Sheffield accepted a cup of coffee from Tyler and slouched back in his seat. “Now what are we going to do? Mather was our only link to learning the identities of the ringleaders.”
“There’s never just one way to skin a snake,” replied Wrexford. “You forget that Lady Cordelia has seen the Cobra. And while she mentioned he swathed his face in black silk, she may have noticed other things about him that will prove useful.”
“Hmmm.” Sheffield puffed out his cheeks. “I see I have a great deal to learn about how to conduct clandestine investigations.”
“Don’t worry,” quipped Tyler, setting a plate heaped with breakfast on the side table by Sheffield’s armchair. “Your mind will soon be working along the same devious lines as ours.”
There was a momentary clatter of cutlery. “So, what do we do next?” asked Sheffield through a mouthful of shirred eggs.
“I suggest we leave the matter of the Cobra until this evening, when Lady Cordelia comes to work on the daily mathematical computations with the professor,” said Wrexford.
It had been decided that Sudler and his Engine should be kept hidden from the consortium, so they had been installed in a downstairs workroom of the earl’s townhouse, next to the kitchens. Cordelia and her brother had returned to their own residence. Given her experience in masquerading as a man, she slipped out each night after dark and made her way through the alleyways to the back gate of the earl’s garden.
“Speaking of which,” muttered Sheffield, “what if the dastards have Woodbridge’s townhouse under surveillance? Shouldn’t we worry about whether she’s being followed?”
“We’ve thought of that,” offered Tyler. “Raven and Hawk have their band of urchins keeping watch on whether there are predators on the prowl.”
Sheffield chewed thoughtfully on a piece of gammon, then suddenly sat up straighter. “What about Fenwick Alston?”
“Tyler was right,” drawled Wrexford. “You’re beginning to understand the art of sleuthing.”
“Ha!” His friend made a face. “I won’t consider myself anything but a callow novice until I can earn praise from the Weasels.”
“Fetch your hat and coat,” said the earl. “As it happens, we’re going to pay a call now on the current baronet. Sir Joseph passed away several years ago. His eldest son, Bentley, inherited the title.”
“But it’s not yet noon,” protested Sheffield, darting a longing look at his untouched muffins. “The butler won’t admit visitors at such an ungodly hour.”
“Yes, but Sir Bentley has his weekly fencing lesson this morning at Angelo’s Academy.” Wrexford rose. “And with the great Harry Angelo himself, so he’ll be there.”
They made the short walk to Bond Street and entered the academy. The earthy scent of sweat and masculine musk wafted through the air as they crossed the foyer and paused in the doorway leading to the fencing salons. The cavernous main room echoed with the ring of clashing steel and the huffed snorts of male exertion.
“No, no, no!” A slender gentleman, his hair drawn back from his high forehead in an old-fashioned queue, danced to a halt and waggled his rapier. “You must hold your hand higher and balance on the balls of your feet.” He demonstrated the move with a cat-like quickness. “Like so!”
His pupil blinked and dabbed a soaked shirtsleeve to his brow.
“Now try it by yourself, slowly, and repeat it several times.”
“You’re a hard taskmaster, Harry,” called Wrexford as the legendary fencing master stepped back from the center of the room.
“Ah, Wrexford.” Henry Charles Angelo cut a quick flourish through the air with his blade. “You must come around for a session with me soon, so my students can see a good example of a swordsman who understands the principles of control and precision.” He cocked his brow. “I trust your skills have stayed sharp, milord?”
“Scientific experimentation demands precision,” the earl answered. “I try to keep myself honed to a razor’s edge.”
“Excellent! As I said, this gentleman here would benefit from seeing some proper swordplay.” Angelo grinned before turning back to his panting student. “That’s enough for today, Sir Bentley. Try to practice your footwork for our next session.” He patted his flat abdomen and added, “Oh, and it appears you’re getting a bitpor-tly.” A chuckle. “So you might consider limiting your intake of wine.”
Sir Bentley’s face turned even redder at the teasing. Shoulders slumping, the baronet blew out his breath and slunk away to towel off in one of the changing salons.
“Don’t take it to heart. Harry isn’t easy to please,” murmured Wrexford as he and Sheffield followed him into the room.
“That’s kind of you, milord,” answered Sir Bentley after another wheeze. “I’m under no illusion as to my prowess with a sword. But a gentleman ought to know the rudiments of wielding a blade, so I make an effort, however paltry.”
“Which is all to your credit.”
Sir Bentley looked a little puzzled at having attracted Wrexford’s attention. He flashed an uncertain smile and was about to retreat to the washbasins when the earl shifted slightly to block his way.
“Might we have a private word with you, sir?”
“Y-yes, er, of course . . .” The baronet’s expression turned wary, but he shrugged and stepped back into one of the changing alcoves. “But I can’t imagine why.”
