“Eureka!”she called to the others.
No luck.
Wrexford muttered an oath as he shut the door to his workroom, frustration rising bitter as bile in his throat. His former comrade had heard naught but vague rumors about a British traitor, and though he promised to make some inquiries, he held out little hope that they would lead to an actual name.
After closing his eyes for an instant, he crossed the carpet and took a seat at his desk. Every little contour of the padded leather seat fit him perfectly, every item on his desk—the piles of paper, the notebooks crammed with scientific observations, the books and periodicals, the pens and pencils—was intimately familiar.
And yet he felt as if his world was all askew.
The townhouse’s unnatural silence was also affecting his equilibrium. Charlotte was with von Münch. McClellan had escorted the boys to their fencing lesson and then was taking them for an afternoon visit and supper with the dowager. As for Tyler, he was attending a chemistry lecture at the Royal Institution. Even the age-old beams and woodwork had ceased their usual little symphony of creaks and groans.
Which only amplified the unnerving whispers that were coming to life inside his head. Wrexford pressed his fingertips to his temples, as if trying to hold himself together. He had never felt so lost.
Grief and guilt over his brother’s death had come back to haunt him. But this cursed investigation was also forcing him to face a more elemental mix of emotions. Ones that he had tried to keep locked away in the deepest crevices of his consciousness.
Fathers and sons.
He had always suspected that his father had loved Thomas best.
“And in all honesty, I can’t blame him,” whispered Wrexford. His own prickly, introspective nature did not match up well with the affable, outdoor-loving late earl. The two of them were like flint and steel, constantly rubbing up against each other and setting off sparks.
After Thomas’s death, Wrexford knew that he should have made an effort to comfort his father. Instead, he had avoided ever paying a visit to the Yorkshire estate that was his father’s chosen home. At the time, he had told himself it was done as a kindness, so as not to remind the late earl of his loss.
But that, admitted Wrexford, was a self-serving lie. He hadn’t visited his father because he had been afraid of reading regret in the late earl’s eyes—regret that the wrong son had survived. And so, for two years after his brother’s death, he had seen his father only on the rare occasions when the late earl had felt compelled to visit London. A few days of stilted dinners and uncomfortable conversation over port and cigars.
And then, without warning, his father had dropped dead one morning after riding to hounds.
His chest tightened, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.
In a fit of pique, he had once accused his father of loving Thomas best. The late earl had appeared flabbergasted and vehemently protested that he loved his sons equally. At the time, Wrexford had thought it a polite platitude.
But now that he was guardian to two boys—boys who were like sons to him despite having no ties of blood—Wrexford understood what his father had meant.
That knowledge, however, had come too late to change the past.
Suddenly desperate to escape his maudlin thoughts, Wrexford rose and hurried to exit the townhouse through the French doors of the music room. Hyde Park, with its vast stretch of meadows, glades, and footpaths, was just a few streets away. Once there, perhaps he could outrace his demons.
At least for now.
A winged flying machine . . . a war machine bristling with weapons . . . a revolving bridge . . .Charlotte turned back to the beginning of the manuscript. “I can’t make any sense of this,” she said to von Münch.
After much discussion—and von Münch’s veiled threat to have King Frederick of Württemberg intercede with his father-in-law, who owned the King’s Library—they had been permitted to borrow the manuscript and take it back to Berkeley Square.
Charlotte had been disappointed to find that Wrexford was still out—Tyler knew not where—but she and von Münch were now ensconced in the earl’s workroom, sitting side by side at one of the work counters so as to be able to study the pages of the manuscript together.
“Shall we take a second look?” she added.
“Here, allow me.” The librarian took over the duty of turning the sheets of illustrated parchment. “Many of the illustrations seem like mere flights of fancy. But others appear grounded in science.” His voice trailed off as he studied the details. “Oddly enough, their style looks very familiar.”
After turning back and forth between the pages for closer study, he suddenly announced, “Ach du lieber!I know why I recognize them.” Looking up, he added, “The title page says the manuscript is a copy of a secret Renaissance notebook. I am now quite sure that the original was made by Leonardo da Vinci!”
“Da Vinci?” repeated Charlotte. “He was a great Renaissance artist. But this?” She shook her head in confusion.
“He was far more than an artist, milady,” said von Münch. “Da Vinci was a genius in a great many fields—and excelled in technological and engineering ingenuity. For example, he was hired as a military architect and engineer by the city of Venice to design its defenses against naval attack. He also created war machines for sieges and a series of movable barricades to protect the city of Milan from rival armies.”
After pausing for a moment, von Münch added, “As I recall, da Vinci was also a visionary far ahead of his times, creating mechanical inventions like hydraulic pumps, reversible cranks, and steam cannons.”
Charlotte’s gaze moved to a drawing at the bottom of the page. “This appears to be some sort of—of aerial screw.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Good heavens, I think it is supposed to fly a man up into the skies.”
