“I’ll stay with you, sir—” began the other Royal Society member.
“That’s not necessary. I’m no stranger to death.” Hosack sat back on his haunches. “I ‘d rather you go along with your colleague and inform the rest of the American delegation of the unfortunate incident—discreetly, of course, as I’ve no desire to ruin the evening for the other guests—and help them organize their carriages for the trip back to Town. I don’t imagine Mr. Becton’s friends will be in any mood to make merry tonight.”
“Very good, sir,” they responded, and quietly withdrew, taking the spooked gardener with them.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Smacking a fist to his palm, Hosack added a more colorful oath. Becton had hinted that his presentation at the symposium would reveal a momentous discovery—one that might indeed be called a miracle, for all the lives it would save.
And now?
Hosack sighed and shifted his gaze . . .
A puddle of liquid gleamed in the flickering light of the lantern hung on a nearby stanchion. Strangely enough, the surrounding flagstones were dry as dust. He stared for a moment longer before inching forward and leaning down for a closer look.
The whiff of grape-scented alcohol tickled his nostrils. Wetting a finger in the spreading rivulet, he touched it to the tip of his tongue.
Champagne.
Frowning, Hosack looked around for broken bits of glass.But where is the crystal coupe?
A conundrum—and one that seemed to defy logic. As a rational man of science, that bothered him. Ignoring the chill seeping through his trousers, he remained on his knees, crawling around to search beneath the display cases.
Perhaps the gardener had picked up the coupe—though it was highly unlikely that the delicate glass could have survived the fall. Or perhaps . . .
His thoughts were interrupted as a harsh, burning sensation suddenly had his mouth on fire.
Stirring a wash of saliva, he puckered and spit.Holy hell—what the devil is going on?
Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he quickly blotted up the rest of the wine with his handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket before crawling back to his friend’s corpse and studying the half-open lips, now frozen in death.
A bad heart be damned.
Unless he was much mistaken, the tiny telltale flecks of white powder indicated it wasn’t the Grim Reaper’s blade that had cut his friend’s life short.
The mortal blow had come from some earthly hand.
CHAPTER 1
Lady Charlotte Sloane passed through the arched entryway of the grand drawing room and then paused. Wishing to compose her emotions for a moment before joining the crowd, she moved over to one of the massive urns flanking the double doors and pretended to be admiring the artfully arranged flowers. All of them were spectacularly rare blooms chosen, no doubt, to remind the international gathering of botanists that no other repository of specimen plantings could hold a candle to the treasures of the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew.
Hip-hip-hurrah for the British Empire,Charlotte thought, though a small smile softened any edge of sarcasm. The Gardens were known for sharing their knowledge, as well as seeds and cuttings, with scholars from all over the globe, so while botany wasn’t one of her passions, she appreciated the importance of what they did.
Her gaze lingered on the floral arrangement, memorizing the profusion of colors and textures—
“That look in your eye worries me.” Her great-aunt Alison, the dowager Countess of Peake, finished making her way through the receiving line and came over to join her grandniece. “I do hope you’re not planning on lampooning this gala gathering because they’ve cut a king’s ransom worth of exotic blooms from their hothouses.”
Working under the pseudonym A. J. Quill, Charlotte was one of London’s most famous—some might sayinfamous—satirical artists. She had earned quite a reputation for exposing the misdeeds and scandals of the high and mighty who moved within the highest circles of Society.
And yet, now I’ve become one of them.
Her conscience still wrestled with the decision, though she had vowed that it wouldn’t dull the point of her pen.
Repressing a sigh, Charlotte murmured, “I do, on occasion, give credit where credit is due. I admire the good work that is done here for science and medicine, and the public appreciates an uplifting story as a change of pace from the revelations of peccadilloes and corruption that are their daily bread and butter.”
“Wrexford will be pleased to hear it,” answered Alison dryly. “I imagine he would feel a little guilty for inviting the fox into the henhouse, so to speak, if you were to savage his scientific friends and their grand symposium.”
The mention of the Earl of Wrexford sent a shiver of awareness down Charlotte’s spine. That she was, in fact, the notorious A. J. Quill was a well-guarded secret known only to her closest friends.
Of which Wrexford was one.
