The earl pressed his lips together, though the corners were quivering with ire.
“As I said, Fores was unhelpful, but when he left me to help another customer, I strolled to the side room and the clerk there was decidedly more friendly.”
“Get to the point. My patience is wearing thin.”
Tyler heaved a martyred sigh. “I purchased several copies of the infamous print, adding a generous tip. In return, I learned that A. J. Quill’s drawings are delivered to the print shop by a ragged little guttersnipe—or sometimes two of them. They usually arrive in the late afternoon, which gives the engravers time to make the printing plate and run off an edition in time for the following morning. But in a sensational case, like Holworthy’s murder, the timing can run closer to midnight.”
“How—”
“If you were about to ask how many drawings Quill does every week, the answer is at least three, and sometimes four, especially when a scandal is on the tip of every tongue.”
“Which means one may arrive tonight,” mused Wrexford.
“Yes.” The valet’s expression turned somewhat smug. “And before you ring a peal over me for not being hidden in some damp, dirty, malodorous crevasse keeping the shop under surveillance, allow me to add that I took the liberty of hiring a Scottish compatriot to stand sentinel and follow the urchins back to their lair. Quiggs is very good—he can stalk a Highland deer through gorse and over sheer granite.”
Wrexford exhaled a pent-up breath. “It appears that for once you’ve earned your weekly salary.”
“I’ll take that as a thank-you.” Tyler turned to go. “Oh, just one more thing.” He paused, his hand on the ornate door latch.
“I think I know where the chemicals that burned Holworthy’s face came from.”
CHAPTER 3
Charlotte sat back to study the nearly done drawing of the Bow Street Runner interrogating the Earl of Wrexford. She was pleased with the result. Exaggerating the bulk of the Runner to bull-like proportions had created a good visual drama to the composition....
Dipping her brush in the paint, she quickly darkened the red of his waistcoat just a shade, which made it even stronger. Granted, the snarling leer and the unshaven face were pure artistic license, but for most of the public, figures of authority were viewed with dislike and distrust. Poking fun at them was good for business.
As for the earl . . .
Charlotte regarded his pen-and-ink profile. She had seen him only once in the flesh, during one of her infrequent visits to the haute monde enclave of Mayfair. He had been walking down Bond Street, conversing with a friend, and their paths had crossed for merely a moment. And yet, the planes of his face had remained indelibly etched in her mind’s eye. Or, rather, the air of haughty detachment that seems sculpted into every subtle curve and angle.
Most aristocrats wore their sense of privilege and entitlement like a second skin, but Wrexford’s attitude was different, though she was hard pressed to explain why.
Go to hell—that was the message that seemed to radiate from every pore.
She touched a finger to the long, wildly curling strands of coal-black hair she had drawn on the paper. Well, it seemed possible he would be meeting Satan sooner than he might wish.
It would take an act of the House of Lords for England to execute a peer of the realm. But given the sensational nature of Holworthy’s murder, the public would be clamoring for blood. And the bluer, the better.
“If there is to be a trial, may it turn into a long one.” Her livelihood demanded that she harden her heart—she couldn’t afford a groat of sympathy, not with her own survival depending on her cutting commentary. Taking up her pen, Charlotte put the finishing touches on the drawing.
“If he is to suffer, I might as well profit from it.”
* * *
“This way, milord.” Tyler led the way down a long, dark corridor. The air was heavy with a fugue of sour smells.
“Humphry Davy’s laboratory is located in a far more central part of the building,” observed Wrexford, who was familiar with the rambling layout of the Royal Institution building. “But no doubt that has to do with the hordes of highborn ladies who flock to his public lectures and demand to see where their God of Enlightenment discovers the wonders of the universe.”
Founded in 1799 by a group of the leading men of science in Great Britain, the Royal Institution was created to educate the public about the heady new advances in a variety of scientific disciplines. Its ornate new building on Albemarle Street housed laboratories and lecture halls, and the frequent presentations and demonstrations had become wildly popular within the highest circles of Society.
“Do I detect a note of jealousy over Davy’s popularity with the opposite sex?” quipped his valet.
The earl made a rude sound. “I merely think he’s a fool to mix business with pleasure. Davy possesses an excellent intellect and his methods are first rate.”
Despite his diminutive stature, the charismatic Cornishman had become one of the darlings of London Society. His lectures on chemistry attracted overflow crowds, and talk of the wonders of science filled the drawing rooms of Mayfair.
“But,” went on Wrexford, “he’s an obsequious toadeater to the rich and famous, and that distracts him from his work.”
