“I take it the dowager has begun to put her plans in motion.”
“Yes.”
A whirling dervish would be an accurate way to describe the dowager.
“And oddly enough, she seems to have taken the challenge to heart,” answered Charlotte with a rueful grimace. “We are visiting the crème de la crème of Society tomorrow, and then—likely all too soon—she intends to have me accompany her to a grand ball.”
McClellan pursed her lips. “Do you perchance know how to waltz?”
She shook her head.
“Well, you had better start learning. There’s a pianoforte in Wrexford’s music room. Tyler and I shall expect you and the boys to come round tonight after dark for a first lesson.”
“The boys—”
“The boys should begin learning some social graces,” replied the maid. “And we’ll need them as practice partners.”
“But—”
“Would you rather make a cake of yourself when Wrexford or Lord Sterling leads you out on the dance floor?” challenged McClellan.
Charlotte froze, the protest dying on her lips as she imagined the musicians striking up the first lilting notes—and the feeling of her slippers being glued to the parquet.
“Very well. We’ll be there.”
* * *
Wrexford gazed out of the arched windows of the Royal Institution’s study room as he thought over what he had learnedfrom his queries. A clearer picture of Westmorly in life had emerged. Which only raised more questions about his death.
A frustrated sigh fogged the glass.
Word of the death had already spread through the halls of the Institution. The reaction among the members had been shock, but little sympathy. Benjamin Westmorly wasn’t well liked. Everyone seemed to agree that he was extremely bright and excelled at scientific reasoning and mathematics. But he was also seen as an ambitious toadeater, someone who was always looking to insinuate himself into the inner circle of those who looked to be influential in Society.
The earl watched the fancy carriages with their matched horses and liveried tigers wheeling along the street below. He had also learned that Westmorly had apparently acquired a taste for the finer things in life, along with his Oxford education. And yet, his family finances were modest at best. Rumors of large debts had floated around the clubs shortly after his arrival in London. But from what Wrexford had just gathered, those whispers had soon disappeared.
A clever fellow could make cheating and blackmail over personal secrets very profitable, mused the earl. Until he chose the wrong person to diddle.
The question was who.
Turning away from the view of Albemarle Street, Wrexford made his way through the archway and out into the corridor. An even more elemental question was whether Westmorly’s murder was indeed connected to Chittenden, or a simple but sordid act of revenge.
The idea of coincidence went against his belief in scientific order. Most things could be explained by logic . . .
And yet the more pieces he gathered to the puzzle, the harder it was to see how any of them fit together.
Just ahead was the grand marble staircase leading down to the main entrance. Looking up, Wrexford slowed his steps, andthen suddenly turned on his heel and headed back into the bowels of the building. Several turns and another set of stairs brought him up to the floor housing the laboratories of the senior members. Thornton’s space, he knew, was halfway down the central corridor—
As he turned the corner, a door came open.
On instinct, he halted and ducked back into the side hall.
“Come, come, Thornton, we must hurry or we’ll be late for the meeting,” came a querulous voice.
“Hold your water, Fitz. Let me just gather my papers . . .”
Wrexford waited a moment before sneaking a peek. Thornton emerged, a portfolio case in one hand and a set of keys in the other. A harried jiggling drew the door shut and the earl heard thesnickof a lock.
“Let us hope that Lexington doesn’t prose on for hours,” grumbled Thornton as he and his colleague set off in the opposite direction.
