“You hold life so cheap?” he asked.
“Three of the men were worthless,” countered his captor. “And Ashton had outlived his usefulness. He would have frittered away his genius, rather than building on it.”
Wrexford didn’t bother arguing further on ethics. Like Blodgett, he preferred to put his creativity to practical use.
How to stop the dastards?Preferably with a plan that saved the lives of Hillhouse, Skinny and the other captives—as well as his own.
“You take a coldly pragmatic view of the world, I see,” he murmured.
“And so, I trust, do you,” said Blodgett, “once you’ve applied your usual steel-sharp logic to the matter.”
“I think you ought to go ahead and tell me why I’m here.”
Blodgett smiled, perhaps sensing a kindred soul. “We’re offering you an opportunity to help forge the future. And reap a handsome profit in the bargain.”
Wrexford moved closer to the working model and took a closer look at its mechanics. “Tell me more.”
“I knew most of the plans for Ashton’s innovation, but he became secretive and a few crucial details about the valves were missing. We’ve convinced Hillhouse to share them.” The smile grew more sardonic. “He has a weakness for Miss Merton.”
A fatal weakness, no doubt, for both of us if Blodgett gets his wishes.
“As for your role, we’ve just forced an alarming fact out of Hillhouse. The boiler for the prototype is made with the wrong type of iron for the amount of pressure that will be generated. We know you worked with Ashton on the composition of iron for his previous boiler. We need your expertise in chemistry to create the right formula for this one. And time is of the essence. We’ve a very rich man from one of the German principalities coming to see a demonstration of The Behemoth in a week. His investment is the first cog in building our empire.”
“I’d need a proper laboratory and furnace,” said the earl. He allowed a small pause. “Assuming I agree to help you.”
“It’s already been assembled in one of the other rooms in this building. There’s also a forge and furnace room, as the building was formerly used for making repairs to naval armaments,” replied Blodgett. “I’ve stocked it with coke and iron ore for the smelting process.”
That explained the tidal smells mingling with the odor of burning coal. They must be near the river.
“As for agreeing, we’re aware that you’re known for being impervious to emotion. You’ve no close friends, no paramours. You are, in a nutshell, a man without a heart.”
The earl shrugged. “A vastly overrated organ when it comes to sentiment, though a rather efficient pump.”
“However . . .” His captor’s smile turned feral. “My father sent some of his minions to inquire around your country estate. It seems there is an elderly nanny by the name of Miss Beckworth settled in a snug little cottage. Word is, she raised you and your younger brother, and served as a source of solace whenyour mother fell victim to influenza, especially to the dear, departed Thomas. He was particularly fond of her, wasn’t he?”
No secrets are safe.Charlotte’s frequent warning echoed inside Wrexford’s head. For an instant, he held back any outward reaction, and then thought better of it. Two could play at cat and mouse games. Let Blodgett think he had touched a raw nerve.
Satisfaction sparked in Blodgett’s gaze as Wrexford let anger tighten his features. “Your tenants natter away about how kind you are to the old hag, and how she wants for nothing.” He let out a mournful sigh. “But then, the elderly are fragile. I doubt it would come as a surprise were you to learn she simply stopped breathing in her sleep one night.”
“Your depravity knows no bounds, does it?” he said softly.
“None at all,” said his captor with an unrepentant laugh. “So, milord, do we have an agreement?”
“Have someone find me a pot of coffee,” growled the earl, quickly thrusting aside all emotion to think of how to turn the situation to his advantage. “Then show me to the laboratory.”
* * *
A nervous twist of the knob turned the lamp’s flame down to a bare flicker, setting the yawing shadows to dancing higher and darker on the far wall. After re-angling her chair, Charlotte sat and pulled her hat down even lower on her brow.
Dare she hope that Henning’s idea would work? The chances were...
Wrexford would of course be able to calculate the exact odds if he was here. But he wasn’t, and she would likely never hear his infuriating drawl again unless they could engineer a miracle.
Science gave short shrift to the supernatural. In art, however, magic was acknowledged as an integral part of imagination. One had to have faith.
From behind the closed door, she heard the scuff of steps and voices. Her insides gave a lurch. Henning’s rough Scottish burrrubbing up against the clipped growl of Griffin, the taciturn Bow Street Runner.
He was, alas, no fool. Which was, in this case, a two-edged sword.
