“You were always the Sun, Tommy.” Feeling a salty sharpness prickle against his eyelids, Wrexford looked away. “While I was the Moon.”
He rubbed at his brow. “Dark. Moody. Irascible. In contrast to the light you brought to all of our lives.” The silver case closed with a muted click. “God, I miss you.”
After sliding the portrait back into his pocket, he rose and refilled his glass, though he knew that no amount of brandy would dull the ache in his heart. He could remember his brother and Greeley—the best of friends—as always so full of life. Confident, cheerful young men. Brave and honorable.
And then in a cruel twist of Fate, they were both destroyed. One in the space of a heartbeat while the other had suffered a slow, painful loss of his true self.
Wrexford closed his eyes, welcoming the blackness. “I promise you, Tommy,” he whispered. “I will find whoever robbed your friend of what little he had left of life and see that the miscreant is brought to justice.”
* * *
Heaving a silent sigh, Charlotte forced a smile as Sheffield handed her down from the carriage and turned to assist Cordelia. She was heartily tired of the endless parties—the pomp and pageantry of the Peace Celebrations and the Royal Centennial had kept Mayfair aswirl in glitter and gaiety throughout the summer. Polite Society had feasted on an excess of sumptuous splendors. . . .
Money that would have been far better spent feeding the poor.
However, Charlotte pushed such thoughts away for now. She had accepted Lady Marquand’s invitation to attend tonight’s festivities, and it was only right to do so with good grace.
A glance at Cordelia showed that she, too, appeared less than enthusiastic about the evening. But then, her friend—a brilliant mathematician and noted Bluestocking—had little taste for beau monde frivolities either.
Sheffield smiled. “Shall we go in?” he suggested, offering each of them an arm.
The drawing room was ablaze with candles, the crystalline light from the chandeliers fluttering over the colorful silks, sparkling jewels, and peacock splendor of the military medals and diplomatic sashes.
A footman appeared and offered them champagne.
“Quite a crush, especially for August,” observed Sheffield. At this time of year, the aristocracy usually left the city for their country estates and the start of the shooting season.
“With so many prominent people still gathered here in London from all over the Continent and beyond, nobody wishes to miss out on all the intrigue and gossip swirling through the drawing rooms,” said Charlotte dryly.
Indeed, the side salons off the drawing room were also filled with guests and the convivial sounds of clinking crystal and conversation. Following Sheffield’s lead, the three of them began to circulate through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with various acquaintances.
“Ah, Lady Wrexford!”
Charlotte turned as she and her friends entered one of the side salons.
A gentleman approached and bobbed a friendly bow. “Is His Lordship here tonight?” he asked.
“Alas, no, Lord Mulgrave,” she answered. The Earl of Mulgrave had served as First Lord of the Admiralty until several years ago and was currently Master-General of the Ordnance. He had recently consulted with Wrexford over a metallurgy problem with a certain type of mortar shell.
“He was planning to attend,” added Charlotte, “but an urgent request from an old friend called him away to Oxford.”
“In that case, please pass on my thanks for his help in solving our artillery issue. I’m very grateful,” answered Mulgrave, who had a keen interest in scientific subjects. “He also suggested that I attend the recent lecture by his friend Hedley on the latest developments in his steam locomotives, which I enjoyed very much.”
“As did I,” said Sheffield.
The comment made her smile. William Hedley was a brilliant engineer and had helped her and Wrexford on several of their previous investigations. During one of them, Sheffield had been captivated by Hedley’s “Puffing Billy,” a prototype steam locomotive, and invested in the project—which had proved to be a very lucrative decision.
Charlotte had also attended the recent lecture and responded with enthusiasm. “Wasn’t it fascinating! The idea that we will soon travel with astounding speed over rails . . .”
A spirited conversation began among the four of them. Mulgrave was both knowledgeable and thoughtful, and Charlotte found herself enjoying the party more than she had expected.
“Indeed, Mr. Sheffield,” said Mulgrave. “Hedley mentioned to me that you were an early investor in “Puffing Billy.” What a prescient choice on your part—”
“Ah, there you are, Lord Mulgrave.” A dulcet voice interrupted the Master-General of the Ordnance.
It was followed by aswooshof silk as a lady—Charlotte didn’t recognize her—glided through the archway, her hand on the arm of General Aldrich, a senior member of the military command at Horse Guards.
As the lady and her escort came closer, Charlotte noted that the newcomer was one of those women who would be called handsome rather than beautiful—her face was a little too long, her cheekbones a little too sharp. But she held her head as if she were wearing a crown—chin slightly lifted, spine ramrod straight, eyes glittering with a regal hauteur and a shimmering intelligence.
