The weight in her arms seemed to lighten ever so slightly. “I’m grateful for that, Mr. Henning.” Knowing it would nettle him—prickle for prickle seemed only fair—she added, “You’ve a soft heart under that crusty hide.”
He chuckled, but the sound quickly gave way to a harsh exhale. “Watch your step, Mrs. Sloane. As I warned Wrexford, I’ve already had two people connected to strange chemicals and strange writing end up as corpses on my slab. I’d like not to have a third.”
CHAPTER 13
Wrexford squeezed into the crowded lecture hall, followed by Sheffield, who reluctantly left off flirting with a young lady of his acquaintance to keep company with the earl. Few seats were left, though there was still a quarter hour to go before the talk was to begin. Finding a pair at the upper railing that afforded a good view of the stage, Wrexford quickly claimed one and turned his attention to the audience.
The buzz of conversation and trill of muted laughter filled the cavernous room, along with the swish of silks and satins as the ladies and gentlemen settled into their places. It seemed to his eye that in addition to the serious scholars of science, most of the beau monde was present.
“Humphry Davy has drawn quite a crowd,” he observed.
“Including his usual legion of adoring ladies,” quipped Sheffield, tugging at his carelessly tied cravat. His hair was uncombed as well, but the aura of raffish insouciance fit him like a glove. Wrexford had noted on their arrival that Davy wasn’t the only one attracting interested glances from the opposite sex. “It’s said they bring their notebooks and pencils not to record any intellectual thoughts but rather to write him billets-doux, which they pay the porters to deliver to his private office.”
“How edifying to hear that men of science have become London’s leading celebrities,” said the earl, not lifting his gaze from the crowd below his vantage point.
“What—have you not received a bundle of love notes? Perhaps you should pay more attention to amatory pleasures, seeing as the Runner seems to be striding closer and closer to having you arrested for murder.”
The earl ignored the barb. It was true—the meeting with Griffin had not gone well. The Runner had come to ask a number of pressing questions about what had brought the earl to Drummond’s laboratory, and had clearly been unsatisfied with the answers. So far, he had not dared arrest a peer of the realm, but the circumstantial evidence was building enough of a case to give him just cause.
All the more reason to uncover the truth.
“Might you pull your mind from the boudoir and focus on the reason you are here, Kit?” he retorted. Sheffield had made the rounds of the gaming haunts in St. Giles the previous evening, and though his inept play at cards had cost Wrexford a small fortune, he had come away with some very useful information. “See if you spot any members of The Ancients.”
Heaving a martyred sigh, his friend began a closer study of the hall. “Well, well, there’s Stoughton,” he murmured a few moments later.
Wrexford felt himself stiffen. “Where?”
“There, in the third row back from the stage, sitting next to Sharpley.”
“Sharpley isn’t on your list,” he said softly.
“No, but he recently inherited a tidy sum from a bachelor uncle, and Stoughton is drawn to money.”
Which made his interest in Mrs. Sloane’s late husband even more of a conundrum.
Wrexford took a moment to study the man. An elaborate cravat of perfectly starched white linen, anchored by a large ruby stickpin, immediately drew the eye to Stoughton’s face. His features were handsome—a straight nose, sculpted cheekbones, a well-shaped mouth with an easy smile. A crown of glossy chestnut curls accentuated the air of aristocratic confidence.Interesting, thought the earl. Stoughton was only of average height and build but he understood the subtle art of manipulation enough to accentuate his strength rather than his weakness.
“By the by, what led you to suspect Stoughton of evildoings?” asked Sheffield.
“The information was given to me in confidence.” Wrexford hadn’t told his friend about Charlotte’s story. It wasn’t his to share.
Humphry Davy’s arrival on the stage cut short any further speculation. Despite his diminutive stature, the charismatic chemist exerted a powerful magnetism on the crowd. An expectant hush fell over the hall as he stepped up to the lectern. Taking out his notes from a red leather document case, he graced the audience with a smile and began to speak.
Leaning back, Wrexford settled in to listen—the subject matter was of great interest—though he continued to observe his surroundings.
In the opposite gallery, he spotted Declan Lowell seated half in shadow, an expression of satisfaction on his face. He had a right to look pleased, thought the earl. It was an impressive turnout, and quite a feather in the Royal Institution’s cap that it had become so popular with high society.
Lowell, he knew, was a big part of its success. His charm and social standing allowed him to curry favor with arbiters of style, while his discipline and work ethic ensured that things ran smoothly behind the scenes. Did he perhaps have hopes of being named the next head of the Institution, as it was rumored that Davy would soon be stepping down from the position?
Lowell caught the earl’s gaze and acknowledged it with a polite nod and smile.
Sheffield noted the exchange and murmured, “Lowell plays the perfect aristocrat.”
“He seems a pleasant enough fellow. Are you implying you don’t like him?”
“Not really. It’s just that beneath the choirboy looks, he’s not an angel.” Sheffield pinched a wry grimace. “But then, neither am I.”
“Lowell has vices?” Wrexford didn’t much care about the fellow’s personal proclivities, but as the murders were proving so diabolically difficult to make sense of, he was trying not to overlook any detail, no matter how irrelevant it might seem.
