“So, how do you intend to follow up on this new information?” continued Tyler.
“I see no reason why I should do anything at all,” snapped Wrexford. “It’s notmyresponsibility to find Holworthy’s murderer. Let the Runner do his job.” He blew out his breath. “Though judging by his interest in me, he’s likely to make a hash of it.”
They reached the street and walked on for several minutes in silence. “Why the devil did you bring me here in the first place?” he demanded of his valet. “I’m not sure why you are so afire to have me investigate this murder.”
“Given your very public quarrel with Holworthy, it’s clear the magistrates at Bow Street have felt compelled to dispatch a Runner to conduct an official investigation of your possible involvement. So it may prove useful to have evidence that corroborates your innocence should things take an unpleasant turn,” pointed out Tyler. “But more to the point, you have been bored of late. And you behave badly when you are bored. An intellectual conundrum always helps you keep your demons at bay.”
He paused. “Solving this one has the added incentive of avoiding a trial for murder.”
It was, reflected Wrexford, a confounded nuisance to employ a servant who was so infuriatingly astute.
“Bah.” He made a face, but had to admit that the meeting had stirred a whole new set of questions. He wasn’t sure he trusted Drummond. But if what he said about Canaday was true . . .
He hadn’t realized that Canaday’s interest in science was advanced enough to merit a laboratory at the Institution. And given the reverend’s fiery orations against the pursuit of Godless Knowledge, a friendship between him and the baron seemed an odd match.
Against his better judgment he found himself curious as to what thread tied them together.
“Shall I flag down a hackney to take us home, milord?” inquired Tyler.
“You go on,” he replied. “I think I shall first pay a visit to my club.” It might be a waste of time, but he had an idea on where to start.
As his valet said, the hunt for answers might keep boredom at bay.
* * *
The reading room of White’s exuded an aura of masculine comfort. The scent of well-worn leather, aged brandy, and printer’s ink wafted through the fire-warmed air, punctuated by soft snoring and the occasional crackle of newsprint. Sheffield was ensconced in an armchair set near the blazing hearth, sipping a glass of ruby-red port while perusing the latest news from the Peninsula.
“Who was generous enough to indulge your taste for fine wine?” asked Wrexford as he approached. The bottle on the side table was an expensive vintage.
“You,” replied his friend without looking up. “I told Jenkins to put it on your tab.”
Wrexford signaled to the steward to bring another glass. “Dare I hope there’s any left for me?”
“Naught but the dregs. You had better order another one.”
He took a seat next to Sheffield and crossed his legs. “What do you know of Lord Robert Canaday?”
“Other than that he’s a dab hand at cricket and a bit of a toadeater around those of higher rank?” Sheffield pursed his lips. “Hmmm, let me think.”
“An exhausting task, I know.”
“Do you wish to hear what else I know?” inquired Sheffield. “Or would you rather vent your ire by insulting me?”
Wrexford signaled the steward to uncork the fresh bottle of port. The wine was exceedingly good as well as exceedingly expensive. “Beggars can’t be choosy.”
Sheffield chuckled. “Point taken.” He refilled his glass. “Canaday fancies himself an aesthete. He writes poetry—badly, I’m told—and belongs to an exclusive club whose members consider themselves artists and intellectuals.”
“Do you know which one?” The description fit any number of smaller societies in Town. The interests were diverse—ranging from music and rare books to history and aeronautics—but what they all had in common was a pretentious preciousness about their own level of taste and discernment.
He preferred the simple snobbism of White’s and Brooks. It was at least honest.
Sheffield tapped his fingertips together as he contemplated the earl’s question. “Hmm. It’s something like . . . The Artists.”Tap, tap.“No, wait—The Ancients. It’s called The Ancients.”
Wrexford had never heard of it. “Any idea who else belongs to it?” he asked.
“Not a clue,” answered Sheffield. He made a pained grimace. “I’d offer to stop by the Wolf’s Lair this evening and make some inquiries. But I haven’t a feather to fly with, and I can’t very well strike up useful conversations if I’m confined to watching from the shadows.”
Wrexford knew that despite his friend’s outward nonchalance, it hurt his pride deeply to be kept on such short financial leash by his family. “Tyler tells me I should take the threat of a trial seriously, so you would be doing me a great favor if you would play at the tables tonight and see what you can learn.” Exaggerating a sigh, he passed over a handful of bank notes. “Just remember that, unlike you, I expect a return on my investment.”
