“There is much to be said for the scientific method.” He pulled her into a long and lush kiss. “But first, I ought to finish telling you about the other developments concerning Becton’s discovery. As we learned last week, Professor Murray did indeed receive the research papers, and has agreed to return them to the Royal Society.”
“That seems the right decision, as they are the leading scientific society in the world, and the best qualified to decide how to proceed,” replied Charlotte.
“As it happens, they’ve created a large endowment to develop the medicine,” said Wrexford. “You see, I accompanied Griffin and his men when they searched Lyman’s house for evidence of other conspiracies. There was, if you recall, a chest of gold delivered there from Quincy.”
“A partial payment for illegally trafficking in enslaved men and women,” mused Charlotte.
“I convinced Griffin and his superiors that it ought to be donated to the Royal Society so that the blood money could be put to a noble use. And they, in turn, created the endowment in honor of Becton.” Wrexford couldn’t hold back another smile. “I’m delighted to report that they appointed Dr. Hosack as its director, with authority to oversee the cultivation of the specimen plant and the continuing research to develop a medicine that will hopefully save many lives.”
“What marvelous news, Wrexford! That was quite brilliant of you.”
“That’s not all that will please you,” he murmured. “Hosack is very impressed with your friend Moretti and his scholarship. The doctor has offered him the position of chief researcher, and he’s accepted. The two of them will sail to New York on the same ship as Daggett.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte, her voice thick with emotion.
“In all fairness, I can’t claim any credit for that decision.” He paused. “But I’m happy to have been proven wrong about thinking him a fribble.”
Charlotte touched his cheek. “You’re not often wrong, Wrexford. Though I daresay, I’ll regret telling you that.”
“I make my share of mistakes.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “But there’s one elemental thing that I got oh-so-right.”
Sunlight flickered through the windowpanes as the carriage passed Regent’s Park and turned onto the road leading north.
She smiled, then her expression turned pensive. “As to getting things oh-so right . . . I am worried about Kit and Cordelia. Their attraction is clear to everyone around them, but—”
“But like us, they are grappling with their own inner demons?” suggested Wrexford. He settled back against the squabs. “Kit fears that she still sees him as naught but a charming wastrel. And Cordelia worries that she is too eccentric and independent to fit into the role of a wife. And much as we wish to tell them otherwise, it wouldn’t help. They must muddle through their doubts on their own.”
“For a man who claims to be ruled entirely by logic, how is it that you’ve become oh-so wise about emotions?” murmured Charlotte.
“Perhaps practice makes perfect,” he replied.
The glow that lit in her eyes sent a shiver of warmth through him. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Now, let us put aside further talk of murder, mayhem, and the romantic travails of our dear friends,” he said, “and turn our thoughts to happier topics for the rest of the journey.”
“Er, speaking of which,” murmured Charlotte, “have the Weasels told you about their plans for Harper . . .”
* * *
The next few days passed in another whirlwind of activity. Wolcott and his family arrived, and the opportunity to reconnect with her long-estranged relatives and introduce them to her loved ones filled Charlotte with profound joy. Raven and Hawk took their younger cousins under their wing, the playful antics filling the stables with the sounds of merriment. And the manor house with copious amounts of mud. Their dear friends—Sheffield, Cordelia, and Henning—were also in residence. . .
And then, all of a sudden, it was the day of the wedding. Charlotte awoke early, her stomach too fluttery to seek anything other than a strong cup of coffee in the breakfast room before retreating to one of the side parlors to complete one last task before dressing for the ceremony.
“Charlotte?” The dowager poked her head into the room an hour later and let out an exasperated huff. “Good heavens, gel, what are you doing? You should be upstairs dressing!”
“Yes, yes, in a moment,” she replied. “I’ve just finished.”
“Finished what?” demanded Alison.
“A. J. Quill could hardly pass up the opportunity to satirize the infamous Earl of Wrexford’s wedding.” Charlotte made a wry face. “Besides, I owe it to Mr. Fores not to let James Gillray steal all the profits of making the public laugh.”
The dowager crossed the carpet in a flash to take a look at the just-completed drawing . . . and let out a peal of laughter.
“At last!” she chortled. “Thank you, my dear! How delightful to have finally merited a caricature from the pen of A. J. Quill.”
Charlotte had debated how to deal with the subject. She wasn’t about to reveal the intimate details of the ceremony—the guests, the decorative flowers, the wedding breakfast. However, in a flash of inspiration, she had come up with the perfect way to entertain the public.
The drawing depicted the dowager, known throughout the beau monde asThe Dragon, waving her cane and breathing fire at Wrexford, who was cowering behind his new bride. The caption, boldly lettered above the flames roaring out of Alison’s mouth, warned that she would roast his cods to a crisp if he ever displeased her great-niece.
