“You’re in a prickly mood,” she said slowly. “Is there a reason why?”
“Am I?” In the solitude of his laboratory, his handling of inanimate chemicals was unerringly precise. He understood their qualities and the consequences of combining X with Y. With people, the mixtures all too often blew up in his face.
She didn’t reply, but simply fixed him with a searching stare.
“Good day,” he murmured.
“Good hunting,” she shot back.
Unable to think of a suitable retort, Wrexford picked up his hat and took his leave.
On returning to his townhouse, he quickly sought sanctuary in his workroom. Lighting a spirit lamp, he made himself begin replicating one of Priestley’s experiments on the chemical composition of air.
The whisper of the flame, the ritual of precise measurement, the focus demanded for careful observation—Wrexford felt his personal devils give way to curiosity. The mysteries of science were far more interesting than the mysteries of mankind.
Minutes ticked by, their rhythmic cadence slowly drawing him out of his brooding . ..
Then all at once the calm was shattered by a thumping on the door.
“Grab up your coat, Wrex—there’s not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Sheffield as he burst into the room. “I’ve just come from White’s where I overheard Davies mention that Gannett is planning to playvingt et unat the Demon’s Den tonight.”
His friend gave an impatient wave at the worktable. “Bloody hell—blow out that lamp and fetch your pistols. If we hurry, we can catch him.”
CHAPTER 8
“Arse,” muttered Charlotte. Staring down at the sheet of drawing paper, she added a few more curling lines to her sketch of the donkey.
The question, she thought ruefully, was which face she should put on the beast—hers or that of the earl.
“Who’s an arse?” Raven looked up from the book he was reading. He was lying by the stove, a candle pulled close to the pages. “Prinny?” The dancing flame caught the flash of a grin. “If ye ask me, he looks more like a pig.”
It was true, she conceded. A handsome man in his youth, the Prince Regent had an appetite for pleasure and had put on an obscene amount of weight. It was well-known that these days he wore a corset to try to contain the damage to his figure.
“Mind your tongue,” she chided, knowing full well the hypocrisy of her words. “You mustn’t speak so disrespectfully of the man who will be the next king.”
“You’ve called him far worse than that in your prints,” pointed out Raven.
“Aye,” chirped Hawk, who was playing a game of skittles onthe rag rug. “Ye said he was a lecherous old goat, whose pizzle—”
“Enough of barnyard animals,” interrupted Charlotte. “Let’s keep our minds out of the muck.”
Raven made anoinkingsound, much to the mirth of his brother, but stopped when she shot him a severe look.
“What are you reading?” she asked, softening her expression to a smile.
“Mr. Keating gave me a book on mathematics. Numbers ain’t nearly as boring as history. There’s all these things called equations, and ye can play games with all the different ways te make ’em add up.”
“Is that so?” Charlotte often struggled to make the modest sums of her expense ledger behave as they should, so she was bemused that subject seemed to have captured his fancy. “You find that interesting?”
“It’s kinda like putting together the pieces of a puzzle,” he answered. “So yeah, I s’pose I do.”
“According te Mr. Keating, yer wery good at it,” volunteered Hawk.
“Really?” she asked.
Raven shrugged.
It was Hawk who answered. “Aye, he says Raven’s got a gift fer it.” A pause. “I’d rather have a dog.”
