“And I thoroughly appreciate your concern, my love.” She kissed him back—a long and lingering embrace. “But I do hope you have an additional suggestion for how to regain my former prowess at scrambling out of sticky situations.”
“As to that, there is an old adage about killing two birds with one stone,” replied Wrexford. “You have been wanting to take fencing lessons with Harry Angelo ever since I mentioned that he is open-minded enough to teach female students. Be assured that he gives no quarter to the weaker sex—a session with him is physically grueling, and every muscle will soon be strong as steel.”
The lamplight caught the luminous flash in her eyes. “And I can practice with the Weasels and Peregrine! . . . Though we must make it clear to the boys that the term of endearment now officially refers to all three of them.”
He loved the fierceness of her passions, even though they sometimes scared him half to death.
“Thank you, Wrex,” added Charlotte, pulling him close. “When can I start?”
“I will send a note to him in the morning.” On seeing that it was still dark as Hades outside, he quickly amended, “That is, at a more civilized hour in the morning.”
“Excellent.” The tension in her had softened, allowing then to fit together like matching pieces of a puzzle.
Which in a sense they were. He owed the inscrutable forces of the cosmos a great debt of thanks for bringing them together.
“Now may we go to bed?” he murmured.
A feathery laugh tickled against his ear. “With pleasure.”
* * *
Charlotte sat back in her chair and blew off the plume of steam rising from her just-poured cup of coffee. “You didn’t think it important to mention that discovery to me last night?”
Wrexford had waited for Tyler and McClellan to join them in the breakfast room before revealing what Hedley had told him about Oliver Carrick.
“We had other more pressing matters to discuss,” he replied, a wicked gleam flashing for an instant in his eyes as he met her gaze.
She looked down at her plate of toast to hide her smile. He was right to remind her that murder must not be allowed to eclipse all that was good and joyful in life.
McClellan filled the earl’s cup and moved on to Tyler, who had just returned from his night forays.
“I hope you have made this morning’s coffee as black as sin,” said the valet as he scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw.
“But of course. You look like Hell, so naturally it’s as dark as the devil.”
Tyler winced at the worddevil. “I feel as if a legion of demons is jabbing red-hot pitchforks into my skull. The piss-poor ale served at the tavern was bad enough, but from there our little group moved on to the quarters of the French radical and his friends, who served a cheap red swill that doesn’t deserve to be called wine.”
“Debemus pro bono superiori pati,” quipped Charlotte.We must suffer for the higher good.
“They made a point of adding that it was from Corsica,” added the valet, after a swallow of coffee.
“Corsica,” repeated Charlotte, feeling a chill tickle between her shoulder blades. “Oh, surely they’re not suggesting that they would support the return of Napoleon to France?” The former emperor, who was Corsican by birth, had recently been exiled to the tiny isle of Elba, off the coast of Italy. “Europe is finally at peace after over ten years of constant wars, which have wrought unimaginable death and destruction throughout Europe.”
“Yes, but the Allied Coalition—led by Britain—simply returned the hated Bourbon king and his corrupt, venal court to power,” pointed out Tyler. “The Frenchmen spoke eloquently about all the excellent reforms and improvements Napoleon made—from the judicial and legal systems to agricultural techniques and transportation. They claim that he has promised to abide by international law if allowed to return to France and will never again seek power outside the country’s borders.”
“Clearly those idealists are unaware of the former emperor’s famous statement that he can never see a throne without wanting to sit on it,” remarked Wrexford dryly.
Charlotte put down her knife, leaving her bread unbuttered. “But what does all this have to do with Milton’s death?” she mused.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” answered the earl. “But let us look again at what we do know. We received a cryptic note half in French, and Milton’s fellow members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society told you and Cordelia that the French scientific society had seemed very interested in Milton’s technical innovations. And Oliver Carrick, the only person who can corroborate what went on at the symposium in Paris, is missing.”
“And you said that Milton’s fellow members had heard that the Frenchwoman was particularly attentive to making friends with Milton,” reminded Tyler. “Given all of that, it would seem that we should concentrate our efforts on learning as much as we can about both the radical Frenchman who is here agitating for the working class to demand better and cheaper travel and the members of the Parisian scientific society who are in Town for the international conference.”
Wrexford nodded. “We’ll leave the radicals to you. Charlotte and I will contrive to receive invitations to the receptions and soirees welcoming the international scientific delegations to London—including the group from Paris.”
“Alison will know all the social plans,” mused Charlotte.
“I’ve already learned from one of my colleagues at the Royal Institution that the French ambassador is holding a party tonight in honor of the Parisian delegation—who, as you know, decided to arrive early in London.”
