“But you did say to speak up if I found something unrelated to botany.” His friend held up several coils of copper wire. “They are different widths, and there are tags hanging from the string wrapping with odd notations that make no sense to me.”
Thornton hurried over to examine them. After several long moments, he looked up at Wrexford. “Copper is the wire of choice for a voltaic pile. The writing looks to be some sort of mathematical notation. A private system, perhaps?”
The earl rose and joined the others at the desk. “I’m not an expert in botany, but I can’t think of any purpose for which these might be used.”
“Nor I,” replied Thornton.
“They were well hidden between several folders at the bottom of a drawer,” offered Sheffield.
“The type of electrical experiments we’re looking for require a goodly amount of space,” said Wrexford. “There’s no sign that anything like that has taken place here.”
“No,” intoned Thornton. “But having been a frequent guest in DeVere’s villa, I know that he has a large, well-equipped laboratory there. And given that the young men of the Eos Society spent time there . . .” His words trailed off, leaving the unspoken thought thrumming in the stillness.
“Are you suggesting—” began Sheffield.
“That we break into DeVere’s home and have a look around?” finished the earl. He raised a brow at Thornton.
“There’s a back entrance located close to the laboratory for the delivery of supplies. And the laboratory itself is located in a separate wing, well away from the living quarters. It should be easy to enter and leave the premises without anyone being the wiser,” said the marquess. “Especially as DeVere is spending the night in Kew.”
“We would have to move fast,” observed Sheffield.
Thornton picked up the mystery hat. “What say you, Wrexford?”
The earl cupped a hand over the lamp’s glass chimney andblew out the flame. “Let’s be off. Given what’s at stake, I think a clandestine visit to DeVere’s villa is in order.”
* * *
The drawing was done and sent off with Raven, but despite the lateness of the hour, Charlotte still felt too on edge for sleep to come. There was much to think about . . .
If only the whirling-dervish bits and bobs would come together to form some sort of coherent picture.
Heaving a sigh of frustration, she took out Lady Julianna’s colored cards, along with the numerical riddle and accompanying book, and spread them out on her worktable for another look. Wrexford would, she knew, dismiss them as habble-gabble nonsense, so it was pointless to broach the subject with him.
She could well imagine his huffs and snarls as he ridiculed the mystical system.
And somehow that made her smile.
Wrexford.A man of such maddening contradictions and conundrums.
“Which makes us birds of a feather,” she whispered. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, and yet the thought warmed the chill from her bones. His friendship was comforting. . .
Though there were times in the wee hours of the morning—those solitary moments of lying in bed wrapped in naught but the night’s black velvet darkness and her own wayward imaginings—when she let herself dream of a more intimate connection. Of how his flesh would feel against hers . . .
“Madness,” she chided. “Utter madness.”
Especially as Wrexford seemed to have retreated into himself of late. She could only guess at the reasons. Perhaps he was embarrassed by his show of vulnerability at the end of their last investigation, when the heat of the moment had sparked him to voice sentiments that he now regretted.
The threat of imminent death did strange things to the mind.
Charlotte looked out the window, watching the ghostly skeins of fog twine with the wind-ruffled ivy leaves.
There were still interludes where the special bond felt undeniable. Together they had moved through the figures of the waltz with perfect harmony. And in talking afterward of loss and regret, the simple act of holding hands had seemed to connect them in ways that defied words.
But for most of the time, Wrexford appeared intent on holding himself aloof. Perhaps it had become a habit. Or perhaps he didn’t wish for anyone to touch his heart.
Another smile tugged at her lip. An impossibility, as he claimed he didn’t have one. That was another thing she appreciated about the earl—he could laugh at himself. Few men could.
After a moment, she simply shook her head. Whatever confusions clouded their relationship, they were friends. And for that, she was profoundly grateful . . .
