Wrexford stared down at the sin-dark dregs in his cup. “That’s the logical line of reasoning.”
Tyler raised his brows. “And that bothers you?”
“In this case, perhaps.” Something was niggling at the edges of his consciousness, though he couldn’t put a finger on what it was. “I need to make some more inquiries at the Institution concerning Westmorly’s activities. Griffin has agreed for now to tell the newspapers it was suicide, so as not to alert the murderer to the fact that his ruse was spotted.”
“Ah—speaking of inquiries, I’ve made a bit of headway with the fragments of snuff.”
“Indeed?” The earl had already started to rise, but reluctantly resumed his seat. Though he had little faith that the spiced tobacco would yield anything useful, it would be churlish not to listen.
“It was the lad who sparked an idea,” explained Tyler. “He pointed out that if the microscope had a greater magnification, we would have a better chance of isolating the various ingredients. That got me to thinking . . .” The valet paused to take a bite of his muffin. “I purchased a more powerful lens, and we built a wire scaffolding that allowed it to augment the instrument’s other lenses.”
Wrexford was now paying full attention. “And?”
A smile. “And it allowed us to identify bits of cinnamon bark as one of the ingredients. We also noted some fragments that have a distinctive red speckling. I suspect they are some sort of spice, so I’ve an appointment later today with a botanist at the Royal Society who specializes in the field.”
“Well done.” Knowing the exact ingredients of the snuff mixture would make inquiries among the tobacconists of London a far less daunting task. Not that he expected it to matter.
“As I said, it’s Raven who deserves much of the credit. It was an obvious solution, but sometimes it takes seeing a problem in a new light to spot a way to solve it. He’s a clever rascal.” Tyler popped the rest of the muffin into his mouth before rising with a long-suffering sigh. “Alas, I had better go see if those disgusting stains can be removed from your waistcoat before heading off for my meeting.”
Wrexford pushed back his plate. “I, too, have some people I wish to speak with at the Royal Institution.” Children’s information concerning Lord Thornton might lead to naught, but he couldn’t overlook it.
“Is there any other task for me to undertake when I’m done with the botanist?”
“Actually, there is. I’d like for you to make the rounds of the taverns that cater to the servants of Mayfair.” He pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket and placed them on the table. “Be generous with tankards of ale, and see what you can learn about Woodbridge and his spinster sister.”
“You think they may somehow fit in to the murder of Lady Charlotte’s cousin?”
“I’ve not yet formed an opinion,” he answered. “Let’s just say it’s a possibility that ought not be overlooked.”
He hadn’t mentioned it to Charlotte, as he wasn’t quite sure whether it was just a figment of his imagination . . . but as he had first leaned in close to Westmorly’s corpse, he could have sworn that he caught a faint whiff of a lady’s perfume.
* * *
Charlotte untied the strings of her bonnet and set it on the side table, though a part of her wanted to hurl it into the flames of the fire blazing in her workroom hearth.
Muttering an oath, she sat at her desk and took her head inher hands. Things were moving at a dizzying pace.Dear God in heaven—tomorrow she was to make a round of morning calls with Alison, followed by an evening meeting of Lady Thirkell’s philosophical salon. More engagements were scrawled on the notepaper in her reticule. And then, all too soon . . .
“I thought you might like some tea,” announced McClellan as she entered the room, bearing a tray with a steaming pot and a plate of ginger biscuits.
“Ah, yes—Pip, pip. The English panacea for whatever ails you.”
“I took the liberty of bringing a measure of whisky to fortify the brew.” McClellan busied herself with mixing two cups. “We Scots know that the English aren’t always in the right.”
Charlotte gratefully accepted the concoction and took a sip. “Thank you.”
The maid merely nodded and let a companionable silence settle over the room.
Another sip, and the mellow warmth began to spread through her limbs. “It could be worse,” murmured Charlotte. “I could be heading for the gibbet at Tyburn rather than a round of cakes and gossip with the grande dames of Mayfair.”
“Perhaps you should stop thinking of this transformation as the death of your old self,” counseled McClellan. “The essence of who you are isn’t changing a whit. You’re merely taking on new plumage.” She paused. “After all, one of your street monikers is Phoenix, a bird who rises from the ashes with bold, beautiful new feathers with which to fly into the future.”
Charlotte stared at her palette of watercolors and suddenly felt a smile stealing across her lips.
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know,” the maid went on. “You’ve undergone transformations before.”
“If I’m to wear new plumage,” she quipped, “at least I will be draped in the latest styles.” One of her longtime informants was Madame Françoise—née Franzenelli—a clever, streetwiseItalian who had established herself as London’s most exclusive modiste.
“I paid a visit to Franny after my meeting with Aunt Alison. She’s kindly agreed to deliver several of her creations—including a ball gown—by tomorrow morning.”
