“It did, though there were technical difficulties with detonating the explosive that he planned to attach on the hulls of our war frigates. But that’s not what is important about his invention.”
Peregrine held up the book which was opened to display a large diagram that ran across both pages. “Look closely at what he used to propel his submarine.”
“Holy hell.” Raven’s eyes widened. “We need to show this to Wrex and m’lady.”
* * *
“Finish searching the shelves for any other piece of incriminating evidence, Kit,” said Wrexford, “while I go through the desk drawers. Every little bit will help tighten the noose around Taviot’s neck and ensure that he and his co-conspirators are punished for their crimes.”
The methodical rustling of paper resumed as they went back to work.
Sheffield finished checking through the books and moved to the hearth as the earl riffled through the drawers.
“Nothing more of interest,” muttered Wrexford.
“Come have a look at this.” His friend was crouched down, his fingers black from poking around in the coals. “Bring the lantern.”
The beam picked up the fragments of paper that Sheffield had fished out from the still-warm ashes. Though badly singed, there was enough left to show that the scraps were part of a technical drawing. The earl could make out part of a mathematical equation scribbled beside part of an undulating curve.
“Those damnably odd shapes again,” growled Sheffield. “What the devil do they signify?”
Wrexford fetched a small book from the shelf and carefully slipped the fragments between the pages. “It looks as though Maitland was being very careful to keep his actual work a secret. However, he made a critical mistake in consigning this sketch to the fire. It left us more pieces of the puzzle.”
He slipped the book into his pocket next to the rough draft of the speech. “Which bring us closer to fitting together the whole picture.”
Sheffield gave a grim nod and wiped his hands on his trousers. “So, it appears that Cordelia was right to have a bad feeling about Taviot and his consortium.” A look of self-disgust flitted over his features. “How could I have been so bloody, bloody blind to the evil behind their promises?”
“They’ve pulled the wool over the eyes of a great many intelligent and influential people. It is a curse of human nature that we are inclined to believe things that we wish to be true. Evildoers have exploited that weakness since the Garden of Eden,” replied the earl. “Give yourself some credit. You were wise enough to take your time to assess the investment opportunity and make the necessary inquiries.”
“Only because Cordelia smelled a rat from the beginning.”
“Which shows that the two of you make a good pairing.”
“Assuming she’ll still have me.” His friend gave an uncertain grimace. “A husband ought not make mistakes—”
“Ye gods, what fustian! Stop being so terrified of matrimony. Perfection is the last thing Cordelia expects, or wants,” growled Wrexford. “For some absurd reason she loves you as you are . . .”
Hope chased away the worst of shadows hovering beneath his friend’s lashes.
“Whatever bumps lie ahead, trust that you will smooth them out together.” Wrexford gave a last look around the dimly lit room. “Besides, the sins at the root of all these crimes lie with Taviot. However, what we’ve found here tonight will help ensure that he answers for them.”
He turned for the door. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s return to Berkeley Square.”
They slipped out to the corridor, and after relocking the door the earl took the lead in retracing their steps. Moving swiftly but silently, they crossed through the chemical laboratory and were about to turn into the foundry area when the sound of steps scuffed through the stillness.
Wrexford blew out his candle and grabbed his friend’s arm.
Sheffield signaled that he, too, had heard the sounds.
“Stay here,” whispered the earl. Keeping close to the wall, he crept to the corner.
A moment later came the telltale rasp of hinges as the door to one of the connecting workrooms opened and closed.
He waited.
A moment later, a piercing beam of light speared into the corridor, probing, probing . . .
Wrexford uttered a silent oath as it grew brighter. A man stepped out from the gloom, making no effort at stealth.
