“All this assumes he wouldn’t hesitate to cut his father out,” said Sheffield.
Wrexford smiled grimly. “Rivalry between fathers and sons is as old as history.”
“It all does seem to fit together rather nicely.” Sheffield appeared equally willing to follow the thread of thought. “There might be people who smell a rat, but inventors tend to be secretive, and as Ashton never made his sketches public, it would be hard to accuse Hillhouse of having stolen the idea.”
Wrexford rose and began to pace, mulling over the sudden shifting and reshaping of the puzzle’s pieces. Was it true perception or was the lens distorted by wishful thinking?
‘Speculation is all very well,” he muttered. “But as a man ofscience, I know it’s imperative to base conclusions on facts and empirical knowledge, not mere conjectures.”
“Then I had better get to work and see what facts I can learn about Kirkland,” responded Sheffield.
His friend, noted the earl, hadn’t touched a drop of brandy. As he had long suspected, Sheffield, if given a choice, seemed to find a cerebral challenge more intoxicating than idle dissipation.
“I’m grateful, Kit. Keep in mind that any information you can dig up on his relationship with the lovely widow would also be most helpful,” he said. “And the sooner, the better, before we trip over any more dead bodies.” As Shakespeare had so aptly observed, family tragedies had a penchant for being written in blood.
“Cherchez la femme?” quizzed his friend. “Mrs. Sloane might take umbrage on our assuming that there is always a woman lurking behind the evil of men.”
“Mrs. Sloane reads the classical literature. I’ve seen the books on her desk—including theIliad.”
“It’s your hubris she’ll skewer, not mine, Wrex,” replied Sheffield. “Thank God.”
“She’s welcome to prove me wrong. I’m quite willing to sacrifice my pride, as long as it’s on the altar of Truth.”
His friend raised an empty glass in a mock toast. “ToVeritas.”
Yes, to Truth, thought the earl. Whatever it might be.
CHAPTER 16
The note duly written and dispatched to the earl, Charlotte made herself enter her workroom and take a seat at her desk. Of late, she had been woefully neglectful of her art. Ink and pigment had been shoved aside by the overwhelming demands of reality. The move, the murders, the worries about the boys adjusting to a new life.
Her own feelings were, she admitted, still a little topsy-turvy. Hidden away in the shadows of slums, she had a certain degree of simplicity to her life, allowing her to focus all her passions and ideas through her pen. Art and commentary were her voice.
Now things were infinitely more complicated. Anonymity had been a protective cloak. With each inch that she pushed back its concealing hood, she was making herself vulnerable.
Change entailed risk.
Charlotte shifted her gaze to her open sketchbook. She had only to look at the preliminary sketches for herMan versus Machineseries of prints to see that.
Taking up her pen knife, she set about preparing a fresh quill.Mr. Fores had actually proved to be surprisingly supportive of the serious subject. Though the prints didn’t sell quite as well as the ones ridiculing the Royal family, he took satisfaction in the fact that nearly every government department and all the leading politicians were sending messengers to purchase copies of them. That his shop was seen as shaping public opinion was, to his canny mind, a worthwhile investment.
More than that, Charlotte was of the opinion that, at heart, Mr. Fores was a secret supporter of social reform.
The pen was now ready. There was nothing new she could—or would—say about Ashton’s death. However, there were still myriad questions to explore about the revolution sweeping through manufacturing in England. What place did people have in a world where machines made their efforts obsolete? What lay ahead for those who toiled with their hands?
These were important issues. And ones fundamental to what sort of society the country envisioned for its future.
The smoothness of the shaft, the softness of the feathery filaments grazing her knuckles—Charlotte realized how much she had missed creating the images and words that challenged people to think and react.
Science and technology were important. But so was art and abstract ideas.
A quick dip loaded the point with ink. Turning to a fresh page in her sketchbook, she began to rough out a preliminary idea.
* * *
“Milord, you have a visitor who is demanding an immediate audience.”
Wrexford didn’t look up from his laboratory notes. Having abandoned his efforts with the numbers, he was using his earlier experiment to keep his mind occupied. “What can you be thinking, Riche? You know the rules about interrupting my work.”
