Henning let out a cynical laugh. “It has happened once before. Or so the Holy Scriptures tell us.” A pause. “Though there’s no mention of thunderbolts . . . is there?”
“Careful, Baz. You are treading dangerously close to blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy is likely the least of my sins,” retorted the surgeon. “I’m resigned to roasting in hell for Eternity. Assuming, of course, that such a fiery pit exists somewhere in this universe.”
The earl grimaced and rose.
“If it will be of any help, I’ll do some further reading about Vitalism,” offered Henning. “As I said, the concept of an animal electricity—a vital force, as yet beyond our understanding, that is elemental to life—is not completely mad. There are some very rational men of science on the Continent who believe it exists.”
“What’s happening here isn’t rational,” replied Wrexford. “Young men obsessed to the point of experimenting on their own bodies, murder, mutilation . . .” He let out his breath. “Evil is at play here, Baz. And we must find a way to stop it.”
A look of grim acknowledgment chased the cynicism from the surgeon’s face. “I agree. Let me ask around about Lord Thornton. I have a few friends at the Royal College of Surgeons who might know of any clandestine work being done on Vitalism.”
“Do it quickly.” Feeling bone-weary and unsettled by the day, Wrexford turned to take his leave. “One of the other things I heard this afternoon was that a trial date has been set for Nicholas Locke. I haven’t had a chance to tell Lady Charlotte yet, but we haven’t much time.”
* * *
“Stop squirming, Weasels,” commanded Tyler, adding a brusquetap-tapof his baton on the pianoforte to punctuate his words. “It’s important that we help Lady Charlotte prepare for her first ball—and to do that, you’ll need to act like gentlemen.”
The boys immediately ceased their horseplay and stood at attention. Charlotte would have smiled at their solemn faces and clean—relatively clean—clothing if her own nerves weren’t stretched so taut.
“That’s better,” murmured the valet. “Now I’m going to demonstrate the basic steps of the waltz when McClellan plays the tune.” He gave a nod to the maid. “It’s a basic one-two-three rhythm. Watch my feet for a bit, and then we’ll practice together.”
One-two-three, one-two-three . . .Charlotte studied his steps, but after a few moments, she found her focus straying. In her previous visits to the earl’s town house, she had never been outside the confines of his workroom, and curiosity drew her gaze up from the parquet floor. The furnishings of the music room were obviously expensive, but they had an understated elegance. The colors were muted and the polished woods wore a graceful patina of age. Not a glint of gold leaf or ornate silver assaulted the eye.
More than that, there was an air of well-used comfort to the space. She had the sense that it was designed for living rather than as a showcase to impress visitors. The chairs and sofa looked invitingly rumpled, and the paintings on the walls seemed very personal choices.
A shiver of intimate awareness tickled down Charlotte’s spine as she spotted a portrait on the far wall of a lovely, dark-haired young lady with two young boys playing at her feet.
Could it be . . .
Tyler’s brusquetap-tapjarred her back to the present moment. “Lady Charlotte, now that you’ve observed the steps, let us try it together,” he said. “Weasels, pay strict attention, as I shall then ask each of you to serve as milady’s dancing partner while I follow along and make any corrections.”
Shaking off her musings, she quickly moved to join him. The carpet had been rolled up, allowing ample room for dancing.
“Raise your hand and place it against mine, like so,” he said, demonstrating what he meant. “And then, I shall place my other hand at the small of your back.”
She felt a light pressure as Tyler drew her a touch closer andshe suddenly understood why the dance was considered risqué by the high sticklers in Society. No wonder girls fresh from the schoolroom weren’t permitted such liberties.
“Mac, you may begin the music, but keep to a sedate tempo for now,” he counseled. “And now, milady, be ready to start on the count of three . . .”
* * *
In no mood for conversation, Wrexford let himself into his town house through the back tradesmen’s entrance to avoid encountering any of the servants. After making his way to the kitchen and lighting a candle, he shrugged out of his overcoat and let his hat drop atop the damp wool. Despite the warmth of the banked stove, the chill of the late-night rain seemed intent on seeping into his bones.
Perhaps, he thought, his prickly mood would yield to the heat of Scottish whisky. It would at least dull the edges.
What lay at the heart of his disquiet was not something he cared to contemplate right now.
The flickering flame lit the way through the silent shadows as he climbed the stairs and headed for his workroom. But when he was halfway down the corridor, a peal of laughter pieced the stillness.
Wrexford stopped and cocked an ear. Was his imagination playing tricks on him, or was that really the sound of a pianoforte coming from the music room?
“What the devil . . .” Puzzled, he reversed direction and went to investigate.
A flutter of light danced through the half-open door, along with more hilarity. Quickening his steps, the earl leaned a shoulder to the fluted molding and took a peek inside.
“No, no,no,Master Alexander Hawksley!” chided Tyler, tapping his baton to Hawk’s scrawny shoulders. “You must stand up straight, and keep your arm in a graceful arch—like so!” He demonstrated the position, much to the chortling amusementof Raven. “Lady Charlotte cannot perform properly if her gentleman partner is shirking his duties.”
