“Where’s your brother?”
“In the stables, looking at yer horses.” The boy shot him a wary look. “Do ye mind?”
“Not at all.” The earl picked up his notebook and perched a hip on his desk. “Let us set the surveillance assignments, shall we?”
The next few minutes were spent going over logistics. The plan was for a pair of urchins to shadow Kirkland, McKinlock and the widow—one to race back to inform them if the two suspects met, while the other remained in place. As Wrexford had learned from Charlotte, the master at gathering information, few people paid any attention to children, which made them the perfect spies.
Raven was sharp-witted and though he noted the details in his head rather than on paper, Wrexford was confident that all would run like clockwork.
“Just one last thing. Remind your friends that their quarries must be considered highly dangerous. They are to shadow them from a distance, that’s all. Understood?
“Oiy.” The boy shuffled his feet, seeming loath to leave, even though their business was now done. “Can I ask ye a question? It’s about numbers.”
The earl noticed that Tyler stopped his polishing and cocked an ear. “Of course, lad.”
“M’lady and ye were talking about the page of numbers ye found with the second murdered cove. Ye sent it te some expert in mathematics, and I was just wondering whether ye really think numbers can be made to hide a message?”
“Yes, there’s a long history of numbers being used to construct codes, lad. The trouble is, there are infinite possibilities, so the chances of our figuring out which system is being used are not good.”
“Even for an expert,” added Tyler. “I’ve been taking a long look at the possibilities myself, and from what I can tell, it may be a variation of a Vigenère square that uses both numbers and letters. But if so, we’re hopelessly out of luck, for one needs to know the key word. So we had better pray it’s one of the others.”
“No word yet from Milner?” interrupted the earl.
“Not yet, milord. He could be away giving a lecture somewhere.” Turning back to Raven, the valet tapped a finger to a thick book on the counter. “Come, lad. If you like, I’ll show you a diagram of the Square, as well as some of the other well-known codes from the past. ”
The boy shot an eager glance at Tyler, then slowly fixed Wrexford with a questioning look.
“You would be doing me a great favor to provide him with an audience,” he said dryly. “Otherwise I might have to subject myself to a lecture on Caesar shifts, and I’m already in danger of being late for a meeting.”
Raven hurried across the room and took a stool next to the valet.
“I shall leave the pair of you to it,” murmured the earl as he rose. To Sheffield he asked, “What are your plans?”
“I shall toddle back to White’s and keep an eye and ear on Kirkland,” replied his friend. “Unless you have another task for me.”
“Not at the moment. For now, we’ll wait for the next move of our adversaries.”
* * *
The shaft of sunlight roused Charlotte from a bone-deep slumber. Though fatigue still weighed heavily on her, she found her thoughts were too agitated to think of further sleep. After dressing and fixing a pot of tea, she felt more awake, and yet that only exacerbated the question of what to do next.
Granted, she was to put in motion her informant network to see if they could find the love letters. But that felt maddeningly removed from the action. All that was required were a few cryptic notes to key people, and those would be delivered by the boys.
They were in the thick of things. As was Wrexford.
It chafed to feel so passive.
After penning the requests in readiness for Raven and Hawk, Charlotte took a fresh sheet of paper and began to doodle. Drawing always seemed to stimulate her imagination. There must be some creative way to help—she just had to see it.
Scratch, scratch. Several sheets were soon covered in bold, black scrawls. It wasn’t until the fourth one that an idea suddenly took shape. It would, she acknowledged, take a little improvising.
And Wrexford wouldn’t like it.
Charlotte thought for a moment, uncertain how to deal with that thought. Something had changed between them last night. She had felt the thrum of it in the momentary joining of their hands—and she was sure he had felt it, too. But as she couldn’t yet define what it was, she made up her mind to put it aside for now, and simply trust her own judgment.
Yes, the plan was a risk, but one which she felt confident in taking.
She quickly returned to her bedchamber and changed into more fashionable clothing. Casting a critical eye at the cheval glass, she did a slow spin to ensure all was in order. She must appear a perfect pattern-card of propriety. Or rather, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
How very apt, as Mrs. Ashton was wearing the same disguise.
Satisfied that she looked the part, Charlotte gathered up her cloak and reticule. Once on the street, she flagged down a hackney and made the journey to Mayfair, where she descended several streets away from the widow’s borrowed residence. A short stroll brought her to the front entrance.
“Please ask Miss Merton if she’s free to receive Mrs. Sloane,” she said to the butler who opened the portal.
“Yes, madam.” He gestured for her to enter “If you’ll wait here in the parlor, I shall inquire.”
Octavia appeared in a matter of minutes. “Mrs. Sloane. How lovely to see you,” she said politely, though a questioning look was evident in her eyes.
“Forgive me for arriving unannounced,” replied Charlotte a little louder than necessary. “But my modiste is not quite finished with a pelisse I ordered, and as the delay promised to be a bit lengthy, I left my maid to wait for the item while I came to see you.” A pause. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Come to my study and I’ll order us some tea.”
“Tea would be most welcome,” she agreed.
The charade of good manners continued until they were settled in the room and the maid had delivered the refreshments. Octavia waited until the door shut, then quickly rose and pressed her ear to the paneled wood for several long moments.
“We’re alone, at least for now,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper as she returned to her chair and nervously smoothed at her skirts. “Is there any word on Benedict?”
“It’s far too early for that,” replied Charlotte.
“Then why are you—”
“I’ve an idea. But it requires your help.”
CHAPTER 21
After giving a brusque wave in answer to the porter’s greeting, Wrexford hurried through the grand colonnaded entrance of the Royal Institution and took the stairs up to the laboratory area two at a time. Horatio Johnson, an irascible fellow to begin with, tended to become insufferably grumpy if kept waiting.
“Hmmph. About time.” A tall, reed-thin man with a thick shock of ginger hair and prominent side whiskers, looked up from an assortment of machine parts on his workbench and shot an irritated glace at the ship’s chronometer mounted above his bookshelf.
The hands, noted the earl, read precisely 2:53.
“Anything less than a minute does not qualify as late,” he said, regarding the jumble of pistons and rods with interest.
“Precision, Wrexford. Precision,” chided Johnson. “You’re a decent natural philosopher—as shown by your chemistry in creating different tensile strength in iron—when you pay attention to the minute details.”
“I’ve not your talent for patience.” Men of science, who, for the most part, toiled and tinkered in solitude, were prone to a little flattery, so Wrexford added. “Nor your genius for precision.”
“Hmmph.” The grunt was a good deal less huffy than the first one.
“I was wondering whether I might ask your opinion on a concept concerning steam and the power it can generate.” Johnson’s passion was the internal combustion engine, and he’d been working for over four
years on refining the hydrogen-and-oxygen-powered design patented by the Swiss inventor, Francois Isaac de Rivaz. But his background in steam power made him an authority in that field as well.
Johnson sat back and tugged at the points of his waistcoat. “I daresay I can be of some assistance to you,” he replied with exaggerated modesty, “having a small degree of experience in that field.”
Wrexford unfolded the notes he had made after analyzing Ashton’s plans. “Say one could engineer a way to put four valves in a cylinder and create a controlling valve gear for steam admission and exhaust which did away with the wide swings in temperature during the cycle,” he explained. “That would generate a whole new level of power, wouldn’t it?”
“Four valves?” Johnson frowned in concentration. “A radical notion . . .” After a search of his pockets, the inventor found a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. Opening to a page, he began to scribble a quick diagram. “You’d need to transfer motion from a single eccentric to the four valves . . . trip valves . . . some sort of wrist plate . . .”
He pursed his lips. “Yes, it’s theoretically possible—and yes, it would be a revolutionary advance in power. But it would take a technical wizard to design a workable model.” A few more scribbles and harrumphs. “No, too deucedly difficult. I doubt that even Hephaestus, the Greek god of metallurgy could create such an innovation.”
“Difficult, but not impossible,” mused the earl.
“And then, of course, there would be the question of the iron. The added pressure of such valves would require a very strong metal, as you well know.”
“I imagine that could be done,” replied the earl. “Again, difficult, but not impossible.”
“Don’t tell me you are thinking of taking up engineering? I wouldn’t advise it. It takes great patience, which I’ve heard isn’t your strength.” Johnson pulled a face. “But perhaps you’ve got a prototype of your valves ready to unveil to the public.” The idea seemed to amuse him. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Wrexford. “Alas, no. A friend and I were discussing the matter and disagreed over the concept. You’ve been very helpful in settling the argument.” He refolded his papers and tucked them back into his pocket. “Thank you. I’ll not take up any more of your valuable time.”
“Quite all right,” said the inventor, his eyes straying back to his notebook. “Hmmph, you’d need a ratchet gear . . . a dash-pot. . .”
Wrexford left Johnson muttering to himself, and after stopping to speak with a few other fellow members took his leave from the Institution. No one had heard any word about McKinlock having new plans on the drawing board.
From there he made a stop at a toolmaking workshop renowned for its precision work. The proprietor, Joseph Clement, was a gruff, rough-spoken man, but his technical skill was unquestioned throughout the scientific community. Anyone looking to build complicated mechanical devices sought him out. A short conversation—and that only because he had greased Clement’s palm with a few guineas—confirmed Johnson’s assessment that Ashton’s valves could work with the right engineering and materials.
The plans found in the ceramic rooster were indeed worth a fortune, thought the earl as he began walking back to Berkeley Square. Assuming someone had the expertise to finish the last little details not shown on the drawings.
And as he further mulled over the matter, the only name that came to mind was that of Benedict Hillhouse.
* * *
“It will demand a steady nerve if we are to be successful,” Charlotte went on to explain. “If my hunch is right, we may find the evidence we need to prove Mrs. Ashton’s perfidy. However, we must be very careful. If we make a mistake, it will have grave consequences.”
Octavia didn’t bat an eye. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“I need to get upstairs and have access to Mrs. Ashton’s bedchamber. I’m assuming, given the layout of the house, that your quarters are close to hers?”
“Yes, but how—”
“I’m going to have a sudden attack of megrims and will need to lie down for a bit. You’ll escort me up to your chamber with a great show of solicitous concern, of course.”
Octavia’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re thinking of any notes between her and Lord Kirkland? Very clever. But you told me clandestine activities aren’t quite as easy as they may seem.”
“I’m experienced in such things,” replied Charlotte firmly.
To her credit, Octavia didn’t question how, but merely nodded for her to continue.
“And yes, there’s a good chance she has incriminating letters. After all, Kirkland is here in London, and they are likely communicating. If I were her, I wouldn’t dispose of them, as a servant might find them. I’ve an idea of where to look,” explained Charlotte. “But it’s key we have the floor to ourselves. Think hard, Miss Merton—are there usually any maids working there at this time of day?”
“No,” replied Octavia. “Their tasks are always completed in the morning hours.”
“Excellent. Now, once you escort me upstairs, your task will be to stand guard at the top of the stairs. If you hear Mrs. Ashton or a maid about to come up, you must find a way to delay them long enough for me to quit her chamber—raise holy hell about me needing absolute silence, or some such thing. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” came the resolute reply. “As it happens, we’re in luck. Mrs. Ashton is currently meeting with Mr. Blodgett, the mill supervisor, as he’s leaving later today to return to Leeds.”
Fortuitous, indeed. Would that their luck would hold. “Then come, let us not waste any more time.”
Charlotte slapped her cheeks to bring a rush of color to her face, then pulled loose some strands of hair and undid the top fastening of her high-collared gown. “Give me your arm,” she said, rising from her chair, “and help me into the corridor.”
Leaning heavily on Octavia, she followed her friend’s lead with unsteady steps, hoping her instincts were right and that the other woman would keep her nerve.
Octavia immediately proved her mettle, putting on a very convincing show of fussing in concern as a tweenie carrying an empty coal scuttle passed them.
So far, so good.
“Well done,” Charlotte murmured once they were half way up the stairs.
“You play the role of invalid to perfection,” whispered Octavia admiringly. “Why, you have me believing you are on the verge of a deathly swoon.”
“Necessity is an excellent teacher of playacting,” Charlotte replied dryly. Then, as they reached the top landing, she dropped all pretense of languor and came to full alert. “Describe the layout,” she demanded.
“My quarters are the first door on the left, the next is the suite used by Mr. Ashton,” pointed out Octavia. “Mrs. Ashton’s rooms are accessed through the last door.”
“And on the right?
“Just two linen closets. The door opposite mine leads to Benedict’s quarters.”
Charlotte took a moment to survey her surroundings, gauging the distances between the rooms. Satisfied, she said, “Wait here. You know your role. If you must play it, be sure that I hear you.”
“I understand.” Octavia looked pale but determined.
Feeling her pulse quicken, Charlotte swiftly traversed the passageway and entered the widow’s quarters. Slipping into her second skin—the woman who had learned all the tricks necessary to survive in the stews—felt far more comfortable than the fancy clothes she was wearing. It took only a moment to assess the small sitting room. The escritoire might be a possible hiding place, but she thought it unlikely. Even the most cunning and clever people, Charlotte had learned, allowed primal urges to overrule reason when it came to precious possessions. One kept them close.
A jewel case, a travel desk for private correspondence, a box of lace fichus. Her feeling was that any incriminating letters would be kept in an intimate, portable place. As time was of the essence, a thorough search wasn’t possible. She would have to
trust her instincts.
Without hesitation, Charlotte continued on to the bedchamber.
No feminine frills were in evidence—it was decorated in the same dark, masculine colors that dominated the rest of the house. The furniture was mahogany, heavy with ornate carvings. There was no warmth to the room, and yet she sensed that the widow felt at home there.
Charlotte immediately moved to the dressing table, where a set of silver-backed brushes and an array of crystal cosmetic pots were aligned on either side of a large-looking glass framed in a brass pedestal.
Mrs. Ashton’s iron-willed self-control extended to her toilette.
To the right of the brushes sat a small rosewood chest, its lid inlaid with an intricate rosette made of ivory. Dropping her gaze, she saw a large brass keyhole.
A quick tug confirmed it was locked.
Charlotte pulled a steel hairpin from her topknot and with a few precise jiggles and twists was rewarded with a satisfying snick.
The top velvet-lined tray contained several pairs of earrings and matching bracelets. Garnets and peridots—nothing flashy. Beneath it was a larger divided compartment, with a double strand of lustrous pearls coiled on one side and a filigree gold necklace on the other. She lifted the jewelry out of the chest and carefully inspected the velvet lining, poking and prodding with her pin see if there was any sign of a false bottom.
Nothing. And a quick check with the span of her fingers confirmed that there was no hidden space. After replacing everything exactly as it had been, she closed and relocked the lid.
Charlotte was allowing herself a quarter hour for the search. She gauged that she had maybe eleven minutes left.
The chest of drawers contained nothing but gloves, shawls, and small clothes. Moving around the four-poster bed, she saw the night table held only a glass-globed oil lamp and a book. Within its pages was a bookmark, but no other papers.
Behind her, the clock on the mantel was ticking off the seconds.
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