Perhaps I’m dead and consigned to the bowels of Purgatory or the belly of a dyspeptic dragon.
No, he decided, tentatively shifting his limbs. If he had given up the ghost, he’d be in Hell and it would be decidedly hotter. Which was small consolation, as it felt like a regiment of devils had run roughshod over his head with their cloven hooves.
“Awake, are you?” asked a voice from somewhere close by in the ink-dark murk.
Wrexford grunted and managed to sit up. “No thanks to you, Blodgett.” His fingers gingerly felt at the lump behind hisleft ear. “I assume you have a reason for abducting me rather than slitting my throat.”
A steel struck flint, taking several tries to spark a candle stub to light.
“I’ve no idea why you’ve been added to our motley band.” The flame illuminated the face of an utter stranger. Behind him, the earl could vaguely make out several boys huddled up against a brick wall. “But I’d guess it has something to do with The Behemoth.”
Whoosh-clang, Whoosh-clang.A serpentine swirl of silvery vapor suddenly slithered in from under the heavy planked door. Wrexford winced, realizing the noise and steam were not a figment of his imagination.
“Who the devil areyou?” he asked warily.
“Benedict Hillhouse,” came the answer. “Who the devil areyou?”
“His Nibs—Lord Wrexford!” answered a reedy voice.
The earl turned and saw it belonged to a painfully thin boy who looked to be half a head shorter than the two others. He looked familiar . . .
“Oiy, remember me—I’m Skinny,” volunteered the boy. “A friend o’ Raven ’n Hawk.”
Skinny.One of the clever little urchins who had proved so useful during the Holworthy investigation. “I’m glad to see you alive, lad,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I don’t fink we’ll be suckin’ wind fer much longer,” said Skinny matter-of-factly, which set the other boys to whimpering. “We seen their phizes, so they ain’t gonna let us get live, once they’ve no more use fer us.”
“We’ll see about that,” muttered the earl. “How did they come to snatch a clever fellow like you?”
The boy made a rueful face. “Billy Bones had filched some ale from the tavern where he sweeps up and shared a tipple wiv me while we wuz rolling dice. So I wuz bosky when a covearsked me iffen I wanted te make a shilling by helping ’im carry some coal te his wagon. Udderwise I wudda been smart enough te smell a rat. Before I knew it, he whacked me in the brainbox, an’ well, here I be.”
“Don’t fret, lad. The game isn’t over yet,” said Wrexford, and then turned back to Benedict. “You’ve led us on a merry chase, Mr. Hillhouse. I take it you’re not part of the plot to steal Ashton’s invention.”
“Bloody hell, no!” exclaimed Benedict. He quickly added, “How is Octavia? Is she—”
“Safe and well,” he assured.
“Thank God.” Benedict pulled a face. “To think we were so blind! We suspected the widow—and perhaps you—of nefarious doings, only to miss the obvious suspect. We should have immediately thought of Geoffrey Blodgett. He’s always felt he’s been dealt an unfair hand by Lady Luck. For years, he’s simmered with resentment that he didn’t have money, privilege, fortune.” Another grimace. “And now I know why.”
Wrexford frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He’s Blackstone’s bastard,” replied Benedict. “But for a piece of paper, he would be the marquess’s heir. He’s a month older than Lord Kirkland, but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Kirkland’s dead,” interjected the earl.
“Oh, yes, Geoffrey has boasted of that. He comes in every day to taunt me with the diabolical details of how clever he and his father have been.” Benedict shook his head. “He’s always been an arrogant sot, though he hid it well from Eli. It defies all sense of decency that a father would conspire to kill his own son, but apparently Blackstone and Geoffrey are bound by morals as well as blood.”
“The marquess knows Blodgett murdered his half brother?”
“Aye, it was at his orders that Kirkland was killed. Apparently he was wheedling the widow for money—I don’t knowwhy—and Blackstone was furious that it would interfere with his own plan. Which, by the by, is to patent Eli’s innovation as their own—”
“Yes,” interrupted the earl. “We figured that out. However, we assumed it was you and the viscount, and that you’d be selling the idea to McKinlock, as he has the money and means to manufacture it.”
Benedict flashed a rueful smile. “Lud, I should have thought of that,” he said dryly. “But no, it’s the marquess and Geoffrey. They will go through the outward signs of mourning Eli, while they secretly build a prototype based on his innovations. Geoffrey is very skilled with mechanical devices, and his expertise with steam will make it plausible to most people that he came up with the idea on his own.”
“The key is in filing the patent,” mused Wrexford. “The one who claims it first has the great advantage.”
“Precisely,” agreed Benedict. “They are betting on the fact that Mrs. Ashton will flounder in trying to run the mill. Geoffrey, of course, will use his guile to see to it that things go awry. Eli’s investors will be convinced by Blackstone to back a new steam engine company—run by Blackstone, of course—as Ashton’s company will be seen as worthless with a woman at the helm.”
