implied, that my response to her remained primal rather than cerebral.”
Despite the gloom, there was no mistaking the rise of color to her cheekbones.
“There’s a steely secrecy to Mrs. Ashton—”
“And God forbid that women have secrets,” whispered Charlotte. “But at times, they are our only defense. As you so sagely said, we have precious few ways to counter the power that men hold over us in this supposedly civilized society.”
Their eyes met, and on seeing the momentary flicker of naked vulnerability, it was all he could do to keep from drawing her into the protective shelter of his arms. Once again, he wished he knew what lay in her past.
“I don’t disagree with you on that, but kindly allow me to finish,” he said, somehow keeping his voice level. “There’s a secrecy to the widow, and though there’s a passion burning somewhere in her depths, it’s impossible to discern what it is. My sense is, it’s very private. And it’s tempered by ice. She’s not likely to ever really open her heart.”
“You underestimate your own powers, Wrexford. Most women, I imagine find you . . .”
He raised his brows, waiting for her to go on.
Her flush deepened. “But I need not flatter your vanity. My point is, Mrs. Ashton’s passions are—”
“Personal,” he said flatly. “Unlike yours, which are roused by your compassion and commitment to ideals that are larger than yourself. I can’t imagine her risking her neck, as you do, for abstract concepts like truth and justice.”
A look of astonishment crept over Charlotte’s face. “Y-You find my passions infuriating.”
He allowed a small smile. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t admire them. Indeed, it’s in comparing her to you that I’ve clarified my thinking.”
Charlotte rendered speechless was a rare sight to behold. He took a moment to enjoy it.
“However suspect my judgment is about women, and God knows I’ve been fooled in the past, I’ve come to the same conclusion as you about the widow,” he explained. “Whether she’s ultimately proven to be guilty or innocent, I suspect idealism isn’t part of her nature. Whatever attraction I might have felt—and by the by, she was never warming my bed—it is gone. You have my word on it.”
“Then the matter is settled,” said Charlotte, still appearing a little flustered.
“Not quite,” he responded as she turned to the tea table. “Attraction cuts both ways, Mrs. Sloane. Lord Sterling is up to his teeth in this mystery. For you to be blind to that because of the obvious bonds between the two of you could also be dangerous to us all.”
“Jeremy and I are friends, nothing more.”
“Dear friends,” stressed Wrexford, repeating her earlier words. “Perhaps it is you who underestimate yourself. He looks at you—”
“He looks at me like someone he’s known since childhood!” interrupted Charlotte.
She appeared unnaturally upset by the suggestion of a romantic entanglement, though the earl wasn’t sure why. Was she oblivious to her own undeniable allure?
“The bonds you sense are those of two kindred souls who didn’t fit into the conventional strictures of their worlds,” she went on haltingly, clearly fumbling for words. “We’ve helped each other through . . . difficult times in the past. That builds . . . an elemental trust that is hard to explain.”
“And that doesn’t make you apt to give him the benefit of the doubt?”
The pulse point on her throat jumped as Charlotte looked away to consider the question. Her hair had loosened from her night braid, the dark, curling strands obscuring her profile.
She looked achingly beautiful in the softly shifting shadows. He felt a sudden spurt of raw jealousy for Sterling and the closeness he had with her.
“I’m no stranger to facing terrible truths, Wrexford. My bond with Jeremy, however strong, will not override my sense of right and wrong.”
“I can’t help but wonder what deep, dark secrets you share?” Though he said it lightly, he was deadly serious.
“They have nothing to do with this case.” Charlotte’s breathing turned ragged. “I assure you, there’s naught but friendship between us.”
Wrexford didn’t think she was lying, but something wasn’t quite adding up right. “I’m not sure Sterling feels the same,” he pressed.
“He does,” she insisted.
“How can you be so sure?”
The uncertain light couldn’t hide her reaction. All the color suddenly drained from her face, leaving her looking pale as death. “I—I accepted your word without challenge because I feel that we, too, have developed a certain degree of trust. I ask that you do the same for me.”
Perplexed, the earl held himself silent, a furrow forming between his brows. Charlotte was always so plainspoken. Why the devil was she talking in circles? It made no sense.
His frown deepened. Unless . . .
The realization dawned on him as he watched a fearful war of emotions tighten her features. She wasn’t afraid for herself.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I think I finally comprehend what you are saying. Sterling’s feelings for you are . . . platonic.”
“Yes,” she whispered, locking her gaze with his. “I have just made myself vulnerable to you. And him as well. But it’s important that there be no misunderstandings between us, sir. We must be able to trust each other without reservation.”
“Agreed. Trust is a matter of honor—it’s sacrosanct between friends.” He read the silent appeal in her eyes and added, “You have often said that no secret is ever safe, but rest assured that despite my many faults, I’ll never betray your confidence.”
“Thank you.” Relief resonated in the faint stirring of air between them. “I—I hope that you, who have a healthy skepticism for convention, will not judge Jeremy too harshly.”
“Mrs. Sloane, I am far too concerned with the precarious state of my own salvation to give a fig about the so-called sins of others.”
Paper crackled as he took a step back and shifted the roll of drawings from hand to hand, intent on giving her a moment of privacy. Charlotte, too, moved away, the soft clinking of the tea things helping to break the tension.
“Thank you,” she repeated. “For being . . . such a good friend.”
Friend. The word had been barely a whisper, and yet its echo seemed to fill the room with a thrumming that reverberated right down to the marrow
of his bones.
Wrexford shifted, trying to shake off the sensation. And yet, after several slow, thudding heartbeats, honesty compelled him to admit that his feelings for Charlotte had somehow become far more than mere friendship.
“Wrexford . . .”
He looked up.
“You . . . don’t seem yourself.”
I’m not—and perhaps I’ll never be quite the same.
She edged around the table, closing the space between them, and to his surprise reached up to place her palm against his cheek. The warmth of her skin sent sparks shooting from his scalp to his toes.
Without thinking, he covered her hand with his. They stood for a long moment, still and silent, before he reluctantly released her and drew back a step.
“I’m simply fatigued, that’s all,” he murmured.
Charlotte nodded and quietly returned to the task of straightening up the table. “So, is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asked after carefully arranging the cups and pot on the tray. “Otherwise, I suggest you return home and get some sleep.”
“I think not,” replied the earl. “Our strategies are in place.” He made a small farewell gesture and started for the door. “We shall see how they play out.”
* * *
Shaken by her confrontation with Wrexford, Charlotte found herself too on edge to sleep. At the top of the stairs, she turned sharply, heading into her workroom instead of her bedchamber. It had certainly been a night of revelations, though how they would all intertwine was impossible to predict.
Truth and lies, with no way to discern one from the other.
As for the personal conundrums . . . Charlotte pressed her palms together, aware of the raspy warmth lingering from Wrexford’s bristled jaw. How could he be so hard and yet so soft?
Questions, questions—her emotions were too tangled to try to sort out right now.
Instead, she took refuge in the murder investigation. There must be a way to put her intellect to work. After pacing back and forth, she took a seat at her work desk. Exhaling a breath, she opened one of the drawers and took out the copy of the numbers Wrexford had found in Hollis’s rooms.
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 21