“Italy. My late husband was an artist and found Rome a place of great inspiration.”
“Are you interested in ancient Rome?”
“I’ve studied Latin and have read the classics,” she answered. “But my interest is primarily in art, not history. I, too, paint.”
“That’s a ladylike skill I’ve never managed to master. I’m all thumbs when it comes to drawing—I can’t for the life of me make a straight line.”
“Art is rarely about straight lines,” murmured Charlotte.
“Indeed?” Cordelia’s expression altered, though the play of light and shadow made it hard to read. “Then what do you think it’s about?”
She knew she was being tested. “For me, it’s all about how you see the world around you. I enjoy observing things carefully and trying to discern all the subtle nuances.”
Before Cordelia could respond, Charlotte decided to toss out her own challenge. “Aunt Alison mentioned your name and said you have a gift for mathematics. For me, adding and subtracting seem more of a chore than an interesting pursuit.”
“Oh, numbers are far more creative than that,” replied Cordelia. “One can make them do all sorts of fascinating things.” A pause. “Things that explain the mysteries of the universe.”
Charlotte suddenly felt as if a finger were tickling at the nape of her neck. “I see I have much to learn from among those who attend this salon. Have you a mystery in particular that interests you?”
“Must I choose just one? Hmm, let me think . . .”
But their tête-à-tête was interrupted as a hail from their hostess rose from the hum of conversation near the bank of windows. “Lady Cordelia, you must come and explain Pythagoras and his theory of mathematics and music!”
“If you will excuse me, Lady Charlotte . . .”
“But of course.”
Cordelia gathered her skirts, but hesitated for a heartbeat. “I do look forward to continuing our conversation.”
And our verbal feints and parries,thought Charlotte as she watched Cordelia move away to join the others. No question the lady had a rapier-sharp tongue and a spine of steel. But whether that ought to be held as a mark against her remained to be seen.
“So, I see you’ve met Lady Cordelia.” Alison settled into the chair next to her and took a sip of her ratafia punch. “I’m curious as to your impression.”
“She seems fond of testing the mettle of those she meets.”
The dowager chuckled. “I think it is her way of separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Then I imagine she’s more at home here than she is in any other Mayfair drawing room,” replied Charlotte, her gaze still on Cordelia.
Alison set aside her glass and regripped her cane. “I believe Lady Julianna is in one of the side salons. Shall I introduce you?”
* * *
A mizzling rain had begun to fall. As Wrexford and Sheffield crossed Piccadilly Street, their steps stirred serpentine swirls of fog. The earl led the way up Albemarle Street and around to the rear of the Royal Institution, where a special patron’s portal allowed entrance at all hours to those select few who possessed a key.
Being a generous benefactor, he was one of them. The lock clicked open. Ignoring the candlesticks on the side table, hetouched Sheffield’s arm and made a gesture for him to head to the side stairwell.
“We’ll strike a light once we’re inside Thornton’s laboratory,” he whispered as he started to feel his way up the treads.
They climbed in silence, the gloom adding an air of foreboding to the darkness. On reaching the next landing, Wrexford eased the door open a crack. The corridor was wreathed in shadows, the only light a faint glimmer coming from a distant wall sconce at the other end of the building. He was just about to proceed when the furtive scuff of steps caused him to freeze.
Someone was coming.
He waited. A pinprick of fire—a candle flame—appeared from the adjoining corridor, casting wildly dancing flickers of light and dark across the wall.
Closer, closer.Through the slivered opening, Wrexford could make a figure wearing a caped coat . . .
And a Wellington hat.
