Chapter 2
LONDON, ENGLAND
AUGUST1820
IT WOULD BEso much easier to pretend he’d not recently become aware of certain information and abandon the idea of this letter altogether. But hehadheard it, and now that he knew the truth, a moral battle raged.
Gabriel Rowe adjusted his grip on the quill, rested his forearm against the desktop, but stopped short of pressing the nib to the paper. He paused, rolled the quill in his fingertips, and questioned, yet again, the wisdom of the action he was about to undertake.
Thomas Bauer, the phrenologist who had so captivated the interest of the natural philosophers of the city, was a fraud.
In a few weeks Mr. Bauer was to speak before the Natural Philosophers Society of London—an organization that Gabriel’s own father was once associated with and that many of his friends and acquaintances still participated in.
As Gabriel thought about the missive he intended to write, though, it seemed absurd. Would he even be taken seriously?
The nearby candle lamp’s amber light flickered against his modest office’s plaster walls. Just outside, a heavy late-summer rain pummeled the bustling London street, temporarily drowningout the sounds of shouts, voices, carriages, and wagons. Gabriel tapped the toe of his boot against the planked floor as he considered his options.
He could not share this information with Mr. Hawthorne, the head of the Society, for he and Bauer were rumored to be great friends.
He could not go to Mr. Wilde, the headmaster of the school Gabriel had attended and the man whose estate was the location of the symposium, for his loyalty to both the Society and Mr. Hawthorne was famously unwavering.
The scenario left only one person who would be empathetic enough to listen and perhaps find a way to act before it was too late—Miss Eleanor Wilde. But even that seemed far-fetched.
The willful young girl with the untamed honey-hued hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and bright blue eyes flashed in his vision. They’d been friends when he was a student at Keatley Hall, but that had been years ago. Gabriel had not seen her since, but her name would be mentioned from time to time in certain circles, and she was rumored to be passionate, fearless, and obstinate.
Was it right to contact her with such information?
After shoving his fingers through his disheveled hair, which was in dire need of a cut, he blew out his breath in exasperation and glanced to the stack of paperwork he needed to attend to—wills, trusts, guardianships, and other legal documents that would eventually be signed and stored away. They were the tasks that brought in regular money, but they seemed dull and inconsequential. Gabriel’s true passion was for the cases of significance, the ones that would have substantial impact.
Exposing Mr. Bauer would have just such importance.
Practically, assisting a group such as the Society would open awhole new clientele for him. With his sister now living with him and depending on him for support, he needed all the work he could get. At best he could save the Society—not to mention the Wilde family—from an embarrassing blunder. At worst he could shine light on a major mistake and risk alienating himself from some of the most influential men in London.
Regardless of the possible risks and rewards, he possessed information that no one else knew, and his honor forbade him from allowing a preventable injustice to occur.
Gabriel dabbed the quill in the inkpot once again and pressed the quill to the paper.
Dear Miss Wilde . . .
Chapter 3
KEATLEY HALL’S CONSERVATORYwrapped Ella in its warmth, and for the moment memories of the strained conversation with her father faded. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, flooding her lungs with the red Bengal rose’s musky, sweet aroma and allowing the scent to transport her to a moment from well over a decade prior.
“TheRosa chinensis. All the way from China!”Her mother’s dark eyes had been wide and bright when she first introduced the plant to Ella.“It blooms several times a year. Not like the European roses, which bloom only once. Isn’t that a marvel?”
“The China rose.” Ella whispered the bloom’s common name as she opened her eyes and gently touched her fingertip to the soft crimson petals. This plant, with its prickly stems, lustrous dark leaves, and vibrant hue, had been her mother’s final addition to the lush conservatory before her death. With each new blossom it felt as if her mother was still with her.
Returning to the task at hand, Ella smoothed the worn linen apron over her striped ivory muslin gown, secured it around her waist, then lifted her pruning scissors. Three of the conservatory’sfour walls were lined with broad leaded windows, and dusk’s purple glow cast a long streak of light on the plethora of plants thriving within. Dahlias. Dianthus. Geraniums. Lilies. Two lemon trees. Three orange trees. A Japanese hydrangea. And dozens more.
The stillness and beauty of this space usually offered peace and a sense of connectedness, but despite the memories residing here, melancholy and loneliness prevailed.
Several days had passed since she had spoken with her father in his study, and Ella continued to wrestle with their conversation.
He’d urged her to trust him.
Ella had always trusted her parents implicitly. She had no reason to doubt that her unorthodox upbringing, which included an intense formal education that would rival that of any boy, could be anything but beneficial. She’d never questioned her parents’ decision to forgo any instruction in traditional feminine pursuits that would equip her for polite society.
After her mother died, life with her father continued in the same patterns as it always had: education and study, debate and conversation. She’d long been praised for her original ideas and enduring confidence, but somewhere in the past year’s murkiness and unexpected events, the tides had turned. No longer was she encouraged to forge her own path, and her once-welcome opinions and suggestions now fell on deaf ears.
