“Paper is awfully fragile,” pointed out Charlotte. “An errant spark might have blown in and set them ablaze.”
“Perhaps,” said their friend. But his expression remained troubled.
Wrexford said nothing.
“In any case, it’s likely there are others at work on the challenge,” mused Sheffield after a lengthy silence. “I’ve heard rumors that Tsar Alexander of Russia is desperate to become a naval power and expand his ability to establish trade routes around the world.”
“The Russians have only one major port on the island of Kotlin, just west of St. Petersburg,” said Charlotte. “It seems wishful thinking for them to aspire to be a naval power, especially as the Baltic Sea has such unpredictable weather.”
“All the more reason for wanting oceangoing steamships. It’s said that the tsar has offered Robert Fulton a monopoly on all commercial river routes in Russia if he will come to St. Petersburg and develop steamboat technology,” growled Sheffield.
Charlotte frowned in thought.
“But that said, you are right,” he added. “I don’t see the Russians being a factor in the race. My money is on the Americans.”
Wrexford noted that his friend’s voice had taken on a brittle edge.
“In their country a man is free—indeed, he is encouraged—to develop his skills and talents, unconstrained by the strictures of social standing. While we remain in thrall to traditions of the past and forbid our aristocracy to take advantage of a changing world and profit from building the future. It makes absolutely no sense!”
“I couldn’t agree more, Kit—” began Wrexford.
Sheffield was too agitated to pay him any attention. His voice rose as he forged on. “The Industrial Revolution has created so many innovations, which in turn have opened up so many new business opportunities. New companies are starting up all over the country. Investment opportunities abound. And a new type of men is emerging to take advantage of it all. The French have a word for them—entrepreneurs, deriving fromentreprendre, which meansto undertake. We need to have that spirit here in Britain.”
“You’ve made yourself into that sort of man, Kit. And it’s something of which you should be very proud,” pointed out Wrexford. “An entrepreneur, whose aspirations to start up a business and investment acumen are a perfect example of what you have described.”
“Yes, but I’m still so bloody limited in what I can do. I must hide the fact that I’m involved in running a business and pretend to be naught but an indolent wastrel. It’s . . .” He muttered an oath. “It’s damnably frustrating.”
“I sympathize with your sentiments,” responded Charlotte.
“Ye gods, I’m very aware that intelligent and capable women like you and Cordelia must feel even more angry.” Sheffield fixed her with an apologetic grimace. “The rules that corset what you can and cannot do are impossibly restrictive.” A sigh. “It makes no sense to assume that half the populace are naught but featherbrained widgeons.”
“Perhaps with intellectuals like Mary Wollstonecraft writing manifestos about the rights of women, their arguments will eventually bring about change,” she replied. “But I won’t hold my breath waiting for it to happen.”
Wrexford leaned back in his chair. “It’s true. If we don’t alter our attitudes, we shall find ourselves left in the dust by progressive-thinking countries like America.”
“As I said, the world is changing.” Sheffield drank the rest of his whisky in one swallow. “And by God, we had better change with it.”
The earl rose and moved to the sideboard. “Let me pour you another drink.”
Sheffield waved him off. “Steam engines may be forged out of iron, but I am made of flesh and bone.” A grunt. “Every particle of which is aching like the devil right now. So I think I shall bid you goodnight and toddle off to my bed.”
“Let us summon the carriage for you, Kit,” said Charlotte.
“No, no.” He waved off the offer. “It’s only a short walk to my lodgings, and I need some fresh air to clear my lungs.”
Wrexford walked with him to the front door and then, lost in thought, slowly made his way back to Charlotte.
“Why the black face?” he asked as she looked up from straightening the books on his desk. “Aside from the smudges of soot on your chin.”
She forced a smile, but her gaze remained troubled. “I’m not quite sure.” A hesitation. “It’s just that . . . I had a bad feeling about the fire from the moment I set foot in Cockpit Yard.”
“Are you speaking from facts?” he asked. “Or intuition?”
The two of them had often argued over whether reason should overrule emotion. They still disagreed—often sharply—but Wrexford had come to respect her belief that logic didn’t always have an answer for the complexities of human nature.
“Let’s just say that I sensed an unseen specter of Trouble lurking in the shadows. And I fear that we haven’t seen the last of it.”
* * *
