“Damnation,” said Charlotte softly.
“I don’t like withholding information from him either,” said Wrexford. “But until we know more about what is going on, we can’t risk revealing what we have learned. Griffin’s superiors care more about quickly apprehending a likely suspect than they do about scrabbling in the muck until they unearth the truth. And that would put our friend between a rock and a stone. We all know he’s scrupulously honest, but he must answer to them.”
“I agree,” said Sheffield. “I suggest that tonight we make another visit to Wayland’s gambling haunt. And if he’s not there, then let us pay a call on him at his lodgings and see what he has to say for himself. Cordelia mentioned to me that during the first meeting she and Charlotte had with the Revolutions-Per-Minute society members, Wayland mentioned having had a peek at Milton’s scribbling book. That now takes on a more ominous ring.”
The earl nodded. “Indeed. It’s time we cut through the smoke and lies and start eliciting the truth from Milton’s so-called friends.”
* * *
Charlotte flexed her shoulders, feeling pleasantly exhausted by her latest fencing lesson with Harry Angelo.
“Which is, of course, an oxymoron, if ever there was one,” she said with a rueful sigh as she reached for a paintbrush to add the watercolor highlights to her finished drawing.
But life was all about contradictions . . . and how one dealt with them.
She sat back and regarded her drawing of a road twisting through rugged terrain and ending in an unfinished bridge that disappeared into a gathering of storm clouds. It was an eye-catching image, but composing the captions was a challenge.
Transportation—the movement of people and goods from one place to another—seemed like such a simple subject. And yet it was fraught with so many important ramifications. The French radicals had made her think about how the cost of transportation affected the common workers and their ability to look for work. From Cordelia and Sheffield she had learned about the economic ramifications . . . and then there was the question of communication and military movements, both crucial to any government.
“Transportation is fundamental to how society works, and I must make the public aware of how this matters to their own lives,” she said softly. “I must make them keep their eyes on how our government deals with the issue as all the new technologies open up a whole world of possibilities.”
After massaging the back of her neck, Charlotte set to work, and after an interlude of laying in the subtle washes of color, she put aside her palette, satisfied with the finished drawing, the first in a series that she hoped would raise uncomfortable questions.
Especially for whoever had murdered Jasper Milton and stolen the papers containing the secrets of his innovation.
Her work done, she cleaned her brushes and headed downstairs to the Blue Parlor. Early evening had given way to the deeper darkness of night. Wrexford and Sheffield had just left to search for Wayland, while the Weasels . . .
“Have you finished your work? inquired McClellan, looking up from the sock she was darning.
“Yes,” said Charlotte.
“Then I’ll fetch some tea,” said the maid, rising and putting aside her sewing basket.
“Tea would be most welcome,” she said, repressing a wince as she took a seat in one of the armchairs.
Cordelia, who had decided to wait at Berkeley Square for Wrexford and Sheffield to return with their report, was reclining on the sofa, reading a novel.
“I thought you had already readPride and Prejudice,” commented Charlotte as she caught sight of the title. “Several times, in fact.”
“Yes,” admitted Cordelia. “But in times of stress, a favorite book is a comfort.” She smiled. “The foibles, the fears, the absurdities of the Bennet family and their friends are a reminder that we are all far from perfect.”
The observation drew a sympathetic sigh from Charlotte. “All too true. But speaking of stresses, I’m so sorry that you have had no peace and quiet in which to adjust to married life.” She made a face. “I doubt many brides are gifted with the task of solving a murder on the day of their wedding.”
Cordelia allowed a chuckle. “Ah, well, neither of us has chosen to lead a conventional life.”
“Indeed,” she replied. But marriage was complicated under the best of circumstances. “How are you dealing with all the changes? And I mean it as a serious question. Please don’t fob me off with platitudes.”
The book closed with a whispery rustle of pages. “It would have been interesting if Miss Austen had chosen to write about the newly wed Lizzie and Darcy.”
“Yes, but as insightful and observant as she is, I wonder if she would handle it quite as well,” mused Charlotte. “So much of the complex dynamics of marriage is uniquely personal.”
“I suppose that is why a true friendship is the best foundation for marriage,” replied Cordelia. “So in answer to your question, of course there are adjustments to be made. It is frightening to realize that you are no longer an entity unto yourself, but bound together with another, body and soul.” A pause. “But it is also exhilarating. Finding the right balance will take time—”
“And the balance will keep changing,” said Charlotte.
“I suppose that is what will keep the journey full of surprises,” replied Cordelia.
“It appears that I’ve missed an interesting conversation,” announced McClellan as she appeared with the tea tray.
