The glitter of his green eyes sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. On their first encounter, her initial reaction had been loathing.And fear.He could have ruined her life as London’s most important satirical artist with one flick of his aristocratic finger. Instead, he had proposed an unconventional partnership in order to solve a dastardly murder—one in which he was the prime suspect. To their surprise, a grudging friendship had developed.
Strange how she now couldn’t imagine her life without all the subtle textures and colors his presence wove into the very fiber of her being.
“An exchange of frank opinions between husband and wife seems an excellent way to ensure matrimonial harmony, Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “Even if those opinions don’t align.”
“Just so, my dear.” He shifted his stance, the soft wool of his coat now touching her bare shoulder. The drafty room suddenly felt a little warmer.
“Matrimony!” The flush-faced scholar waggled his bushy brows. “As a noted chemist, you have a great deal of experience in working with dangerous substances, so I imagine you will be able to preventthatexperiment from blowing up in your face, ha, ha, ha.”
“Indeed, I’m quite confident that I know what I’m doing,” said Wrexford in a silky tone that immediately sobered the scholar’s expression.
“Of course, of course! I did not mean to question your . . . er, judgment, sir . . .” Hemming and hawing, the scholar backed away to join the crowd around the punch bowl.
Charlotte didn’t blame him. Wrexford didn’t suffer fools gladly.
“Mr. Throckmorton has clearly imbibed too much of the Royal Society’s fine champagne.” A distinguished-looking gentleman dressed in an azure-blue swallow-tailed coat grimaced in apology as he came over to join them. “Allow me to express my felicitations in a more traditional manner, milord. And might I request an introduction to your fiancée?”
The ritual of polite pleasantries began, and was quickly expanded as several other gentlemen scholars and their wives drifted over to express their good wishes.
Wrexford, noted Charlotte, was behaving with admirable restraint. Such trivial socializing bored him to perdition, and he usually ended his part in it by saying something egregiously rude.
However, the talk quickly shifted to safer ground as one of the scholars brought up a recent lecture given at the Royal Society on minerals—a subject that greatly interested the earl. “Now, it seems that Sir Humphry Davy tested the hypothesis by performing a chemical analysis . . .”
Charlotte allowed her attention to wander as Wrexford shifted away to join the gentlemen discussing the technical details. The drawing room was growing more crowded as the guests made their way into the palace from the conservatory. The lilt of foreign languages—French, German, Spanish, Italian—twined with all the different accents of English, creating a lively buzz. The swirl of the Continental fashions, with the colorful sashes and fancy medals highlighting the various styles of cravats and waistcoats, couldn’t help but catch her eye.
Already she was composing a drawing in her head—
“Charlotta?”
She spun around, her eyes widening in surprise. “Marco!”
“Why, itisyou!” A tall, slender gentleman, with curling black hair and the fine-boned features of a Renaissance sculpture, flashed a winsome smile. “And looking lovelier than ever.” His gaze quickly took in her elegant gown and the lustrous pearl necklace—an engagement gift from Wrexford—nestled at her throat. “How is Anthony? I’m sure his career is flourishing here in London. He’s an immensely talented—”
“Anthony passed away several years ago,” she interrupted. “As you might remember, his constitution was delicate, and the return to a cold, damp climate proved injurious to his health.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy pooled in his hazel eyes. “Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you—but let us speak of happier things,” said Charlotte. “I see your star has continued to rise in the firmament of Italian science.”
She and her late husband had met Marco Moretti while living in Rome. The Florentine scholar, who, like all their acquaintances, was dancing on the razor’s edge of poverty, had been finishing his advanced scientific studies at the university. But his interest in art and literature, as well as politics, had led him to join their bohemian circle of painters and poets . . .
All of us barely scraping by, surviving on lofty dreams, macaroni, and cheap wine,reflected Charlotte.
Moretti gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’ve been lucky enough to write several papers, which have attracted a bit of attention, and I’m quite excited to have been invited here to present a lecture. It may even lead to an opportunity for advancement and recognition in my field of study—as well as a secure financial future.” Another shrug. “As you know, teaching pays but pittance.”
“That sounds very promising,” she said.
“I hope it will be so,” replied Moretti, his voice holding a hint of longing. “There is a new scientific society about to be formed, one dedicated to discovery. Its patron is a worldly, wealthy man of science who is very generous in funding research, and he’s expressed some interest in my work.”
A flicker of curiosity lit beneath his lashes. “And what brings you here, Charlotta? You were very skilled in botanical drawing. I still have several sketches you made of wildflowers growing around the ruins of the Coliseum. Are you helping with making a visual catalogue of collections here at the Royal Botanic Gardens?”
“No, I’ve not kept up my drawing of plant life,” she answered. “I’m here because my fiancé is a noted man of science here in Britain, and is a member of the Royal Society.”
“Ah.” Moretti smiled politely. “Felicitations on your upcoming remarriage. Your fiancé sounds like a very admirable and interesting fellow.”
“He is.” Charlotte looked around and spotted Wrexford some paces away. “Come, allow me to introduce you.”
She started to squeeze through the press of guests, but just as she managed to circle around a trio of chattering Germans and approach him, a gentleman slipped free from the crowd and touched the earl’s arm.
