Their faces lit up.
“And eggs?” asked Hawk hopefully.
“And eggs.” She fetched some coins from the purse in her desk and handed them over.
“No stopping to play hazard,” she murmured.
Raven grinned. “Billydoeshave a new pair of dice an’ hedidask us te come learn the game. So it was only a half lie, m’lady.”
Dear Lord, what a frightful little Sophist he was becoming.
“Run along,” she shot back. “Before I decide you only deserve ahalfportion of breakfast for your cheekiness.”
The lads scampered off, and though Charlotte was weary to the bone, she knew that sleep would be slow to come. Instead she took a seat at her desk and set a fresh sheet of paper atop the blotter.
Her fingers instinctively sought the pen. However hopelessly tangled her personal emotions became in thought or words, her commentary on Society’s inequalities and injustices seemed to flow with a crisp clarity in her art. Bold strokes of ink, confident colors—through line and paint she had the ability to cut to the heart of an issue. It was, she knew, a flaw, a fundamental contradiction in character.
How could she be both weak and strong?
Even Wrexford, with his relentless logic, would likely have no answer to the conundrum. He would find that bedeviling, while in contrast, she did not expect to have rational answers for everything.
Which no doubt explained the drawing that was taking place as she was trying to parse the conflicting sides of her nature.
Charlotte stared at the outlines of the sketch with a rueful smile. She was angry with Wrexford, and yet her sense of justice demanded that she use her influence with the public to raise the question of his innocence. Hints about the Runner’s judgment, and his incompetence in missing telltale clues, would play very well to the vast majority of people who mistrusted the authorities.
Perhaps he didn’t need her help.
A quick flurry of lines and cross-hatching and she leaned back, satisfied with the composition. All that was left to do was paint in the color highlights and write a provocative caption.
Once the lads were finished with their breakfast, she would send them off to the print shop with the finished drawing.
* * *
“So that means the mystery is solved concerning the art forgeries and their connection to Holworthy’s murder?” asked Tyler. The earl had just finished giving a terse account of the confrontation and was pouring himself a glass of Scottish malt.
“Yes.” After an appreciative sip, Wrexford held the dark amber spirits up to the light. “You know, the ancient Gaelic name for this isuisge beatha,which means spirit of life. Wise men, your fellow Scots. And brilliant alchemists.” He pursed his lips. “Here Holworthy was obsessively chasing after the philosopher’s stone and its transcendent power to raise the soul to a higher plane when all he had to do was uncork a bottle of whisky.”
“In all fairness, I should point out that the Irish claim it was they who first brewed the magical elixir,” murmured the valet. “Be that as it may, you are digressing from the matter at hand. I assume you will be heading to Bow Street shortly to present the proof of your innocence and Lowell’s guilt. Shall I pack up the vial of the remaining chemical sample in cotton wool and a sturdy box?”
“Proof?” Wrexford finished the rest of his whisky in one smooth swallow. “What we have is a fanciful story, based on scraps of evidence that a clever villain could easily have manufactured. As for corroboration, there is only the word of reprobate swindlers—assuming they haven’t already fled the country—who would sell their virgin sisters to the brothel in order to save their own skins.”
He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Griffin, while a thoroughly annoying fellow for his lack of imagination, has been meticulous in assessing the physical evidence. His conclusion is logical.”
“But the library mark that Mrs. Sloane found in Holworthy’s hand,” protested Tyler. “And the footprint she saw in the church.”
“Unfortunately, those things had disappeared from the scene of the crime by the time Griffin got there,” pointed out the earl. “I doubt he is going to take her word for it.”
“Surely you don’t intend to do nothing?”
“Come, you know what an indolent fellow I am.” Wrexford took down several books from the shelves above the work counter. “But in this case, no. It greatly offends what few moral sensibilities I possess that Lowell has perverted science to serve his own nefarious plan. So I feel obliged to stop him.”
“How, if I might ask?” said Tyler as he watched the earl take a seat at the microscope.
Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Wrexford didn’t take any heed of the question. “Have you had any luck in identifying the elements in Lowell’s chemical compound?”
“All but two. The list is there beside the reflector. It’s the clear crystals and the greenish substance that are proving devilishly elusive.”
Wrexford read over the paper. “Bring over a selection of acids. I wish to run a few more tests. An idea occurred to me when I thought more about Forsyth and the problem he had with his original percussion cap. . . .” He twirled the instrument’s dials, increasing the magnification of the sample.
