“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Lord Wrexford.” Smoothing her skirts, Mrs. Isobel Ashton settled herself on the drawing room sofa. “I know I have no right to ask for your help. But . . .”
She drew a measured breath. “But my husband was a great admirer of your intellect and incisive logic, so I thought perhaps. . .”
Her words trailed off, leaving Wrexford still wracking his brain to recall his connection to the murdered man.
“My condolences for your loss,” he murmured, falling back on the sort of platitudes he hated for lack of anything else to say.
“Elihu was particularly grateful for your advice on the chemical composition of iron,” went on the widow. “And how to achieve a metal that withstands heat and pressure.
Ah—the inventor!Wrexford now recalled their correspondence from the previous year. A fellow member of the Royal Institution had suggested that Ashton contact the earl about a problem he was having with the boilers of a new steam engine design.
What a damnable loss for the world of science that the victim was Ashton.
“Your husband possessed a remarkable talent—he had boththe imagination and the technical genius to implement his ideas.” Wrexford rarely felt compelled to utter compliments, especially about another man of science. “It’s a terrible twist of fate that he was the unfortunate victim of a random robbery.”
He paused, wanting to choose his next words with care. There was no reason to upset a bereaved woman with any hint that the circumstances of her husband’s death had raised some unsettling questions—
“But that’s just it, Lord Wrexford,” said Isobel before he could speak. “I don’t believe for an instant that my husband’s murder was a random robbery.”
The earl sat back in surprise.
She looked up from her lap. Her face was as pale as Lord Elgin’s Parthenon marbles, but despite the grief shading her fine-boned features, her expression was as hard as sculpted stone. “You may think me a hysterical female, but I promise you, I am not falling victim to a fit of the vapors. Elihu was on the verge of a momentous discovery, and I believe there were those who were prepared to do anything—anything—to steal his idea.”
The first question that came to mind waswhy? Wrexford shifted on the cushions, trying to think of a tactful way to phrase it. But after another glance at her face, he decided the widow didn’t need to be treated like delicate porcelain.
“For what reason?” he asked.
“For the same basic urges that have caused man to murder his fellow man since time immemorial—greed and envy. You have only to read the Greek tragedies to see the truth of it.”
An interesting answer. His first impression on meeting the lady was that she had little substance. In his experience, beauty and brains rarely went hand and hand—and there was no question that Mrs. Ashton possessed striking looks. Her glossy, jet-black hair accentuated the milky perfection of her skin, and the exquisite symmetry of her face brought to mind an ancient sculpture of a classical goddess.
As for her eyes . . .
She met his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“The Greeks were wise about a great many things,” agreed Wrexford. But they weren’t infallible, he added to himself. No one was. Even the great Aristotle had his weaknesses—he was completely bolloxed in his ideas on science.
For an instant, a hint of a smile touched her lips. “I understand that you are skeptical, sir. It’s assumed that women are ruled by an excess of emotion rather than rational thought.” Isobel expelled a sigh. “Alas, too many of us confirm the judgment.”
“As a man of science, I try to base my conclusions on empirical evidence, not preconceived notions,” answered the earl. “So far, I have no reason to believe you’re acting out of hysteria.”
“But nor do you believe that I have any logical reason for suspecting a more sinister reason for my husband’s murder than mere bad luck.”
Wrexford’s opinion of her rose another notch.
“If you will allow me to impose a little longer on your time, I shall endeavor to explain . . .”
A nod signaled her to continue.
“I have every reason to believe my husband was on the verge of creating a revolutionary new steam engine, one whose power would make possible a whole new world of manufacturing.” Isobel paused to draw a deep breath. “Such an invention is not only exciting intellectually, but it would make someone rich beyond their wildest dreams.”
Wrexford needed to think for a long moment before the realization dawned on him. “I take it you’re referring to a patent.” Her fears suddenly seemed far more substantial than mere figments of a flighty imagination. Moneywasa powerful motive for murder. And owning the rights to such an important technical innovation would indeed be worth a fortune.
“Precisely, milord.”
“What was this new innovation?” asked Wrexford, his scientific curiosity piqued.
A look of sadness darkened her amber-colored eyes. “My husband confided a great deal in me. But on this, he remained very secretive. Perhaps . . .” Her hands fisted together. “Perhaps he feared that speaking of it aloud, even within the privacy of our home, was dangerous.”
