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He wasn’t downstairs, in either the dining room or the parlor. He might not be in the house at all, judging from the quiet. Already she was accustomed to hearing his laughter as he worked with his man, Mr. Chesterfield, and the rumble of his voice echoing down the stairs. After their meal the first day, he had stayed busy with matters of his own and left her to hers, but the sound of his voice seemed to follow her everywhere. Now that she wanted to find him, of course, he was nowhere to be seen.

She went to the attic to look for him. He and Mr. Chesterfield had gone up and down the stairs all day yesterday, setting up some sort of laboratory in the large room under the eaves, and she hadn’t ventured there yet. Lisette had seen it and reported it looked like the den of a crazed scientist. Angelique admitted some mild curiosity about what they were doing. It seemed an odd way to track Jacob Dixon, though it did have the effect of easing her worries about Mr. Chesterfield’s presence. He rarely left the house, to her knowledge.

She tapped at the door, and when there was no answer, she turned the knob. It was unlocked, and swung open without a sound. Angelique stepped into the room and stopped cold.

Every piece of furniture had been converted into table space. Chairs held up wide boards, a mirror had been laid between the old settee and the bed frame, and a table with a broken leg was propped up by what looked like a powder keg. All that horizontal space was covered with scientific equipment: mortars, strange-looking tools, bottles of liquids, and a wide variety of weapons. Even the mantel had been pressed into use, holding a variety of small jars. A fire roared in the hearth, but the windows were wide open. And there was no sign of Mr. Avery, only Mr. Chesterfield, his close-cropped head barely visible behind a large bottle with steam pouring out the top. He was hunkered down on a stool, attention fixed on an iron pot that sat below the suspended bottle.

“Yes, ma’am?” he asked, eyes still trained on his bottle.

“I am looking for Mr. Avery.” She raised her voice as a log broke in the fireplace and the flames shot higher. It would be unbearably hot in here, but for the open windows.

“He is out, ma’am.”

“Yes, I see,” she murmured. She looked around at the contents of the room. There could be poisons in the bottles and gunpowder in the kegs. What on earth was Avery planning to do with it all? Or was he trying to “improvise” some sort of explosion?

Now that she had seen it for herself, she thought Lisette understated the matter. It looked like the den of a madman, scientist or not. “Will he return soon?”

Mr. Chesterfield sent her a wide smile. “He did not tell me, but I expect he will. Is there something I may do for you?”

He hadn’t moved from his position crouched over the iron pot. She walked around one of the makeshift tables to see what he was doing. There was a small fire crackling in the iron pot, she realized, and he was feeding splinters of wood into it to keep it burning. Up close, the steam coming from the bottle had a greenish cast to it.

Mr. Chesterfield was a young man, younger than Avery, she guessed, his cheeks smooth and unlined. She thought again of the brand on his arm. Mr. Avery had admitted the man had been a slave, and he had the accent of the West Indies. “Quel âge avez-vous?” she asked on impulse.

“Vingt-six ans,” he replied without looking up. Only twenty-six. “I was born in Saint-Domingue, during the revolution and emancipation. When Bonaparte sent his army to abolish freedom, my father joined the uprising against the French. My mother and I were taken prisoner.” He paused. “My mother wanted only to live in peace. Her father had been loyal to France and she was wary of the revolutionaries, especially after my father was killed in the fighting. But the French monster, Rochambeau, gave orders to execute all the prisoners he held.” He glanced at her. “Too late she regretted not joining my father.”

Angelique regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “The French also killed my parents.”

The young man nodded once. “Mr. Avery saved me. He plucked me from the people to be executed by persuading a French officer that he would also like the joy of killing a rebel. When the officer turned his back, Mr. Avery nailed me into an empty water barrel and smuggled me onto his ship.”

“How daring,” she said shortly. And how rash. If Avery attempted anything like that on this assignment…

“Your pardon—that was Nathaniel’s father I spoke of,” Mr. Chesterfield said. “Nathaniel is but a few years older than I am.”

It was evident from his voice that the young man revered the Avery family—perhaps with good reason. “Is the son so daring as the father?” she asked evenly.

This time he laughed, a rich, rolling sound of pure amusement. “More so. He is still here, is he not?”

Angelique raised her brow at him. “Do I understand I am what he must brave now?”

“No,” he said somberly, although his eyes twinkled. “It is Mademoiselle Lisette one must fear.”

She had to smother a smile at the unexpected reply. “Have you crossed her, then?”

“Not deliberately. She is too delicate a lady to stand my experiments, though.”

Lisette had stitched knife wounds, served as a watch while Angelique broke into houses, and spied among other servants. She knew how to engineer a dress so it would accommodate all manner of weapons without ruining the line, and she was willing to undertake any job Angelique asked of her. Lisette was no more a delicate lady than Angelique was.

“What are you making?” she asked, her temper softening.

“Smoke.”

“I believe you have succeeded.” A breeze from the window blew some of the bottle’s emission toward her, and she waved her hand to dispel it. It had a slightly mossy scent, but was relatively cool and hung in the air far longer than she would have expected.

He grinned again. “Partly.”

“What is in the bottle?” she asked with some trepidation. If Avery had him up here brewing poisonous potions…

“Nothing worth mentioning, yet. It is an experiment. I hope it will distill into a liquid capable of producing great quantities of harmless but obscuring smoke, such as this, when a salt is dropped into it.” He waved his hand over the bottle, dispersing the vapor in a thick swirl.