“One can’t help but wonder why,” observed McClellan.
“Indeed.” The earl reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a fresh cup. “So let us plan to start ferreting out answers.”
CHAPTER 11
The glittering light from a myriad of candles blazed through the diamond-paned windows of the town house on Curzon Street, bathing the cobblestones in a golden glow as Wrexford and Charlotte descended from their carriage. Hedley had arranged for them to receive a last-minute invitation to the French ambassador’s soiree.
“I never cease to be appalled at the egregious waste of money frittered away on sumptuous pleasures for the rich that would be far better spent on feeding and clothing the poor,” muttered Charlotte. “The beau monde simply doesn’t care.”
“That’s not entirely true, my love.” The earl tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his arm. “You and your pen make a number of them care.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Not yet.”
On that note, they passed through the portico into the grand entrance hall and made their way up the curved marble staircase. After greeting their host and his wife, Wrexford moved to the archway leading from the main drawing room to the side salons and paused to survey the crowd. “Let us part ways here. I wish to find Hedley.”
Charlotte spotted the dowager near the refreshment table and raised a hand in greeting. “And I will join Alison and her friend Sir Robert. If the female member of the French scientific society is in attendance, they will see to it that I meet her.”
He watched her walk away—the sight of rippling silk accentuating her lithe grace always took his breath away—and then turned his thoughts to the task at hand. There was one guest in particular whom he wished to meet . . .
“Ah, Wrexford, there you are!” William Hedley approached in the company of another gentleman. “As you requested at our meeting the other evening, I am bringing over Mr. Marc Isambard Brunel to make the formal introductions. Though I must say, I’m surprised that the two of you have never met before.”
“”Our paths have often crossed, but only from afar,” replied the earl after exchanging polite bows with the well-known engineer. Having missed finding Brunel the previous night, he was glad to finally meet him face-to-face.
“Your reputation precedes you, milord.” Brunel had lived in Britain for nearly twenty years, but his accent still spoke clearly of his French origins. He was a powerfully built fellow with broad shoulders and a long face accentuated by strong features and dark eyes that flashed with intelligence.
Brunel shifted, and although dressed in well-tailored evening clothes, he didn’t look entirely comfortable in such finery. His thick, callused hand held his crystal champagne flute a little awkwardly, as though he feared an errant twitch might snap the delicate stem in two.
“As does yours, sir,” said Wrexford. “Your engineering design for mass-producing pulley blocks for the Royal Navy was a stroke of genius.”
Brunel gave a Gallic shrug at the mention of his innovative factory in Portsmouth, which was capable of producing 130,000 blocks per year—a key factor in ensuring that the British Navy ruled the oceans. “It was Henry Maudslay who brought my scribbles to life by building the actual machines. He’s the true genius.”
“Progress in so many industries owes a great debt to him,” agreed the earl, who had encountered Maudslay and his engineering work during several previous murder investigations. “His lathes and milling machinery, which allow for making better and more accurate parts for other machines, have indeed revolutionized our ability to create new technologies.”
“Quite right.” Brunel raised his glass in silent salute. “But I have a feeling that you did not seek me out simply to discuss the general advancement of science in Britain.” He took a sip of champagne. “Through several of my friends, I’m aware that your talents occasionally go beyond solving chemistry and other scientific problems.”
“As it so happens, I do have a few specific questions unrelated to laboratory results,” replied Wrexford.
“I am happy to be of assistance if I can, milord.”
“I’m interested in the members of the Society for Practical Science who have come from Paris to attend the conference on transportation at the Royal Institution.”
“It has been years since I left France,” said Brunel. “I nearly lost my head during the Reign of Terror—as did the lady who is now my wife—so I have no official ties to the country.” Another sip. “However, the new generation of scientific-minded individuals in France do often seek my counsel, and so I happen to be well acquainted with the members of the Society for Practical Science. What is it that you wish to ask me?”
“I understand that the primary interest of the society is roads and bridges,” explained the earl. “To your knowledge, are any of the members doing innovative work in bridge design? Or are they simply engaged in working with current technology and building principles?”
“An interesting question.” Pursing his mouth in thought, Brunel considered it.
A string quartet seated in a nook by the windows overlooking the back gardens began playing a Mozart sonata, the pianissimo tones softening the trills of laughter and clink of crystal.
The engineer quaffed the last of his wine and set his glass on a marble plinth. “Most of the members—I believe that they number twenty-five—are engaged in the practical demands of rebuilding a network of transportation ravaged by over a decade of marching armies and warfare. Their efforts are devoted to practical work, not theoretical thinking.”
His gaze circled the ornate drawing room before coming back to Wrexford. “There are, however, two individuals who I would say are the intellectual leaders of the group.”
“Tell me a little about them,” pressed the earl.
“Jean-Paul Montaigne is the society’s president. I believe he has some family connection to England—an aunt, perhaps—and spent a year of university study here.”
