“You, of all people, ought to know what comes from mixing together volatile substances without careful measurement and timing.”
Within London’s scientific circles, the earl was acknowledged as one of the leading experts in chemistry. A fact that was often overshadowed by his erratic personal behavior. His scathing sarcasm and blatant disregard for the rules of Society—coupled with his notorious hair-trigger temper—frequently landed him in the headlines of the city’s scandal sheets.
“Give me the damnable glass,” growled Wrexford. He took a small sip and grimaced. “Did you add an extra measure of horse piss?”
“And two pinches of sheep dung,” replied Tyler, who was well used to the earl’s irascible comments. He arched a brow in bemusement. “You’re out of practice, milord. Which doesn’t bode well for the coming weeks if you’re going to start carousing with Mr. Sheffield.”
“Remind me again why I shouldn’t give you the sack and hire a more obsequious servant?”
“Because no one else knows the secret for removing chemical stains from your expensive evening coats.”
Wrexford chuffed a laugh, and then drained the drink. “Consider yourself fortunate that I’m a vain popinjay about my appearance.”
His valet gave a long look at the earl’s uncombed hair and carelessly tied cravat. “Quite fortunate, milord.” He picked up the now-empty glass. “Is there anything else you require?”
“Other than a pistol to put me out of my misery?” Wrexford sighed. “Has Avogadro’s book on gases arrived yet?”
“The package came in from Hatchards this morning. It’s on your desk in the workroom.”
“Put out the books by Lavoisier and Priestley as well,” said the earl. If anything could chase the devils from his skull it was scientific inquiry. “I wish to review some of their early experiments with oxygen.”
“Very good, sir,” answered Tyler. Seeing the footman approach with the breakfast tray, he turned and left the room without further comment, knowing the earl’s mood was always less testy when his breadbox was full.
A plume of steam rose from the silver pot’s swan-like spout. Inhaling the pungent scent of smoky spice, Wrexford let out an appreciative sigh as he poured a cup of the sin-dark brew. He took a long, scalding swallow, feeling the tea begin to burn away some of his malaise. His toast, cut thick and buttered exactly as he liked it, was—
A sudden knock on the door ruined the moment.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
His butler eased the portal open. “Your pardon, milord, but there is someone asking to see you on a matter of grave importance.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Grim Reaper, tell him I never receive visitors before noon,” he snapped.
“It’s well past one, milord.” A pause. “And it’s not a he, but a she.”
Even worse.
“The lady’s name is Mrs. Isobel Ashton.”
Wrexford frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “And pray tell, what matter of grave importance does Mrs. Ashton wish to discuss with me?”
“The death of her husband, sir.” The butler cleared his throat. “Apparently it was you who discovered his body last night.”
* * *
“Eggs and gammon?” Hawk inhaled deeply and then let out a gusty sigh. “Are we celebrating something?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte, turning away from the bubbling frying pan to cut off several thick slices of soft white bread. “The last of legalities have been signed. The lease for the new house is now official.”
Hawk gave an uncertain smile, but looked to his older brother for a reaction.
“When do you move?” asked Raven.
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest but pretended not to notice his use of the wordyou.
“Next week,” she replied. “The carter comes today to count the boxes.” A glance around showed that the fellow wouldn’t need more than the fingers on his two hands. “There is a great deal more space in the new house . . .”
Would that sound appealing?
