“Maitland?” Raising his lantern higher, the man moved toward the foundry and took his time in illuminating the nooks and crannies.
One of the conspirators, concluded the earl, rather than a night watchman. The man was wearing a dark cloak over his coat and had a broad-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow. A dark length of cloth—the sheen indicated silk—was wrapped around the lower part of his face.
However, further speculation was cut short as the conspirator turned and started toward the chemical laboratory.
Retreating as quickly as he dared, Wrexford motioned for Sheffield to follow him. He had noticed an archway set within one of the laboratory’s alcoves, and it appeared to lead back to the room holding the lathes, allowing them to escape notice.
Choices, choices. The earl decided that he didn’t have the moral right to draw his weapon. To shoot the man would be murder. And that would make him no better than men like Taviot, who thought themselves entitled to play God in order to achieve their own ends.
Quickening his steps, he slipped into the murky shadows. Up ahead, a faint glow of moonlight flitted over the silent machinery. Making a split-second decision, Wrexford cut between two massive lathes—only to find a wall looming straight ahead and the way blocked on either side by the rods and pistons of the steam-powered behemoths.
“Keep low and creep back to the opening,” he whispered to Sheffield. “My guess is he’s headed to Maitland’s private office, and we should be able to slip free once he’s passed through the laboratory. However, if he comes this way, wait for my signal and then bolt for the exit while I knock him down.”
“Two against one would provide better odds,” replied his friend.
“Absolutely not,” he shot back. “In any case, you’re forbidden to do anything foolhardy. Otherwise, Cordelia would have my guts for garters.”
“Don’t worry,” responded Sheffield. “You know me—I haven’t got a heroic bone in my body.”
Ignoring the quip, Wrexford cocked an ear. The ensuing silence was a good omen. A second ticked by, followed by another, and another.
Wrexford edged forward, deciding that after several more silent ticks it would be safe to move—
A pebble skittered over the stone floor. Then a dark-on-dark shadow fell over the opening.
Damnation. For a big man, the conspirator was awfully light on his feet when he so chose.
The earl glanced around, but he already knew that there was only one option.
“Go!” he cried to Sheffield as he sprang to his feet and launched himself at the masked conspirator.
The man turned just as the earl reached him and lashed out a vicious kick. Twisting away, Wrexford sent the lantern flying and grabbed for the fellow’s coat collar. His fingers fisted in the fabric, but a glancing punch knocked him off balance.
His feet skidded out from under him, but he kept his grip and managed to land a fist to the man’s jaw . . .
And then, with an audiblerip, the wool tore away. His handhold gone, Wrexford crashed to his knees. A boot struck his midriff, the blow smashing the wind from his lungs and knocking him to the floor. As he fell, a flare from the burning lamp oil showed the conspirator had pulled a pistol just as Sheffield slid to a halt halfway down the center aisle.
Run, you bloody fool!Wrexford tried to bellow out a warning, but the words wouldn’t come.
With a primal growl, Sheffield pivoted and charged.
The conspirator raised his weapon and took dead aim.
A thunderousbangrent the air.
Ears ringing, Wrexford watched in stunned disbelief as the conspirator hit the floor, knocked off his feet by the iron canister that had come hurling down from atop one of the lathes. His pistol skidded harmlessly off into the gloom as several more canisters crashed in rapid-fire succession onto the flagging and bounced away.
Another momentary burst of light sparked from the pool of flames, and for an instant he caught a shadowy movement behind the massive gears and levers atop the lathe.
Then it was gone.
Rousing himself, Wrexford scrabbled to his feet. Sheffield had fallen in the melee but was up as well—and rubbing at the fast-purpling bruise on his cheekbone.
“Bloody hell,” bellowed his friend, “the dastard is getting away!”
The clatter of fleeing footsteps echoed from deep in the bowels of the building.
“Let him go, Kit.” The earl blenched and flexed his shoulders. “We have what we came for, so if he’s more than a hired lackey, he’ll get his just punishment.” He began to pat his pockets to check that the vial was still intact and the papers hadn’t disappeared, only to realize that he still had the scrap of wool torn from the conspirator’s coat collar in his hand. Without thinking about it, he left it stashed in his pocket.
