CHAPTER 19
“What do I know of Aldini and Vitalism?” Henning looked up from the bubbling cauldron on his worktable and took a moment to wipe his spectacles on a rag. A draft from the ill-fitting window swirled the rising steam, leaving a mizzle of droplets on his unshaven cheeks. “Surely, that man’s theories aren’t coming back to life again here in England?”
“God only knows what wild ideas are lurking deep in the shadows,” responded Wrexford as he tossed his hat on the surgeon’s desk and unbuttoned his coat. “Ready to crawl out if someone shines a light their way.”
“It sounds like you’ve shoved your hand up some dark crevasse,” said the surgeon, “and come away with a nasty bite.”
“You could say that.” Hooking his boot around a stool, he drew it up to the table and took a seat. “I paid a visit to the Royal Institution and learned a little more about Westmorly, though nothing that might provide a clue as to who killed him. My sense is, he had made a number of enemies through his blackmailing. Any of them could have wished him dead.”
“A thoroughly dirty dish,” agreed Henning.
“From what Locke has told me, Westmorly knew some dirty secret about Chittenden and was extorting money to keep quiet about it. But—”
“But I can’t see him as Chittenden’s murderer,” interrupted Henning. “First of all, why would a blackmailer kill the goose who lays the golden egg?”
“There’s that,” conceded the earl.
“More important, the knife thrusts that killed both men were done by a skilled hand. Someone knew what he—”
“Or she,” interrupted Wrexford.
“A woman scorned, taking her revenge by murdering the handsome young Tulips of the ton?” Henning made a rude sound. “You’ve been reading too many of Ann Radcliffe’s novels.”
“Give me a better plot. For it feels as if I’m getting nowhere in trying to work out a scenario for what was going on within the Eos Society.” The earl braced his elbows on the scarred wood. “However, perhaps I’ve stumbled upon a new lead. Getting back to my question about Aldini and Vitalism . . .”
Wrexford explained about his grotesque discovery in Thornton’s laboratory. “I confess, I’ve paid little attention to such ideas. But as you’re a medical man, I wondered whether you’ve done any reading in the field.”
“I have,” confirmed the surgeon. “Beginning with the discoveries of Galvani and Volta, and their invention of a device that could create electrical current—”
“The voltaic pile,” said Wrexford.
“Correct, laddie. Galvani may be mocked by many as a mere dancing master of dead frogs, but he did apply scientific thinking to his experiments. The fact that electricity could affect a body led him to theorize there existed what he called a ‘nervous-electric fluid.’ He believed illnesses might be caused by blockages of the fluid. And that led him to speculate that electricity might be a powerful force for good.”
Henning cracked his knuckles before continuing. “The voltaic pile generated great excitement within the medical world, as many wondered whether it could effect wondrous cures. Fix palsied limbs, bring new vitality to the old—”
“Raise the dead,” muttered the earl.
“Yes, well, Galvani’s ideas were taken to the extreme by his nephew, Aldini. You remember what a spectacle he created over the George Foster affair.”
The earl shook his head. “I was out of the country at the time, traveling with my brother in a remote part of Ireland.”
“You missed nothing but a regrettable farce.” Henning made a face. “Aldini had made himself the darling of London with his demonstrations of making dead frogs twitch. He then claimed his process could bring a man back to life. He got his chance when a man named George Foster was convicted of murder, sentenced to be hanged, and then given over for dissection. Aldini got permission to perform his experiment on the condemned man’s corpse.”
Wrexford grimaced, but said nothing.
“Foster was hung at the gallows of Newgate, and his body was immediately taken to the Royal College of Surgeons, where an audience eagerly awaited the momentous event. Aldini had attached a set of conducting rods to his voltaic pile and pressed them to Foster’s head, caused the jaw to start quivering and the left eye to fly open.”
This time, the earl couldn’t hold back an oath.
“It gets more revolting,” said Henning. “He then inserted the rod up poor Foster’s . . .” A cough. “The fellow’s legs kicked up, his arm raised, and his back arched in a bow.”
“But he didn’t get up and walk away.”
“Nor did he punch Aldini in the nose,” quipped Henning. “Indeed, after that, the public’s interest in the experiment died down, and after further experiments, Aldini conceded that he didn’t have the power to make a dead heart start beating.”
The earl shifted. “So the idea of reanimating the dead went to its own grave?”
“No, there are others who keep searching for the secret of Life. I take it, you haven’t heard of Karl August Weinhold, a German who claims he’s brought animals back from the dead.”
“Surely, you jest.”
“Unfortunately not. His experiments involved dissecting a cat and replacing its spine with a miniature voltaic pile constructed of zinc and copper. Touching the reconstructed animal with a connecting rod from a larger pile supposedly reanimated its heart and made it dance for several minutes.”
“Ye gods. Surely, no sensible person believes in such blatant quackery,” muttered Wrexford.
Henning looked thoughtful. “I happen to agree with you. However, we both know it’s important to be open-minded on such seemingly quackish subjects. One has only to look at the history of science, and how something that is thought to be absurdly impossible in one era becomes routine in another,” pointed out the surgeon. “There is so much we don’t know about the human body, and so much we don’t know about electricity.” He shrugged. “With the new developments regarding the trough battery, a more powerful variation of the voltaic pile, men of science will have far more current with which to experiment. Who is to say what the limits are?”
“I am the first to agree that science holds infinite mysteries that rational exploration can unlock.” Frowning, Wrexford lapsed into silence for several long moments. “You know my heretical views on most subjects. But tell me, do you truly believe that a man can be raised from the dead?”
Henning let out a cynical laugh. “It has happened once before. Or so the Holy Scriptures tell us.” A pause. “Though there’s no mention of thunderbolts . . . is there?”
“Careful, Baz. You are treading dangerously close to blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy is likely the least of my sins,” retorted the surgeon. “I’m resigned to roasting in hell for Eternity. Assuming, of course, that such a fiery pit exists somewhere in this universe.”
The earl grimaced and rose.
“If it will be of any help, I’ll do some further reading about Vitalism,” offered Henning. “As I said, the concept of an animal electricity—a vital force, as yet beyond our understanding, that is elemental to life—is not completely mad. There are some very rational men of science on the Continent who believe it exists.”
“What’s happening here isn’t rational,” replied Wrexford. “Young men obsessed to the point of experimenting on their own bodies, murder, mutilation . . .” He let out his breath. “Evil is at play here, Baz. And we must find a way to stop it.”
A look of grim acknowledgment chased the cynicism from the surgeon’s face. “I agree. Let me ask around about Lord Thornton. I have a few friends at the Royal College of Surgeons who might know of any clandestine work being done on Vitalism.”
“Do it quickly.” Feeling bone-weary and unsettled by the day, Wrexford turned to take his leave. “One of the other things I heard this afternoon was that a trial date has been set for Nicholas Locke. I haven’t had a chance to tell Lady Charlotte yet, but we haven’t much time.”
* * *
“Stop squirming, Weasels,” commanded Tyler, adding a brusque tap-tap of his baton on the pianoforte to punctuate his words. “It’s important that we help Lady Charlotte prepare for her first ball—and to do that, you’ll need to act like gentlemen.”
The boys immediately ceased their horseplay and stood at attention. Charlotte would have smiled at their solemn faces and clean—relatively clean—clothing if her own nerves weren’t stretched so taut.
“That’s better,” murmured the valet. “Now I’m going to demonstrate the basic steps of the waltz when McClellan plays the tune.” He gave a nod to the maid. “It’s a basic one-two-three rhythm. Watch my feet for a bit, and then we’ll practice together.”
One-two-three, one-two-three . . . Charlotte studied his steps, but after a few moments, she found her focus straying. In her previous visits to the earl’s town house, she had never been outside the confines of his workroom, and curiosity drew her gaze up from the parquet floor. The furnishings of the music room were obviously expensive, but they had an understated elegance. The colors were muted and the polished woods wore a graceful patina of age. Not a glint of gold leaf or ornate silver assaulted the eye.
More than that, there was an air of well-used comfort to the space. She had the sense that it was designed for living rather than as a showcase to impress visitors. The chairs and sofa looked invitingly rumpled, and the paintings on the walls seemed very personal choices.
A shiver of intimate awareness tickled down Charlotte’s spine as she spotted a portrait on the far wall of a lovely, dark-haired young lady with two young boys playing at her feet.
Could it be . . .
Tyler’s brusque tap-tap jarred her back to the present moment. “Lady Charlotte, now that you’ve observed the steps, let us try it together,” he said. “Weasels, pay strict attention, as I shall then ask each of you to serve as milady’s dancing partner while I follow along and make any corrections.”
Shaking off her musings, she quickly moved to join him. The carpet had been rolled up, allowing ample room for dancing.
“Raise your hand and place it against mine, like so,” he said, demonstrating what he meant. “And then, I shall place my other hand at the small of your back.”
She felt a light pressure as Tyler drew her a touch closer and she suddenly understood why the dance was considered risqué by the high sticklers in Society. No wonder girls fresh from the schoolroom weren’t permitted such liberties.
“Mac, you may begin the music, but keep to a sedate tempo for now,” he counseled. “And now, milady, be ready to start on the count of three . . .”
* * *
In no mood for conversation, Wrexford let himself into his town house through the back tradesmen’s entrance to avoid encountering any of the servants. After making his way to the kitchen and lighting a candle, he shrugged out of his overcoat and let his hat drop atop the damp wool. Despite the warmth of the banked stove, the chill of the late-night rain seemed intent on seeping into his bones.
Perhaps, he thought, his prickly mood would yield to the heat of Scottish whisky. It would at least dull the edges.
What lay at the heart of his disquiet was not something he cared to contemplate right now.
The flickering flame lit the way through the silent shadows as he climbed the stairs and headed for his workroom. But when he was halfway down the corridor, a peal of laughter pieced the stillness.
Wrexford stopped and cocked an ear. Was his imagination playing tricks on him, or was that really the sound of a pianoforte coming from the music room?
“What the devil . . .” Puzzled, he reversed direction and went to investigate.
A flutter of light danced through the half-open door, along with more hilarity. Quickening his steps, the earl leaned a shoulder to the fluted molding and took a peek inside.
“No, no, no, Master Alexander Hawksley!” chided Tyler, tapping his baton to Hawk’s scrawny shoulders. “You must stand up straight, and keep your arm in a graceful arch—like so!” He demonstrated the position, much to the chortling amusement of Raven. “Lady Charlotte cannot perform properly if her gentleman partner is shirking his duties.”
“Sorry,” intoned the boy, trying mightily to add an inch or two to his height.
“That’s better,” said Tyler, flashing a wink to Charlotte.
She was dressed in her urchin garb, noted Wrexford, save that she had removed her boots and was wearing satin dancing slippers. It should have looked ridiculously absurd . . .
And yet it didn’t.
As his gaze took in the sight of her willowy body, its curves and long-legged grace accentuated by the snug-fitting boy’s breeches and stockings, he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“Mac, you may start the music again,” called Tyler.
A laugh quivering on her lips, Charlotte followed Hawk’s lead through an awkward turn—
And then froze in midstep as she spotted him.
“M-Milord!” she stammered, her expression pinching in embarrassment.
“I’m learning to be a proper gentleman,” exclaimed Hawk proudly. But as his brother made a very rude sound, he responded with a word that would have singed Satan’s ears.
“It appears we have a bit of polishing to do,” drawled Wrexford.
“M-My apologies for this invasion of your privacy,” continued Charlotte. “I can explain—”
“It was my idea,” said McClellan as she rose from her seat at the pianoforte. “It occurred to me that Lady Charlotte had never learned the waltz, and Tyler and I didn’t wish for her to be put in an awkward position at her first ball.”
“So we decided to give her a lesson and some practice,” added Tyler. “And given her coming entrée into Polite Society, it seemed a good idea to include the Weasels.” He waggled his brows at them. “We wouldn’t want the little beasts to behave like savages when they are introduced to the dowager.”
Raven mimed a hideous face, but the earl saw him dart a concerned look at Charlotte. “Oiy, we’ll try not to disgrace ourselves.”
“I think we’ve practiced our lessons enough for one night. Come, gather your coats, Weasels”—Charlotte still looked ill at ease—“let us leave His Lordship in peace.”
“Not so fast.” Wrexford stepped into the room. “There is an old adage that says ‘practice makes perfect.’”
She made a face. “Since when have you taken to spouting platitudes?”
He laughed. Charlotte somehow always managed to tease him out of a black humor. “It’s a truism, as well as a platitude. And since your first foray into a Mayfair ballroom will be here sooner than you might like, I daresay one more spin across the dance floor can do no harm.”
“But—”
Wrexford silenced her protest by taking her hand. “Relax,” he murmured, feeling a tingling current of warmth melt through his own tension and fatigue. “Just follow my lead.”
* * *
All of a sudden, Charlotte was aware of a pulsing against her palm. Electricity—the word flashed to mind, and for an instant, the thought of Cedric, and his frightening experiments, sent a shiver through her core. But no, she quickly realized, this was a positive force, its heat helping to dispel her doubts and fears.
Looking up, she met Wrexford’s eyes. A warmth was there too, pooled within their smoke-green hue. It softened the austere angles of his face and—
As they passed under the chandelier, Charlotte saw the lines of worry etched around his mouth. She tightened her hand, which strangely enough drew a smile to his lips.
“Have I sprouted purple spots or grown a set of horns?” he inquired.
“Sorry, I was simply thinking . . .”
He spun her through an intricate turn. “About what?”
About how much I like dancing with you.
“About the fact that I’ve actually never attended a ball before,” she answered. “I eloped before I was of age to make my come-out in Society.” A sigh slipped out. “If you must know, I’m worried that I’m going to make a cake of myself.”
Another spin, another turn. “You dance exceedingly well,” replied Wrexford.
Charlotte wasn’t at all sure how her feet were moving so effortlessly across the floor. “That’s because I’m with you.” She made a wry face. “With a stranger, I’ll probably be so nervous that I’ll trip on my skirts and fall flat on my . . . derriere.”
“So promise me the first dance.”
“But—”
“Clearly, it’s the logical solution,” he reasoned. “I’ll make rude remarks about the other guests, and in raking me over the coals for my cynicism, you’ll forget about letting your nerves tie you in knots.”
She smiled. “I may always count on you for a rational solution to any problem.”
A glint of amusement lit in his eyes. “Unlike you, I have no imagination.” Drawing her a touch closer, Wrexford twirled through another figure of the dance. “So my mind must plod along in a straight line.”
Feeling a bit breathless, Charlotte needed a moment to still her thudding heart. “Straight lines are boring. And you, sir, are never boring.”
That drew a chuckle. “I can guess what adjective you would find most fitting.”
She let a moment dance by, savoring the feel of his body moving in harmony with hers. “I doubt it.”
“Oh?” He raised his brows. “Nonetheless, I shall try. Let’s start with aggravating? Annoying? Arrogant—”
“Are you going in alphabetical order? Or—”
Charlotte stopped short, all at once aware that the music had ceased. Looking around, she saw Tyler and McClellan were watching them with bemusement, while Raven and Hawk were trying to hold back their chortles.
“It appears that Lady Charlotte has mastered the waltz’s footwork,” said the valet after clearing his throat with a cough. “I see no need for further practice this evening.”
“Aye,” agreed McClellan. “Shall we retire to the kitchen for some refreshments?”
“Jam tarts?” said both boys in hopeful unison.
“Perhaps.” A pause. “There may even be a package of Cook’s ginger biscuits to take home.”
As the pelter of footsteps echoed down the corridor, Wrexford waved for McClellan and Tyler to follow the boys. “You go on. I need to have a word with Lady Charlotte.”
So she hadn’t been wrong about his troubled mien when first he had entered the room. “What have you discovered?” she demanded, though her insides clenched in fear at what the answer would be.
His expression turned bleak. “Nothing good.”
“Nicky—”
“Locke is fine, though a date for the trial has been set.” The earl frowned. “And it’s even sooner than I expected.”
“Dear God. That means . . .” Charlotte looked away to the far windows, where shadows dipped and darted through the midnight gloom. “That means we haven’t much time to prove him innocent.”
Wrexford took her arm. “Come, sit.”
Ye gods. That didn’t bode well.
“H-Has there been another murder?”
A low rumble seemed to catch in his throat. “In a sense.”
“Wrexford!” Now she was truly alarmed. “You’re speaking in riddles.”
The earl took a seat on the sofa and drew her down beside him before he responded. “That’s because I’m having trouble making any rational assessment of it.” Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair. “The only creature to lose its life was a rat—at least I am guessing it was a rat . . .”
Charlotte listened in growing horror as he went on to describe the macabre discovery in Thornton’s laboratory, and his subsequent conversation with Henning about Galvani and Aldini.
“That’s horrible,” she whispered when he finished. “But surely it points the finger of guilt at Lord Thornton.”
He shook his head. “You know as well as I do that conjecture is merely spitting into the wind. To convince the authorities, we need proof, and so far, there’s not a scrap of evidence tying him to Chittenden’s death.”
In her heart, she knew he was right. Still, she couldn’t help but grasp at straws. “Surely, the hidden voltaic pile and grisly remains of that poor creature hint at nefarious doings.”
“Unfortunately, experiments on animals are not uncommon among the gentlemen who belong to the Royal Institution. Curiosity is a trait encouraged by science, and its members often explore ideas outside their own field of expertise. Thornton can simply claim he was interested in testing the principles of medical electricity for himself.”
“Then we must find the proof,” responded Charlotte. But even to her own ears, the assertion rang hollow.
Wrexford, to his credit, refrained from using his incisive logic to point out how daunting—nay, hopeless—a task it would be. Instead, he gave a small nod. “If the proof is there, we will uncover it.”
At that moment, Charlotte wanted to throw her arms around him and hold on very tightly. With her own emotions turning topsy-turvy, she needed his unshakable calm to steady her shaky spirits.
He was watching her intently, and as their eyes met, his expression turned inscrutable.
She quickly looked away, hoping to hide how vulnerable she felt.
Wrexford found her hand and twined his fingers with hers.
The coals crackled in the hearth, raindrops pattered against the window glass, a sheet of music fluttered in a stirring of the air . . . the small, ordinary sounds of everyday moments. And yet they were inexplicably calming.
The worst of her fears slowly subsided.
“Thank you, Wrexford.” His simple gesture and companionable silence had somehow been more eloquent than any words. “For not telling me I’m a bloody fool.”
A ghost of a smile. “I’ve too many faults of my own to think of flinging holier-than-thou pontifications at others.” He turned his head to stare into the fire. “Besides, there’s nothing foolish about trying to move heaven and earth to save a loved one.”
Charlotte curled her fingers more tightly around his, suddenly recalling that the earl’s younger brother had lost his life on some hardscrabble battlefield during the Peninsular War. He never spoke of the details, but she had a sense that he thought himself partly to blame.
She couldn’t imagine how, but it was a private pain, and she had always considered it too intimate to probe.
However, the strange current that had connected them earlier seemed to still be thrumming between them.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Thomas, and how I failed to save him.” Wrexford shifted, his gaze coming to rest on their entwined hands. “He had been ordered by his regimental commander to lead a detachment of cavalry in reconnoitering a strategic mountain pass. I arrived at his camp from Wellesley’s headquarters barely an hour after they had ridden out—and was carrying an urgent dispatch countermanding the order. Our partisan spies had learned that the French had an ambush in place.”
He closed his eyes for an instant. “It should have been easy to press on and catch up with the regiment. But a fierce storm blew in from the mountains, with high winds and driving rain. Our party rode as hard as we could, but the guide lost his way . . .”
“Oh, Wrexford,” she whispered, pressing the palm of her other hand to his cheek.
“‘The best laid schemes of mice and men . . .’” A very Wrexford-like quip, coolly unemotional. And yet, the anguish in his eyes belied such cynicism.
Charlotte leaned closer, her lips feathering against his. She felt his breath catch and then—
“You had better come quickly if you wish some sweets!” Hawk burst into the room and skidded to a halt. “Raven is fast devouring all the tarts.”
The earl pulled back and brushed a crease from his trousers. “Thank you, but Lady Charlotte and I prefer brandy to pastries, Weasel.” He rose and moved to the sideboard. “We’ll join you in a moment.”
As the boy raced back to the kitchen, he filled two glasses and carried them back to the sofa.
“My brother is gone. Let us concentrate on keeping your cousin alive.” The chink in his armor had closed. She didn’t challenge it. “Tomorrow I shall continue making inquiries about Thornton, and see if I can contrive to meet with him.”
“And I,” replied Charlotte, “will do all I can to cultivate a friendship with Lady Julianna and Lady Cordelia at the evening soiree.”
The earl handed her a brandy. “Between the two of us, may a useful clue come to light.”
“A clue.” She suddenly straightened. “Thank God you reminded me of what Hawk discovered this afternoon . . .”
“A hat, and now a coat,” he mused when her explanation was done. “Assuming that memory and a momentary glance in the dark are accurate, it still doesn’t tell us much.”
“I suppose not,” admitted Charlotte. “But let us not say so to Hawk. He’s so very proud of being able to help.” She took a sip of her drink. “He’s quite skilled at art, you know. And so curious about the natural world around him.”
Her brows drew together. “I’ve neglected to encourage his interests, especially in recent days, and I worry that he might feel cast in his brother’s shadow. I’ve promised to take him to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, and I mean to keep it. Darkness must not squeeze out light . . .”
“A wise philosophy.” He raised his glass in quick salute. “To Lux.”
“And to Veritas.”
“Yes, may Truth not be swallowed in the shadows.”