“So did a great many other gentlemen,” said Wrexford. “Granted, it’s a connection, but a very tenuous one.” He spun the glass between his palms. “We must also address Lady Cordelia’s financial activities.”
* * *
The sonorous notes of a string quartet swirled through the softly flickering candlelight, the graceful melody echoing the elegant furnishings and muted hues of the grand music room. Quelling her impatience, Charlotte sat amid the appreciative audience, hands folded primly in her silk-swathed lap, and made herself concentrate on the music. Mozart, not murder, ought to be the only thing on her mind....
As if sensing her thoughts, Alison shifted slightly in the chair next to hers, the brush of skirts a subtle reminder that the guests would be watching Charlotte’s performance, as well. The beau monde’s polished manners and gilded smiles masked a darker side to its glitter. Those who didn’t fit the pattern card of privilege and power would find themselves savaged by gossip and innuendo.
Idleness and boredom beget bad behavior, Charlotte reflected, noting the bejeweled ladies and faultlessly tailored gentlemen seated in the front row of chairs. She thought of Sheffield and Cordelia, and how they had to hide their involvement in business from Polite Society. Heaven forfend that aristocrats, no matter how smart or how hard pressed financially, sully their hands in trade. It was a bloody foolish stricture, like so many of the old rules. Perhaps the future would bring . . .
Another discreet nudge from Alison brought her back to the present moment. The music had ended, and the guests were beginning to rise and move into the main drawing room, where the clink of crystal goblets and the lilt of laughter and conversation would serve as the soiree’s serenade.
And gossip is the real reason I’m here.
The dowager gathered her cane, and the two of them joined the festivities. Candlelight cast a mellow glow over the opulent furnishings, the myriad tiny flames catching the sparkle of the wine as liveried footmen moved through the crowd, ensuring that no one’s glass was empty.
“Ah, there are Miss Greenfield and Miss Greeley, standing by that hideous painting of Lady Havemeyer’s great-grandfather.” Alison was aware of what sleuthing Charlotte wished to accomplish. “Come, let us go join them.”
The two ladies welcomed them with friendly greetings, and Charlotte found it easy to respond with a genuine smile. When the dowager had first assured her that she would find kindred spirits within intellectually minded Bluestockings of the beau monde, she had been skeptical. But she had, in fact, made friends among the members of Lady Thirkell’s weekly salon.
The talk quickly turned from the evening’s musical performance to a recent essay on politics, and then, as several other ladies drifted over to join them, to a complex mathematical problem recently posed in theLadies’ Diary.
“I daresay Lady Cordelia will figure out the answer,” mused Charlotte.
“I don’t doubt it,” replied Miss Greeley. “She finds such computations simple.”
“Her mind,” said Charlotte, “seems to run like a . . . a steam-powered engine. After allowing a tiny pause, she added, “Did I hear mention of her being interested in mechanical devices that can perform mathematical calculations?”
“Not that I know of.” Miss Greeley raised her brows at the other members of the salon.
“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Greenfield. “She can solve even the most complicated problems in her head.”
The others in their group all nodded in agreement.
“Indeed, Lady Cordelia has often mentioned that she’s all thumbs when it comes to tasks requiring manual dexterity,” continued Miss Greeley, “like embroidery or watercolors.” A tiny furrow creased her brow. “Speaking of Lady Cordelia, she hasn’t attended her usual meetings lately. Does anyone know why?”
The only reply was a puzzled silence.
“Ah, look. There is Miss Mather, and she’s with her younger brother, Mister David Mather.” After a moment, Lady Arabella Marquand, one of the younger and more outspoken members of the salon, gave a quick wave to a nearby couple. “They may know something.”
Charlotte watched the young lady—a petite blonde whose pale features and cream-colored gown appeared to be made out of spun sugar—take hold of her brother’s sleeve and hurry to join them. He, too, was fair haired, his golden curls artfully arranged in the latest à la Brutus style. An intricately tied cravat, an evening coat tailored to an impeccable fit, snug pantaloons festooned with an ornate watch fob . . . David Mather struck her as a fop who was trying a little too hard to appear a Tulip of the ton, an impression confirmed by the petulant curl of his well-shaped mouth.
“Mr. Mather,” said Lady Arabella as soon as his sister had finished introducing him to the group, “you’re a very good friend of Lord Woodbridge, so we were wondering if you happen to know if anything is amiss with Lady Cordelia.”
Charlotte might have missed the subtle changes in his face if she hadn’t been surreptitiously studying his features. His skin turned a bloodless color and tightened over his cheekbones, making them look sharp as knife blades.
“I’ve no idea why you think that,” he replied curtly. “We are merely acquaintances. As for Lady Cordelia, I barely know her.”
“Your sister . . . I-I must have misunderstood.” Lady Arabella frowned but quickly recovered and attempted to smooth over the awkward moment. “I do hope you’ll be accompanying your sister to more of these soirees, so we may all get to know each other better.” She fluttered her lashes—David Mather was a very handsome man. “And do bring your raffish friend—the tall, dark-haired gentleman with the interesting scar on his cheek.” A soft laugh. “Mama and I were in our carriage, returning home from a supper party the other evening, and I couldn’t help but notice the two of you conversing near the corner of Hyde Park.”
“You’re mistaken.” Mather’s voice was as sharp as his cheekbones. “You’ve confused me with someone else.”
Lady Arabella colored, but this time, she didn’t back down. “I study botany, sir, and I have a very good eye for detail. The moonlight was quite bright—”
“Perhaps you also have a very vivid imagination,” he suggested. “You ladies seem enamored of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.”
“I don’t read novels,” replied Lady Arabella.
“Then perhaps you had imbibed too much champagne.” On that nasty note, Mather turned to his sister. “I really must be going, Susanna. As I told you, I have an engagement for later, and it wouldn’t do to be late.”
