Packed between two pieces of protective pasteboard was the short note to her late husband and a sheet of floral-scentedstationery with a list of eight names, each followed by a short explanation of how the individual was connected to Ashton.
Wrexford cleared a spot on his blotter and carefully laid them out.
Tyler came around to stand by his shoulder. “Perhaps we could examine the note under the microscope,” he murmured. “The composition of the ink may give us some clue.”
The earl frowned. “The odds against that are astronomically high, but I suppose it’s worth a look.” He leaned in closer. “Hmmph.”
“What?” asked his valet.
“Whoever penned the note has a distinctive style,” said Wrexford, after making a closer study of the handwriting. “Take a look at the curlicue looping of the lettersfandg.”
Tyler took a moment to fetch a magnifying glass from the worktable and make a more thorough study. “You’re right.”
And yet, the discovery only caused Wrexford’s frown to deepen. “It’s too good to be true to think that any murderer would be daft enough to leave such a calling card.”
“Unless,” mused Tyler, “he didn’t intend to kill Ashton.”
A reasonable explanation, he conceded. It was possible that Ashton and the self-proclaimed Kindred Spirit in Science had quarreled over partnering in the new invention and things had turned violent. However, all the earl knew about Ashton argued against such a scenario. The inventor was well-known to be an altruist. Wrexford couldn’t quite imagine him involved in any havey-cavey dealings.
But then, everyone had faults they wished to keep secret. A fancy polished veneer could hide a core of rot.
“I suppose we must consider that,” he finally said aloud.
“But you don’t believe it, milord?”
“No,” replied Wrexford flatly. “I don’t. However, as a man of science I must keep an open mind and base my assumptions on facts.” He smoothed a finger over a crease in the paper. “Letus set up the microscope and see what the murderer’s note can tell us.”
As Tyler began to rummage in the storage cabinets, the earl slouched back in his chair, still wrestling with the strange prickling at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was merely the murder of an acquaintance—and a horribly foul one at that—that had him feeling unsettled. And yet, that was too glib an answer. His friends would cheerfully vouch for the fact that he was not the sort of fellow prone to tender sentiments.
Understanding the physical world and how it worked was the sort of intellectual conundrum he enjoyed solving. Chemistry was all about logic. One could puzzle out answers through empirical observation and analysis. Murder was all about emotion. It defied the clockwork laws of the universe. Which, conceded the earl, offended his orderly mind.
So why the devil had he been moved by the lovely widow’s appeal for help?
Wrexford shifted uncomfortably. Beneath her grief and uncertainty had been some elemental quality that intrigued him. No milk and water miss, like most of the well-born ladies of the beau monde, Isobel had radiated a steely strength of character, a sense of calm resolve. Indeed, he had never met any woman quite like her.
Save for . . .
He chuffed a sharp exhale, forcing the image of Charlotte Sloane’s face from his mind.
Bloody hell, it wasn’t like him to allow thoughts of women to bedevil his brain.
Perhaps it was a sign that he needed to choose a replacement for the diabolically lovely Diana Fairfax, with whom he had parted ways a number of months ago. The beautiful—and pragmatic—courtesans of London understood the rules that governed such liaisons. Money had its privileges, he thought sardonically. It helped ensure there were no complications orcomplexities of feelings to confuse the relationship. As for more personal entanglements . . .
“Milord,” called Tyler. “The lenses and lights are all adjusted. Would you care to come have a look?”
Wrexford rose, happy to have a practical problem shove away his brooding. “Anything of interest?” he asked as his valet relinquished his spot at the worktable.
“Not that I could see at first glance.” Tyler leaned in and made a slight adjustment to the reflector. “But perhaps you’ll have better luck.”
The earl squinted through the eyepiece at the note that had lured Ashton to his death. But luck was proving as mercurial as his mood.
“No,” he muttered after taking a few moments to confirm his first impression. “There’s nothing unusual about the ink or paper.”
Tyler shrugged. “We expected as much.”
“True. But at the moment, I can’t think of anything else to try.” Wrexford rubbed at his temples. “You might as well attend to other things. I’m simply going to do a bit of reading on Priestley.”
However, after his valet quitted the room, he took the note from beneath the microscope’s lens and placed it on his desk, the pale, crinkled paper standing out in stark relief against the dark leather of his blotter. Wrexford shifted his empty cup, and after ringing for a fresh pot of coffee, he sat down and leaned in for yet another searching look.
