“And you don’t?” queried Sheffield.
“Regardless of appearances, nobody should be considered above suspicion right now. And so we need to arrange a talk with him,” countered the earl. “But first things first.” He flagged down a passing hackney. “Let us find Wayland and see what he has to say for himself.”
The streets soon turned to squalid lanes as they delved deeper into the slums of St. Giles, and they were forced to make the last part of the trip to the gambling den on foot.
A big, beefy porter led them through the ramshackle building’s dimly lit entrance hall and wrenched open the door to the warren of gaming rooms. The fug of smoke and sweat, mingled with the sweeter scents of port and brandy, immediately enveloped them as they stepped into the haze.
Flashes of white skittered through the lamplight as dice bounced over the felt-covered tables, the muted sounds punctuated by a chorus of groans.
“I had forgotten what god-benighted places these gambling hells are,” muttered Sheffield, surveying the scene with a twisted smile. “How was I so blind?”
“You were angry,” said Wrexford. “And bored.” Sheffield had passed through a bad spell in his life, flinging himself into reckless behavior in retaliation for his father’s attempt to control his life by keeping a tight hold on the family purse strings.
“I was stupid,” replied Sheffield. “And wallowing in self-pity.”
“A fact that I pointed out to you on many occasions.”
“I wasn’t ready to hear your lectures—”
A bloodcurdling cry rose from a nearby table as a man stood and flung his empty glass against the wall.
Sheffield looked away, a shadow passing over his face. “As the heir of an earldom, you had far more control over your life than I did. I—I resented your advice.”
“I don’t blame you,” replied Wrexford. “Thank God you met Cordelia, who somehow managed to hammer some good sense through your thick skull.”
“Amen to that,” said Sheffield.
“But enough about your youthful follies.” Wrexford squinted into the gloom. “We need to confront Wayland.”
As a harried serving wench made to pass them with a tray of drinks, the earl stopped her for questioning, taking care to flash a bit of gold as he made his request.
But the coin only elicited a disappointing answer.
“Damnation, she says Wayland isn’t here tonight,” he muttered on turning back to Sheffield.
“Perhaps we should ask someone else, just to make sure.”
However, passing over another guinea to the barman elicited the same information. And given that both bribes had been a very generous ones, Wrexford conceded that the interrogation would have to wait.
* * *
“At last, we can finally wash away the sour taste of unsavory friends and smarmy lies with a glass of decent whisky,” announced Sheffield as he followed Wrexford into the earl’s workroom and shrugged out of his overcoat.
Charlotte looked up from perusing the pile of notes she had spread out on Wrexford’s desk. “Did you not find Garfield?”
“Yes, we found him.” Wrexford made a face as he moved to the sideboard. “Perhaps the most interesting thing we learned tonight was how quickly a member of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society will turn on a fellow member—and supposed friend.”
Cordelia, who had returned to Berkeley Square with Charlotte to await word about the confrontation with Garfield, closed her eyes for an instant. “What do you mean?”
After passing out drinks, the earl settled into one of the armchairs by the hearth and recounted what Garfield had told them.
“We need to meet with Sarah Guppy,” said Cordelia once he had finished. “And the sooner, the better. It seems like she may be the one person who can help us cut through this Gordian knot of intrigue.”
Charlotte lifted her glass, but rather than drink, she watched the refractions from the cut crystal cast a pattern of whisky-colored flickers on the far wall. “Perhaps. And yet it feels as if we’re missing a piece of the puzzle.”
“If you ask me, I say we have too many damn pieces,” groused Sheffield. “I still don’t understand why the French radicals care so much about getting their hands on Milton’s innovation.”
“Perhaps they intend to sell it to someone else in order to fund their own objectives,” said Wrexford. “From what I have heard, Russia is desperate to improve its primitive transportation system. I wager that the tsar would be willing to pay a fortune to possess such a revolutionary technology.”
