“That certainly sounds convenient,” observed Charlotte. “But how is that revolutionary?” She knew the answer, of course, but was interested in how the Frenchwoman would answer.
A flare of exasperation lit in Mademoiselle Benoit’s eyes. “It is revolutionary because it will allow roads to be built in places that previously could not be reached, as well as shortening existing routes, making it easier—and cheaper—to travel.” She drew in a sharp breath. “For the rich, cost is not an impediment. But for the working class, having no option to travel at a cost they can afford makes them virtual slaves to local employers.”
“You make a very compelling point,” said Wrexford. “I take it your scientific work is in making improvements in building materials—iron with a greater tensile strength, cements that are more impervious to weather.”
“That is the path that your leading British engineer Thomas Telford and his followers are taking,” came the reply.
“And you see a different way?” asked the earl.
“There are those of us who believe that mathematics, not simply new materials, is the key to providing answers for how to effect a more fundamental change in bridge building.”
“Mathematics?” Charlotte gave a dismissive laugh. “Adding and subtracting may help keep one’s household’s finances from collapsing in a heap—though I must say, all those numbers make my head hurt.” She flashed a smile. “But surely you are jesting about mathematics being able to build a new type of bridge.”
Mademoiselle Benoit speared her with a withering look but ignored the question as her gaze returned to the earl. “One has only to look at the medieval Gothic cathedrals, and the grand curves and domes of Renaissance architects to see that mathematics can teach us lessons about dealing with the weight, strength, and stresses of large structures.”
“Interesting,” said Wrexford. “I have heard that Jasper Milton, one of Britain’s up-and-coming engineers, has been engaged in the same sort of thinking.”
The Frenchwoman’s expression turned wooden. “Has he?”
“But surely you are aware of that.” The earl paused. “Our friend Mrs. Sheffield, who grew up with Milton, recently mentioned that he and her cousin Oliver Carrick attended a symposium in Paris several months ago given by your scientific society.”
“Yes, yes,” chimed in Charlotte, following his lead. Milton’s death was not yet public knowledge. The earl planned to reveal the information when he felt it would rattle the Frenchwoman’s sangfroid. “Why, come to think of it, Cordelia was under the impression that Milton and you had spent a goodly amount of time together.”
“She is mistaken, milady, “ replied the Frenchwoman. “I barely spoke with the man—and I am sure Monsieur Milton will confirm that when your friend next encounters him.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Wrexford. “Milton suffered a fatal accident during the recent storms up north.”
Mademoiselle Benoit turned pale as death. “Mon Dieu.”
“We are also a bit concerned about Oliver Carrick, as Mrs. Sheffield expected to see him at her wedding last week. Have you, perchance, any idea of his whereabouts?”
“Moi?” For an instant, the Frenchwoman looked about to swoon. However she steeled her spine and drew in a steadying breath. “Sacré bleu,je ne sais . . .zat is,je n’avais pasa clue!”
All of a sudden, Mademoiselle Benoit appeared to have lost her fluency in English.
Lowering her lashes, the Frenchwoman added, “W-Why would you ask me zat?”
“Because,” said Charlotte, “we were under the impression that Carrick had also formed a friendship with you during his sojourn to Paris.”
“Non, pas de tout!” A fierce shake of her head emphasized the denial. “I fear zat you have averyunreliable source of information.”
“A misunderstanding, no doubt,” said Wrexford politely.
“Oui!Now, if you will excuse me, I really must rejoin my colleagues.”
Charlotte watched the froth of skirts—the sea-green silk and ivory lace trim looked like storm-tossed waves—as Mademoiselle Benoit hurried away.
“What is your impression?” murmured the earl.
“I think,” she replied, “that the young lady is lying through her teeth.”
CHAPTER 12
Wrexford descended from the carriage and took a moment to appreciate the tranquil beauty of Berkeley Square’s center garden. The night air was still—not a leaf fluttered—and the silvery moonlight cast an aura of enchantment over the foliage.
“A ha’penny for your thoughts,” murmured Charlotte as she joined him on the pavement. They had not lingered at the French ambassador’s reception after the encounter with Mademoiselle Benoit, and the darkness had not yet deepened to its midnight hue.
“They’re not worth a farthing,” he replied lightly.
