Copley gave an appreciative sniff. “You know your wine, sir.”
“I make it my business to know as much as I can about the subjects which interest me.” Wrexford poured two glasses of the garnet-dark port and passed one to the baron. “You’ll find this one quite different from the one we shared the other evening.”
“But no less enjoyable, I’m sure.”
“Let us see how it reacts,” said the earl slowly, “once its secrets are exposed to light and air.”
The baron raised a brow in response but said nothing. Lifting his glass up to the branch of candles, he set the wine to swirling in a slow vortex. Glints of red flickered against the cream-colored plaster wall.
Wrexford took a small sip. He preferred the sharp heat of whisky to the syrupy seductiveness of port. The sticky richness was like a spider’s web, wrapping round and round one’s tongue.
“You seem in a philosophical mood,” observed Copley after several moments of silence had slipped by.
“Does philosophy interest you, Copley?”
“I’m afraid not.” The baron drank deeply before adding, “I’m a man who thrives on practical challenges. I like analyzing a problem and figuring out how to fix it.”
“Indeed?” The earl toyed with his own glass. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind advising me on a rather delicate matter.”
“Considering your generosity in serving such superb spirits, I would be happy to offer any help I can.” The candle flames caught the genial curl of Copley’s lips. “What is the problem?”
“It’s a complicated matter.” Wrexford shifted in his chair and refilled the baron’s glass. “Bear with me while I sketch out the crux of the conundrum. A friend—you may know him, Lord Woodbridge—has found himself caught up in a nasty coil. It seems an acquaintance he trusted took advantage of his integrity and honesty to humbug him. A trading venture was presented to him under false pretenses . . .”
Copley maintained a polite smile, but his flesh paled as the earl explained about the bank loans and the unscrupulous documents.
“If I might offer a comment,” said the baron as Wrexford paused to pour more wine. “I’m acquainted with Lord Woodbridge, and much as I dislike speaking ill of a gentleman, he’s known for being an unstable young man, and rumor has it that his profligate father, a man of shabby character, left the family in desperate financial straits. So I counsel you to take his story with a healthy grain of salt. It sounds like a complete hum to me.” A pause. “There is an old adage, ‘Like father, like son.’ ”
“On the contrary,” said Wrexford. “Woodbridge has the reputation of being a very sober, steady fellow. His only fault seems to be that his own unflinching sense of honor blinded him to the possibility that other so-called gentlemen might not have the same scruples.”
Copley smoothed a hand over the folds of his faultlessly tied cravat, a glint of gold flashing from his signet ring. He was no longer looking so amiable.
“As if such deviousness and deceit weren’t enough,” continued the earl, “the conspirators also forced Woodbridge’s sister into playing a part in their scheme, in order for him to earn back the documents and his original investment—”
A harsh laugh cut off his words. “Good God, Wrexford. Have you taken temporary leave of your senses? What possible role would a lady play in this . . . this fairie-tale business you’ve been describing?”
“Lady Cordelia Mansfield is a brilliant mathematician. And she’s been working with a professor from Cambridge on a revolutionary Computing Engine.”
A sputter as the baron nearly choked on a swallow of port.
“Using this new technology, the two of them have designed a system for doing arbitrage. As a man intimately involved in commerce, I’m assuming you’re familiar with the term.”
“I can’t fathom how a man of your intelligence is giving credence to outrageous lies,” exclaimed Copley. “The lady is an odd, unstable spinster. Clearly, her eccentricities have descended into mental instability.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Women are by nature flighty and prone to delusional fantasies. I pity the poor lady, but that’s a far cry from believing such noxious fari-diddles. I’m shocked beyond words that you would be so gullible, sir.”
Wrexford fixed him with an unblinking stare. The baron held steady for a moment, then averted his eyes.
“Believe what you wish, Wrexford, but I can’t help you. Indeed, I find myself unable to listen any further to such madness.”
“I haven’t finished,” said the earl as Copley started to rise. “I suggest you sit down and hear the rest of what I have to say.”
A telltale quiver of flesh at the baron’s temples betrayed the quickening of his pulse. He was nervous.
Wrexford waited.
A faint hiss, like the air leaking out of a balloon . . . Copley sank back into his chair.
“It’s all very well to dismiss what I’ve said as a flight of fancy,” the earl went on. “But how does that explain the fact that David Mather, the banker in question, was seen boarding an East India Company merchant ship this morning? He was accompanied by a gentleman carrying a distinctive walking stick.”
The baron was now white as a ghost.
