Forcing her attention back to the matter at hand, Charlotte picked up one of the cards and subjected the intricate design to a more thorough scrutiny. The drawing was superbly rendered, and yet it didn’t strike an inner chord. But then, art was subjective. To Lady Julianna, the twirling lines and subtle colors spoke to the heart.
She set the card aside and took a long look at the seemingly endless procession of number and spaces on the pages of Julianna’s puzzle.
“I might as well try and read Sanskrit,” she muttered. It was hopeless. She hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of deciphering the message . . . and Wrexford would likely just toss it in the fire.
However, she did know someone who might be up to the challenge. Come morning, she would see whether her hunch was correct.
* **
“It seems DeVere has installed the latest-model German puzzle lock,” muttered Wrexford as he shifted his position beside the outer door to the villa and gave another jiggle of his metal probe.
“Is that a problem?” asked Sheffield.
“No.” Another jiggle, and then a smile as the mechanism released with a well-oiledsnick.“It just requires a little coaxing.”
“Follow me.” Thornton edged past the earl and eased open the door. “And move lightly. The corridor floor is flagged in stone as DeVere moves a great deal of plantings and soil in and out of the laboratory.”
There were no lights burning anywhere in this wing of the sprawling residence, but the marquess led the way without hesitation. However, at the end of the short corridor, he was forced to stop. “This door is locked, too.”
“DeVere seems awfully concerned with preserving his privacy,” murmured Wrexford as he felt around for the keyhole. The portal itself, he noted, was reinforced with thick bands of iron.
“You know how secretive scholars can be in general. And if he’s up to something nefarious . . .” Thornton shifted nervously as a floorboard creaked close by. “I don’t mean to rush you, but the servants will be rising before long, and I’d like not to have to explain my presence here to a Bow Street magistrate.”
“Voilà,” said the earl, and gestured for his companions to enter.
Once the draperies were drawn, they lit lamps and without wasting words set to searching the space. Wrexford headed to the trestle tables by the windows, where containers of potting soil were filled with sprouting seedlings.
All looked in order.
Frowning, he slowly turned in a slow circle, making a careful survey of the room. Everything about the laboratory—the books, the beakers, the watering cans—confirmed it as a place of serious botanical research. There was no sign of a voltaic pile, nor any of the accouterments necessary to perform the grim experiments the young men had been performing on themselves.
For an instant, he wondered whether Thornton was part of a conspiracy to misdirect his investigation and make him look like a bloody fool.
But a low oath from the marquess as he hurriedly closed a drawer and moved on quelled the suspicion.
“Ithasto be here,” added Thornton. The lamplight showed his face had gone taut, and beads of sweat were forming on his brow. “I justknowit does.”
“We haven’t finished looking,” said the earl. However, he had a sinking feeling that they weren’t going to find anything incriminating.
Charlotte would likely tease him unmercifully for saying so, but the space had no aura of evil to it. Which meant—
“Come have a look at this.” Sheffield’s urgent whisper cut short his musing.
Wrexford edged around to where his friend was crouched down in a narrow alcove beside a long, narrow terra-cotta planter. The lamplight played over a half dozen slender beanstalks of varying heights.
Each was fastened to a wooden support stake with several twists of copper wire—a thin gauge was used for the smallest plants progressing to a thicker gauge for the tallest.
“Damnation,” muttered Thornton as his gaze fell on the wires. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“This explains the coils of copper,” murmured Sheffield. “It would appear our surmise about DeVere was wrong.”
Which meant, thought Wrexford, that the evil had to beelsewhere. But at that moment, he hadn’t a clue as to where to start looking.
The clock was ticking . . . He clenched his hands, feeling his gut knot in guilt at having failed Charlotte.
And time was slipping through his helpless fingers, like so many mockingly elusive grains of sand.
CHAPTER 24
