A long, planked work counter ran the length of the laboratory wall opposite the forge. It looked recently constructed, crude but serviceable, and a quick look showed it stocked with all the necessary equipment. Crucibles, copper cauldrons, an array of chemicals in glass jars . . .
“If there is anything else you need, you have only to ask, Wrexford.”
The earl turned to see a tall, impeccably attired gentleman had come to stand behind Blodgett. A light dressing of Macassar oil sheened his thick hair, making it gleam bright as polished silver in the lamplight.
“I should like to think of us as partners rather than adversaries,” went on the newcomer. “You, of all people, have the vision to look beyond the strictures of convention and see the future.”
“A pretty speech in theory, Blackstone,” said Wrexford. “But theory is never quite as neat as reality, is it?”
“A bit of blood has been shed,” conceded the marquess. “But think of all the lives that will be improved by the revolution in steam power.”
And the few select pockets that will be lined by your murderous greed.
“Which makes the toll worth paying?” he asked. “I wonder if Ashton, Hollis and Nevins agree. Not to speak of your son.”
Blackstone’s face darkened. “My wastrel son was a blight on humanity. A leech. The world is better off without him.”
“It’s dangerous to usurp the power of the gods,” murmured Wrexford. “The Greek tragedies give ample warning of how the deities punish human hubris.”
“Ancient history!” scoffed the marquess. “I believe in looking to the future. What about you, Wrexford?”
“As a pragmatist, I’m most concerned with the present.”
Blackstone laughed. “A wise philosophy. Do what we ask, and—”
“And you might let me live?” said the earl, a sardonic smile flashing within the flitting shadows.
“That depends.” The marquess touched a hand to Blodgett’s shoulder. “Come see me when you’ve finished here, Geoffrey.” The well-manicured fingers curled in a quick caress. “You’ve done very well. I’m proud of you.”
Blodgett’s face came alight. He waited until the sound of his father’s receding steps had been swallowed by the thrum of warehouse noises before expelling a pent-up breath. “Is there anything else you need?”
Wrexford took a long moment to survey the rest of the work space. And then repressed a smile. A ray of light.
“I need one of the boys to help me with the various potions. The cauldrons need to be arranged in close proximity, so bring me the small, skinny one. He’ll work best in tight quarters.” The earl allowed a stretch of silence before adding, “You had better bring Hillhouse, too, along with plenty of paper and pencils. He’ll need to explain to me the way the new valve system works so I can understand the exact amount of pressure we’re dealing with.”
“I know the valves,” protested Blodgett. “I can tell you what you need to know.”
Trusting his instincts, Wrexford took a gamble. “Practical knowledge of the mechanics is one thing. But do you know the mathematical equations for calculating volume and pressure? The scientific formulas for various chemical compounds? This isn’t guesswork. It requires highly advanced knowledge.”
A spasm of fury twisted at Blodgett’s handsome face, which was all the answer he needed.
The bastard son, brilliant but barred from all the privileges of his wastrel half brother. His hunch had been right.
“So you see,” said the earl. “I need Hillhouse and his Cambridge education.”
Anything else?” came the taut reply.
“Another pot of coffee.” Wrexford peeled off his coat. “But first, bring me my helpers.”
* * *
A huffing, puffing dragon, snorting fire and scalding clouds of steam, flapped its scaly wings. It was coming closer and closer—her throat was burning, she couldn’t breath—
“Wake up, Mrs. Sloane.” McClellan gave another gentle shake to Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’re having a bad dream.”
Blinking, she slowly released her suffocating grip on the pillow pressed against her face and groggily sat up. A baleful glance around showed that she’d fallen asleep fully dressed on the sofa. Damnation. Her boots had left streaks of mud on the lovely fabric . . .
“I thought you might like some tea,” added the maid.
Charlotte felt a tickle of benign vapor float caress her face. “Thank you. Tea would be divine.” She accepted the cup and felt her stomach flip-flop as she took in the shaft of bright sunlight shining through the windowpanes. How many hours had trickled by?
“Any word yet?” she demanded.
“A few promising leads,” replied McClellan. “Raven and Hawk are out organizing more help to follow up on them.”
“We’ll find him,” announced another voice.
Charlotte swung her gaze around and saw Sheffield was sitting in one of the armchairs, looking rumpled and wan from lack of sleep.
“We’re having the lads pass the word that there will be a very large reward for whoever leads us to the hackney’s destination.” His jaw tightened. “We’ll find him,” he repeated. “Satan would find Wrex’s sarcasm far too annoying to let him stay in hell.”
She smiled, as he had intended, but then, to her horror, realized that tears had pearled on her lashes and several had spilled to her cheeks. Turning away, she made a show of fanning her face. “Lud, the tea is hot as Hades—just the thing to chase the fog from my brain.”
McClellan tactfully busied herself with the tray, pretending not to notice the momentary show of emotion.
Charlotte took another scalding sip, welcoming the burn on her tongue. Damn Wrexford for being so . . . so . . .
Principled.
Infuriating man. She wished she could shake him until his teeth rattled. It was she who let passions take her to where angels feared to tread. Not him. He wasn’t supposed to care. Drawing a shuddering breath, she set aside the cup, aware that her hands were trembling.
Damn, damn, damn. Time was not on their side. Every minute that ticked by made it less likely they would find the earl alive.
Rising, Charlotte began to pace, feeling like one of the caged lions at the Tower menagerie. Thump, thump. She knew Sheffield and McClellan were watching her in concern. Wondering, no doubt, whether she was going to wear a hole in the floorboards.
The sound of steps suddenly grew louder.
She whipped around as the two boys came racing into the parlor.
“We’re now sure the hackney headed down te Limehouse,” exclaimed Raven between great gulps of air. “Alice and Pudge are talking with the mudlarks around the river and Harry is checking with the barrowmen around Limekiln Dock te see if we can learn which street.”
“I think we should alert Griffin,” said Sheffield. “He can muster a force of men and wait for further word in Princes Square, which is close enough to the area to allow them to move in quickly, once we’ve located the building.” He rose. “I’ll go. He’ll trust me.”
Charlotte nodded. “A good plan.”
“I need te go back te Bell Wharf and wait fer reports,” said Raven. To his brother he ordered, “Ye need te stay here, in case further messages need te be relayed.”
“Quite right,” she confirmed, then grabbed up her wool cap from the sofa. “However, I’m coming with you.”
* * *
A series of rasping clicks rumbled from within the heavy iron lock and Wrexford heard the mechanism release, allowing the thick-planked door to swing open.
“A word of warning, Wrexford,” came Blodgett’s voice from the corridor. “The building is well guarded, and this door will be locked at all times. You or Hillhouse make one wrong move, or don’t have the formula ready in time to cast a boiler for the demonstration next week, and first Miss Merton will die, followed by Miss Beckworth.” A shuffled step. “Then I’ll slice Mrs. Sloane’s throat. She and Miss Merton looked thick as thieves, so I assume she’s als
o a friend of yours.”
Two burly men shoved Benedict and Skinny into the laboratory, then stepped back as Blodgett moved into the doorway and gave a menacing wave with his pistols.
Weapons make mere mortals feel like gods, reflected the earl. But strip them of steel, he reminded himself, and they were once again just quivering mounds of flesh and blood.
“If she’s not,” added Blodgett with a wolfish grin, “then it’s bad luck for her.”
Wrexford reacted with a bland shrug. “You needn’t waste your breath with puerile taunts and threats,” he said. “Kindly close the door and let me get to work.”
As the portal slammed shut with a doleful clang, Benedict marched to the work counter and dropped the sheaf of paper and pencils with a muttered oath. “Bloody hell, you can’t mean to meekly sit down and do that dastard’s dirty work!”
He gestured at the chemicals. “We need to fight back! We can burn through the door hinges with acid, or . . . or set the planks on fire!” Flinging an arm up, he pointed to the forge. “And we can forge spears from the test scraps of iron! I know how to work metal . . . we can sabotage the Behemoth . . . we can . . .”
Wrexford listened in amusement until the other man had exhausted his ideas. “Bravo, Hillhouse. I commend you for your imagination. I daresay you could write a novel that would outsell those of Mrs. Radcliffe. However, I’m feeling rather lazy after all the rushing around needed to unravel this tangled plot. So I’d rather just be rescued.”
“Ha! And pigs may fly!” retorted Benedict.
“No, just a scrawny little lad,” replied the earl with a smile.
“What the devil do you mean—”
“I’ll explain in a moment.” He smoothed out a sheet of paper. “Skinny, they’ve had you moving coal around, so think carefully and describe as much of the building as you’ve seen.” Taking up a pencil, he drew a rough rectangle. “Show me the entrances and the position of the guards.”
The boy, as he knew, was keenly observant and quickly helped him sketch in some key information. It should, he decided, be enough.
“Well done, lad. Now, Raven tells me you’ve worked as a chimney monkey. Is that right?”
“Oiy!” answered Skinny.
Wrexford grasped the boy’s bony shoulders and turned him around. “See that iron grate up there?” He pointed out a small air vent set just below the high ceiling. “If we can get that loose, can you shimmy through it?”
The boy made a rude sound. “I ken wiggle through a wormhole, m’lord. That opening’s as big as bloody Piccadilly Street.”
“Excellent.” He scribbled a quick message on the diagram, before folding it and handing it to the boy. “Once you’re out, fly to Raven and Hawk as fast as you can and tell them where we are. You know their new residence?”
“Oiy!” Skinny held out a grubby hand. “It ’ud be a lot quicker if I squibble a hackney. Ye got any blunt?”
The earl dug out several coins from his pocket and handed them over.
Benedict assessed the height of the wall with a critical squint. “Even if I stand your shoulders and the boy stands on mine, we’ll be three or four feet short.”
“Yes, but . . .” He pointed to the iron anvil mounted on a sturdy block of wood. “I didn’t bring you here for your brains, Hillhouse. I figured that between the two of us, we should be able to move the cursed thing.”
A smile finally chased away Benedict’s frown as he flexed his muscles.
Wrexford drew the thin-bladed knife from the hidden sheath in his boot and handed it to Skinny. Blodgett had made the mistake of assuming that a fancy aristocrat knew nothing about the dirty little tricks of the rookeries. “This should make short work of the screws holding the grate in place.”
Flashing a gap-toothed grin, Skinny took the weapon and tested the point on his thumb. “I’ll have dem out in two shakes of a bat’s arse.”
“Drop it back down here when you’re done, bantling.” Turning back to Benedict, the earl rubbed his palms together. “Don’t worry, I do have an alternative plan in mind if this comes to naught. But in my scientific experience, the best solution to a problem is usually the simplest one.”
* * *
Pewter-dark clouds, heavy with the promise of impending rain, scudded across the grey sky and a chill gust blew in from the choppy river, bringing with it the fetid smells of the ebbing tide. Charlotte huddled deeper within the cluster of pilings at the foot of the wharf and turned up the collar of her coat. The wind-whipped spray clung to her lashes, the drip-drip of its salt stinging her skin. Every bone in her body ached from fatigue. That she could will herself to ignore.
I am stronger than pain.
But fear . . . Like a serpent, fear coiled around her ribcage, squeezing so hard that her heart was thrashing wildly against her bones to keep from being crushed. Fear bubbled through her blood, burning like a bilious acid. It rose up in her gorge, so overpowering that she could taste it.
Raven had darted off to fetch a hot meat pie for them to share. And while the warmth would be welcome, the mere thought of food made her nauseous.
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment, trying to puzzle out how Wrexford had come to have such a commanding presence in her life. It wasn’t physical—they saw each other infrequently. Yet by some cerebral sleight of hand, he had managed to squeeze himself into her head, crowding her thoughts until few of them weren’t touched by his shadow. Whether wrestling with a concept for her art or simply dealing with a mundane moment of everyday life, she often found herself asking, What would he say? What would he think?
That she might never hear his shouts, his growls, his laugh . . .
That she might never have the chance to tell him . . .
“Here, the barrowman had lamb—yer favorite.” Raven sat down beside her and broke off a chunk of the still-steaming pastry. For a moment, the stink of decay gave way to the sweet fragrance of herbs and spices.
“Ye have te eat,” he ordered, his dark eyes narrowing, daring her to disobey.
Charlotte choked back a brittle laugh at the irony of having their roles reversed. That her little lamb—well, in truth he had never been a lamb, but more like a lion cub—was willing to fight tooth and claw rather than lose heart and surrender to the darkness made her feel ashamed of her moment of weakness.
She took a small bite and found it helped her swallow the worst of her terror.
“We’re going te find him, m’lady,” said Raven softly.
She smiled, and in an instant her despair dissolved, transformed by some esoteric alchemy into hope. Wrexford would likely have a scientific theory about the chemistry of it. She must remember to ask him—and watch him huff and snarl about the illusions of sniveling sentiment.
“Of course we’re going to find him,” answered Charlotte. And when they did, she was going to thrash him within an inch of his arrogant, devil-be-damned life.
* * *
The earl winced as Benedict’s boot heels dug into his shoulders. Feet planted firmly on the anvil, back braced against the wall, he couldn’t see what was happening up above.
He heard a scraping of metal against metal. Benedict grunted and shifted again. “Skinny has pried out the screws. I’ve got the grate.”
A good sign. As was the slithering sound of wool against brick and the iron-grey crumbs of mortar raining into his hair.
Another excruciating few moments passed, then suddenly the knife plummeted past him—a hairsbreadth closer and it would have nicked his ear—to bury its razored point in the planked floor with a quivering thwack.
“The lad is out!” exclaimed Benedict in an excited whisper. “By God, your plan worked.”
“Yes, well, it’s just the first step in the experiment.” Wrexford twisted awkwardly, his back pinching in protest as they slowly untangled themselves and dropped down to the floor. “As a man of science, you know it’s too early to gauge the final result.”
After placing the knife back into his boot, he dusted
his trousers and went to examine the chemicals arrayed on the workbench more closely.
Benedict joined him. “Now what?”
“We wait,” replied the earl as he lit the spirit lamp and poured a measure of oil of vitriol into one of the copper cauldrons. “Or rather, you are going to wait. I’m going to try to stop Blackstone from leaving. Otherwise, we may never be able to bring him to justice.”
“But how?” Benedict cast a dubious look up at the tiny opening in the wall. “Even if you could reach that pinhole, you’d never get a leg, much less your shoulders, through it.”
“Not to speak of the fact that the effort would likely ruin a very expensive pair of boots,” replied Wrexford dryly. Seeing that the acid had come to a boil, he selected several other chemicals and added them one at a time. “Which is why I intend to go out through the door. As I said earlier, simplicity is always the most elegant of solutions.”
“But how—”
“There are benefits to employing a valet whose skills go beyond the ability to starch a cravat. Tyler’s knowledge of locks and how they open is most impressive.” He selected several other chemicals and added them one at a time. “Give me a hand and wipe the empty vials clean with the cloth on the workbench.”
Benedict did as he was told, then eyed the bubbling potion. “What are you concocting?”
“Sturm und drang,” answered the earl. “Thunder and lightning.” The ancient gods were adept at hurling bolts of fire and fury at those who dared to defy the order of the universe. Perhaps Zeus, in his infinite wisdom, would give his blessing to striking down the overweening hubris of Blackstone and son.
Wrexford knew he would likely need a little divine intervention to pull off what he had in mind.
The soft pop, pop, pop of the boiling chemicals appeared to be having a mesmerizing effect on Benedict. He sat unmoving, unblinking, his gaze drawn deep into the swirling vortex of crystalline color. Then, with a sudden start, he looked up and read over the labels on the empty vials. “Holy hell, you’re mixing an explosive, aren’t you?”
“Evil alchemy deserves evil alchemy.” The earl crouched down and adjusted the spirit lamp’s flame. “The explosive is for defensive distractions.” He then turned and gathered several more glass jars from the work counter. “I’m also concocting a mixture of acids with which to sabotage The Behemoth. That will make it impossible for Blackstone to demonstrate that Ashton’s invention works in an actual engine.”
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 30