“No,” answered Thornton. “I learned he has a supper engagement at Richmond House with the director of the Royal Botanic Gardens this evening, and plans to stay out at Kew for the next day or two.”
“Still, we ought to be quick about it.” The earl was already crouched down in front of the nearest storage cabinet.
Thornton moved to the work counter and its array of canisters and chemicals, but Sheffield hesitated.
“I’m happy to help, but I fear I might overlook some important clue because I have no idea what it means.”
“Take a seat at DeVere’s desk and have a look through the drawers,” said Wrexford, knowing his friend had an observant eye. “Let us know if you see anything that doesn’t have to do with botany.”
With the marquess’s hat still in hand, Sheffield did as he was told. Setting it down on the blotter, he went to work.
The lamplight pooled over a stack of shallow pasteboard boxes as Wrexford opened the cabinet doors. Next to them were fouroversized books, piled atop one another. A look at the gold-stamped title of the top one showed it was a portfolio of botanical etchings from the seventeenth century. He shifted the others to check on their contents.
All artwork.
The boxes proved to hold naught but carefully labeled packets of seeds.
Ye gods—were there really that many different species of theAsteraceaefamily?
The earl shut the doors and moved on to the next storage cabinet. Hearing a low grunt from Thornton, he assumed the marquess wasn’t having any better luck.
DeVere appeared to be a man of meticulous habits. These shelves were as orderly as the previous ones. Wrexford continued to search carefully, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was missing something.
He didn’t doubt Thornton’s story. However outlandish, it had the ring of truth.
And yet . . .
He finished with the last pile of papers and sat back on his haunches. “I have been thinking . . . two of the three men involved in the experiments are dead. Perhaps Hollister can now be convinced to tell us everything. He seemed a rather spineless fellow to me when we had a little chat.”
“Spineless?”Thornton shook his head. “My impression is quite the contrary. Yes, he’s capable of playing the obsequious toadeater when it behooves him. But I’ve watched him over the last few months, and at heart, he strikes me as a coldly calculating bastard.” His brows drew together. “Indeed, I’d be tempted to believe he might have murdered the other two if I could think of a compelling motive.”
“Immortality?” suggested Sheffield. “The fame of making a historic discovery and having your name known by countlessgenerations to come.” His face looked unnaturally pale as he leaned closer to the glass-globed flame.
“Or the actual power to defeat death, if one controlled the dark, dreadful secret of reanimation.”
Shadows seemed to stir and slither like serpents through the darkness just outside the lamplight.
“God perish the thought,” intoned Thornton.
“Let us keep looking,” muttered Wrexford, shaking off the sudden tickling sensation at the nape of his neck. “Whatever unholy force is at play, we need to find a way to stop it.”
Blowing out his breath, Thornton shifted his attention to the shelves above DeVere’s collection of microscopes and magnifying glasses. Metal rattled as he began to search through a set of brass boxes.
Sheffield returned to riffling through the desk drawers.
Feeling a little shaken, Wrexford opened yet another cabinet. From the very start of this investigation, his usual sense of dispassionate logic seemed to have been turned topsy-turvy. He didn’t really wish to analyze the reasons why.
But I must.
Emotion had no place in objective reasoning. But concern for Charlotte and the upheavals she was facing were perhaps clouding his judgment . . .
He finished sorting through a pile of papers and carefully put them back in place.
Or was it a far more visceral feeling than mere concern? Unflinching honesty—with himself, as well as with others—was something in which he took pride. And honesty compelled him to admit that his heart was in danger of overruling his head—
“This may be nothing . . .”
Sheffield’s voice drew him from his thoughts.
