Gentlemen do not spy on other gentlemen. But in this case, be damned with the code of honor,thought Wrexford, reaching for the steel probe he always carried in his boot.
Given that a life was at stake, Thornton would likely forgive the transgression . . . assuming he ever learned about it.
And assuming he had nothing to hide.
It was only a matter of moments before the earl was inside the laboratory with the door relocked. The windows were shuttered, but a lamp had been left burning, its wick turned down low.
Holding himself very still, Wrexford made a careful survey of the surroundings before touching anything. How a man worked often revealed much about him.
Creativity is rarely tidy,he thought wryly as he ran his gaze over the bookshelves and work counters. The chemicals were all arranged in meticulous order and the precision instruments were spotless. However, books, laboratory notebooks, andpiles of paper lay in apparent helter-pelter disarray around the room. The scene reminded him of his own workroom—though Tyler did his best to keep the clutter under control.
Starting at the nearest corner, Wrexford slowly circled the room, taking in the beakers filled with colored fluids, the microscope, the spirit lamps, the array of tweezers and scalpels . . .
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Moving on to the large desk near the shuttered windows, he crouched down and began a methodical search of the drawers—bills, correspondence, folders containing scientific papers published by various societies around the country. Hardly the stuff to stir any suspicions.
Rising, he returned to the work counters and thumbed through several of the laboratory ledgers. They, too, appeared perfectly in order.
Satisfied, the earl turned and took a step toward the door. The movement stirred the air, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flutter of fabric within a shadowed recess in the far corner of the room. Wrexford hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him. He went over to investigate what lay beneath the canvas covering.
A cabinet. And a padlock was looped through the sturdy iron hasp.
Snick-snick.
Wrexford eased the door open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom within, but the contents slowly came into focus.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl as he found himself staring at a voltaic pile and a coil of thick copper wire.
Blinking, he sat back on his haunches. On the lower shelf were two leather-bound books stacked atop one another. Next to them was a metal box. Light glinted off the gold-stamped titles as he gingerly lifted the books from the cabinet.
De Viribus Electricitatis in Motu Musculari Commentarius,Luigi Galvani’s treatise on animal electricity, was the topvolume. And beneath it wasDe L’électricité Animale à la Stimulation Cérébrale Chez L’homme,Giovanni Aldini’s explorations on the same subject.
Wrexford swore again. Galvani’s theory on animal electric fluid had stirred a great controversy at the turn of the century with Alessandro Volta, who had offered a more scientific explanation for why a dead frog’s legs could be made to twitch. Most rational men of science now sided with Volta, but Galvani’s nephew, Giovanni Aldini, had continued his uncle’s work . . . espousing even more unsettling theories.
Placing the books back on the shelf, the earl withdrew the box and balanced it on his thighs. A foreboding tingled against his palms as a foul smell swirled up to clog his nostrils.
Shallowing his breathing, Wrexford undid the latch and raised the cover . . . then snapped it shut with an unholy oath.
The remains of a heart—it looked to be that of a large rat—lay on a piece of bloodstained paper, several wires still attached to the putrefying flesh.
He waited for his pulse to steady before placing the box back on the shelf exactly as he had found it. After relocking the cabinet, he smoothed the canvas back in place. His first impulse was to escape from the noxious hellhole as quickly as possible, but he forced himself to double-check that no signs of his search were evident.
After what felt like an eon, he stepped out into the corridor and reset the door lock. Flushing the lingering foulness from his lungs with several deep inhales, Wrexford hurried to one of the back stairwells and exited from the rear of the building.
But rather than return to his town house, he flagged down a hackney and barked an order for it to head east.
* * *
“M’lady, m’lady!” The sound of Hawk’s excited voice floated down from his aerie as Charlotte passed through the entrance foyer.
Smiling, she set down her marketing basket and began toundo her bonnet. No doubt the boys, who had been at their lessons earlier, were anxious to hear a report on her first foray into Polite Society. However, they would likely find her visit to Alison’s residence—and all the endless recounting of the rules to be followed—rather boring.
Save for a description of the cakes.The dowager served divine pastries to go along with her expensive tea.
“M’lady!” Another breathless shout as the boy skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
“Ye heavens!” teased Charlotte. “I merely traveled to South Audley Street, not the exotic ends of the earth.” Granted Mayfairwasanother world, but they would all have to become more familiar with its customs and inhabitants. “Shall we—”
