As art, they were fascinating, and yet repelling. She couldn’t help but feel there was a darkness to their spirit, some malevolent force lurking behind the marvelous technical skill of the detailed engravings. Power run amok. Or maybe it was just her imagination. She had always disliked any force that tried to bend others to its will.
Picking up her pen, she began to jot down notes as she read the descriptions.Green Lion, Neptune’s Trident, Scepter of Jove—Good Heavens, what bizarre names the alchemists chose to hide the real ingredients of their chemical potions. It would seem laughably absurd if men were not being murdered over these arcane writings.
After another hour of cross-checking texts, Charlotte finally found a reference that indicatedDianawas a code word for silver. Now, if she could just figure out the meaning ofdragon, which was appearing more and more often in the various formulas. Exhaling a sigh, she took a moment to flex the stiffness from her hunched shoulders and then set back to work.
* * *
Wrexford guided his curricle through the last, sweeping turn of the drive and slowed his horses to an easy trot. Up ahead, the manor house sat at the top of the hill, surrounded by broad lawns, a small formal garden, and a grove of birch and elms that would wind down toward the stables. Constructed of limestone, its classical columns and pediments lit with a honey-gold light as the sun broke through the scudding clouds.
It was a handsome building from afar, with tasteful lines and pleasing symmetry. And yet, as Wrexford came closer, he noted the small signs of neglect—a few missing roof tiles, the unpruned hedges rising up within the garden. Either Canaday was a careless steward of his family home, or he was not as plump in the pocket as he would have people believe.
After drawing to a halt in front of the entrance portico, he jumped down from his perch and tossed the reins to a waiting groom, along with a shilling. “Rub them down well and give them a measure of grain.”
Without waiting for a reply, Wrexford took the stairs two at a time and rapped the brass knocker. He had left at dawn, driving hard and making good time along the toll road that wound down from London through Tunbridge Wells. The baron would likely be just sitting down to his noonday meal. The thought of rousting him from the pleasures of a well-cooked joint of beef was immensely cheering. His own breadbox was empty, and the dust from the rutted country roads had parched his throat.
“Yes?” The butler, a cadaverous figure whose shabby black clothing accentuated his colorless face, fixed him with what was meant to be a quelling look. “The master of the house is not expecting any company.”
“Tell him Lord Wrexford is here to see him,” he replied. “And advise him that it’s not a request.”
The man looked frozen by indecision.
Wrexford stripped off his driving gloves and slapped them softly against his palm. “Or would you rather I tell him myself?”
The butler opened his mouth, revealing a set of bad teeth, and then appeared to think twice about a show of bravado. He silently retreated into the gloom of the unlit entrance hall.
“I’ll wait in the drawing room.” Wrexford stepped over the threshold. “Have a footman bring me a tankard of ale and a collation of ham and bread. And do it quickly. I’m famished.”
The refreshments arrived before Canaday. Wrexford stood by the bank of arched windows and kept an eye on the graveled path leading to the stables as he ate, half expecting the baron to try to evade the meeting. But at last the door opened and Canaday entered.
“What’s the meaning of this, sirrah!” His face was flushed, as if he had sought courage in a bottle of brandy. “How dare you invade my house, and give orders to my staff.”
“Be grateful that I give you the courtesy of coming to speak with you myself, instead of dispatching the Bow Street Runner who is handling the investigation of Holworthy’s murder.”
“Have him come!” blustered Canaday, brushing back the strands of receding hair from his brow. “I told you, I know nothing about the crime.”
“So you did, and that turns out to be a bald-faced lie.”
“Y-You question my honor as a gentleman?”
Wrexford answered with a mocking laugh. “Clearly you’re no gentleman, Canaday. Though I haven’t quite decided whether you are a snake or just a miserable worm.”
Canaday’s hands were shaking. Clenching them into fists, he sputtered, “I’ll not stand to be insulted in my own—”
“You’re wasting your breath,” he interrupted. “I suggest you save it for telling me about your cousin, and what you were really arguing over.”
The air leached from the baron’s lungs in a whispery hiss. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Did you think you could keep your relationship with Reverend Holworthy a secret?”
Canaday leaned heavily against the back of an armchair for support. “You truly are the Devil Incarnate.”
“Perhaps. But given that you have a choice between the Runner and the Devil, I am the lesser of two evils.” Wrexford let his words sink in for a moment before adding, “I may be able to help you, while Griffin simply wishes to slip a noose around someone’s neck, be damned with whether he’s guilty or not. And with this new bit of evidence coming to light, you’ve just taken my place as the prime suspect.”
Panic bubbled up in the other man’s voice. “I swear, I had nothing to do with his death!”
“Why were you quarreling with Holworthy?” he pressed, giving the man no quarter.
And yet, more evasiveness. The baron’s gaze slid away. “It was a private family matter.”
