The earl shifted, trying to dispel the lingering muzziness in his head. “By the by, Mrs. Ashton is not an enemy. She has always been completely loyal to her husband and his work. Miss Merton will explain all the details, but she and the widow have reconciled their misconceptions of each other. They believe the motivation for the heinous murders is the fact that Ashton was planning on using the profits from the patent for improving the lives of his workers rather than lining the pockets of already wealthy men.”
“Yes, that’s true,” confirmed Benedict. “Blackstone lusts for money, though he’s already a very rich man. However, fromwhat I’ve gleaned from the talk here, it’s also a lust for power and establishing a legacy for the ages. Geoffrey is smart, ambitious and ruthless—exactly the sort of son Blackstone yearned for. Together, they dream of becoming titans of the British economy. The world is changing, trade is expanding around the globe. They intend to dominate it.”
Their own empire within an empire, thought Wrexford.
“Though there does seem to be some friction between them,” added Benedict. “I overheard a rather heated argument yesterday. Blackstone was furious that Blodgett killed a second radical agitator. Said he was getting too bloodthirsty, and that too many bodies would wreck all their plans.”
The earl rubbed at his still-throbbing skull. A great many pieces of the puzzle were finally fitting together. And yet . . .
“So,” he asked slowly, “what is it they need from you?”
And what is it they need from me?
“Ah, yes, why are we enjoying the comforts of their hospitality?” Benedict cracked his knuckles. “If you notice, our hands aren’t bound. That’s because they need our skill to—”
A rap on the door cut off his words, followed by a gruff order. “Stand back!” Metal scraped against metal as the lock released and the hinges pivoted.
Wrexford squinted as a blade of lantern light hit him square in the face.
“I see you’re awake, Lord Wrexford.” Blodgett, still armed with a brace of pistols and accompanied by the brute with the cudgel, motioned for the earl to rise. “Come with me.”
* * *
Charlotte forced herself to fight off the fear taking hold of her heart. She must think.Think!
Her guess had been right, but it had come a heartbeat too late. But at least the enemy was now known, she reasoned, and Raven’s rushed explanation of the earl’s abduction offered some faint thread of hope.
The boy had managed to hide himself and watch as Blodgett’s accomplice had found a hackney and, with jesting comments about their drunken friend, maneuvered the earl into the cab. With a clear description of the vehicle, there was, she assured herself, a good chance that through their network of street urchins and night creepers they would be able to track it to its final destination. After all, there must be a reason they were keeping the earl alive . . .
She looked up and met Raven’s grim gaze.
“I’m gonna rouse Hawk, and we’ll spread the word on what we’re looking fer,” he said, a note of defiance edging his voice.
“You’re hurt,” she replied, though there was little force behind her words.
“Bugger that,” he retorted. “We ain’t gonna leave him in the lurch.”
No, we ain’t.
“We’ll set up a command post here,” said McClellan to Raven. “If anyone has something to report, have them send it here. When you and your brother finish making your rounds, return here—no, on second thought, you must stop and inform Tyler of what has happened, and have him alert Mr. Sheffield. Then return here at once. Mrs. Sloane may need you.”
Raven nodded and dashed off for the stairs before any protest could be raised.
“Thank you,” said Charlotte simply. The maid’s show of calm, quick-witted competence helped steady her own nerves. A plan of her own was now taking shape. “I must head to Mr. Henning’s surgery.” Raven had told her about the rendezvous with Griffin. Though she dreaded what it might entail, there was really no choice.
She had always known that her recent decision to change her life might threaten her hard-won independence.
* **
“Isn’t science beautiful?”
Wrexford stood at the edge of the cavernous room and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of pistons through a silvery scrim of mist.
“It’s just a small test model of the new condenser,” explained Blodgett. “The actual prototype engine, our beautiful Behemoth”—he gestured at a huge, hulking silhouette at the far end of the room—“awaits just a few more refinements before we fire it up.”
“Impressive,” answered the earl, his gaze straying to the two sweaty, soot-streaked boys feeding coal into the firebox of the test model. “Save for the fact that it’s fueled by blood.”
“Oh, come, we’ve heard you’re not a sniveling sentimentalist, Wrexford,” scoffed Blodgett. “Progress rarely comes without a price. Though in this case, it was naught but a pittance.”
