“Run!”The cry came again.
Dizzy, disoriented, Hessian Boots gasped for breath, squinting through the gloom as the two thrashing shadows spun toward him. A strange cacophony filled his ears: the thrum of his own blood pulsing through his veins . . . amplified by a strange thudding.
And then suddenly from the maze of warehouses rose flashes of light bouncing wildly off the bricks, punctuated by shouts and snarling barks.
It was the thought of gnashing teeth tearing at his flesh that roused him. Evading a grab at his coat, Hessian Boots pushed away from the wall and plunged deeper into the passageway, following it blindly until at last he saw a glimmer of lamplight and the silhouette of the stone landing ramp up ahead. Slipping, sliding, he raced across the still-wet muck and somehow managed to reach the street.
Run!
Gut churning, legs pumping, boots pounding the cobbles, he willed himself to go faster, praying for escape from the hounds of hell snapping at his heels.
CHAPTER 1
“No.” The Earl of Wrexford gave a critical squint at the waistcoat. “Absolutely not.”
His valet gave an aggrieved sniff. “You can’t mean to attend tonight’s gala ball dressed in unremitting black. You’ll look like an undertaker.”
“You would rather I look like a street fiddler’s monkey?”
Tyler bristled. “As if I would ever suggest something so vulgar.” He ran his hand over the exquisitely embroidered silk. “This particular shade of cerise embellished with midnight-dark thread is both stylish and sophisticated.”
The earl made a rude sound. “Then you may wear it yourself. Preferably in the laboratory, when you are cleaning up the most caustic of our chemicals.”
“Youare an arse,” grumbled his valet. “And a fashion philistine.”
“And might I point out thatyouare my humble servant.”
“Not for long, if you insist on having such a boring wardrobe. A man of my rare talents needs challenges.”
“Then go to the workroom library,” drawled the earl, “and fetch the book on Benjamin Silliman, so you can read up on his experiments with minerals.” He ran a hand through his hair, earning another huff. “I wish to see if we can replicate his results with acid on quartz. And then, assuming the results are what I expect, I have an idea I wish to try.”
Tyler’s look of injured outrage quickly dissolved into one of curiosity. “Hmmm, acids, eh? Are you perchance thinking of adding vitriolic acid to Silliman’s original mix?”
Wrexford was considered one of the most brilliant chemists in England, but most of his research was done in his private laboratory as he didn’t work well within the hierarchy of London’s prestigious scientific institutions. His sarcasm tended to offend people. Tyler, who served as his laboratory assistant as well as his valet, was one of the few people who could tolerate his mercurial moods.
“Perhaps,” answered the earl.
“I’ll have the summaries from my reading and all the supplies assembled by tomorrow.” The valet tucked the offending waistcoat under his arm and turned for the dressing room. But after a step, he paused. “Won’t you at least consider the silver and ebony stripe? It has the sort of subtle textures and elegance that Lady Charlotte would appreciate.”
Charlotte Sloane.Wrexford hesitated and looked away to the leaded windows, where the darkening night shadows were teasing against the glass.A lady of infinite textures, woven of complexities and conflicts.Though that, he admitted, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“I don’t think Lady Charlotte gives a fig for how I’m dressed for the evening,” he replied.
After all, she cloaked herself in quicksilver shadows.And secrets—oh-so-many secrets.An involuntary twitch pulled at his mouth. One of the more surprising ones he had discovered was the fact that having assumed her late husband’s pen name, she was the notorious A. J. Quill, London’s leading satirical artist.
They had first clashed when Wrexford had become the subject of her razor-sharp pen—that a highborn aristocrat had been accused of murder had had all of London abuzz. But they had come to form an uneasy alliance in order to find the real killer.
Much to their mutual surprise, a friendship had developed. Though that was too simple a word to describe the bond between them. It had grown even more complicated over the course of several more murder investigations, in ways impossible to articulate. And recently, it had taken another twist—
Tyler let out a huff, drawing the earl back from his musings. “She’s a gifted artist and a sharp-eyed observer. Of course she’ll notice all the little details that add color and texture to a blank canvas—or the lack thereof.” Another rude sound. “So don’t blame me if she decides you’re a man of no imagination or taste.”
“Oh, please, Tyler, don’t tease Wrex into a foul humor,” came a voice from the corridor. A moment later, a tall, fair-haired gentleman attired in elegant evening clothes entered the sitting room of the earl’s bedchamber There was a certain insouciance to the not-quite-perfect folds of his cravat and rakehell smile.
“Lady Charlotte will be nervous enough making her first foray into a Mayfair ballroom without having to endure his sharp-tongued sarcasm.” Christopher Sheffield fixed the earl with a wary look. “Please try to refrain from misbehaving tonight. Especially as you tend to do it deliberately.”
Wrexford raised a brow. “Are you really chidingmefor bad behavior?”
Sheffield had been the earl’s close friend since their days at Oxford. The younger son of a marquess, he was allowed no responsibilities for running the vast ancestral estates, and his imperious father kept a stranglehold on the family purse strings, doling out naught but a tiny stipend. Bored and frustrated, Sheffield retaliated by drinking and gambling to excess—a pattern of behavior that did no one any good.
