Darkness—that concealing cloak which allowed her freedom of movement—couldn’t come soon enough.
With the boys absent because of their surveillance duties, she had no one to carry a message to Wrexford, leaving her no choice but to do it herself. He wouldn’t be happy about the choice, but so be it.
In for a halfpenny, in for a guinea.
The odds were good that he was already furious with her because of today’s print.
Forcing herself to sit down at her work desk, Charlottepicked up her pen and slid a blank piece of sketching paper onto her blotter. Mr. Fores would expect a new drawing as soon as possible. The topic was provocative—and he would expect to profit from it.
The ink-rich nib moved in a series of skirling circles as an idea began to take shape. It was, she decided, time to press a little harder on the subject of just how much money a patent could be worth.
* * *
“Kirkland has finally moved on from White’s,” announced Sheffield as he sauntered into the earl’s workroom. “Having lost a goodly sum, I might add.”
Roused from a deep study, Wrexford needed a moment to react. Pinching at the bridge of his nose, he realized day had turned into evening. The room was wreathed in shadows, the last muted purple and gold hues of twilight fast fading into shades of charcoal.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Well past the supper hour,” responded his friend. “I asked Riche to bring in a collation of meat and cheese, along with a bottle of claret, to keep starvation at bay.”
“Do you think of nothing but your stomach?”
“Occasionally I contemplate my cravats. Do you think my valet uses too much starch?”
“Remind me again of why I allow you to run tame in my house,” snapped Wrexford. His eyes were aching. Avogadro’s book had proved less helpful than he had hoped . . . and his stomach was growling, which only exacerbated his fast-darkening mood.
“Because there are times I prove useful,” replied Sheffield. “To my point, you turn snappish when your breadbox is empty, and thus don’t think as clearly. So you ought to be thanking me for ordering the food.”
The earl gave a grunt.
“But even more importantly . . .” Sheffield held up the roll of paper he was carrying. “I brought you A. J. Quill’s latest print.”
Wrexford felt a stab of unease. Charlotte had been silent of late, honoring his request that she refrain from stirring up public interest in Ashton’s murder. But all that pent-up passion for justice was a powder keg just waiting to explode.
“And?” he said.
“And you had better have a look for yourself.”
He accepted the print without comment and, after shoving his books aside, slowly unrolled it.
Sheffield clasped his hands behind his back and began to whistle softly through his teeth.
Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor, decided the earl. Music for a funeral. His friend’s sense of humor was nearly as sardonic as his own.
“You’re digging your own grave,” he warned. “Another note and my pantries and wine cellar will close up tighter than a crypt.”
The sound immediately stopped.
Focusing his attention on the art, Wrexford made a thorough study of the image and words, willing himself not to react until he’d considered all the ramifications.
It was, he conceded, very cleverly done. Diabolically clever, in fact. The question of who profited from patents fit into her overall theme ofMan vs. Machine, so in some ways could be seen as an innocent question. But there were just enough allusions to Ashton’s mill and his earlier improvements in steam power to stoke the fires of speculation on whether his unfortunate demise had a darker meaning. After all, in every circle of London society, A. J. Quill’s hints of intrigue were known to have substance.
“That ought to poke a stick into the nest of vipers, whoever they may be,” observed Sheffield.
“It is,” said Wrexford in a carefully controlled voice, “a very good thing the infernally infuriating A. J. Quill is not present. Else I might to tempted to—”
A leatherythumpcut off his words. The room suddenly turned colder as a sharp gust of air, redolent with the damp smokiness of night, swirled through the open window.
