Logan stepped out of the chair and presented the fare together with a reasonable gratuity. The man at the rear of the vehicle bit down on the coin, his blackened teeth making Logan wince, but the chairman seemed oblivious to any pain. He tipped his battered cocked hat before the men set off to find another customer, probably on Fleet Street.
He glanced up at the building, tranquility soothing him. The tall building was set in a range of other, similar ones, but for him, this was the finest house in London.
Logan paused to glance at the legend engraved on the brass plaque. The Royal Society of London, it read. No doubt that was cheaper than having the full title engraved. Besides, The Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge was probably too long for anyone to bother to stop to read. Grinning, he pulled the bell-handle. The red brick buildings were soot-streaked, but still welcoming in aspect. He would not have admitted it to a soul, but he preferred the red brick houses of London to the gray and granite ones of Edinburgh.
The Society, set up by Charles II, was the most prestigious scientific society in the world, and was currently engaged in studies that could benefit the world, if they got it right. Perhaps if he devoted less of his passion to that and more to a prospective bride, he might have more luck.
Logan shook off the ridiculous notion.
A sober-suited servant opened the door. Logan handed over his card and gained instant admittance. “His lordship is awaiting you,” Logan was told in tones that indicated he was late.
Logan followed the man upstairs to the main rooms. The Society consisted of a potentially toxic mixture of scientists and politicians. In the case of the president, Lord Macclesfield, both were mingled in the same person. Like most important establishments, the politicians had a hold on the Royal Society. Currently that meant the Hardwicke set; the allies of Edward Hardwicke, the prime minister’s right hand man.
Logan had little clue about the reason for the note, hand-written by Lord Macclesfield, to stress that he would be honored and extremely gratified by a private meeting with him beforehand. Translated, that meant Lord Macclesfield wanted to see him urgently. Why would he want to see a Scotsman who rarely visited London and only took a moderate interest in politics? He was keeping his studies under wraps until he was sure of them, and could present them properly, so it wouldn’t be that.
Number Two, Crane Court was more substantial than it appeared from the street. Considering that it contained the offices, committee rooms, records and the displays of “curiosities” the Society had collected, it would have to be.
Logan’s shoes thumped against the thin buff-colored drugget as the man silently led him to a room halfway along the landing. He opened a door. “His grace, the Duke of Glenbreck,” he announced, as if addressing a public meeting.
Lord Macclesfield stood to greet his visitor. The earl was a comfortably upholstered man in his mid-fifties, who had guided the Society during a relatively uneventful period of its existence. He was alone. Taken by surprise, Logan halted. “This is the committee meeting?”
“I wished for a quiet word with you alone first.” When Lord Macclesfield held out his hand, Logan shook it and closed the door behind him.
The room was adequately, if not grandly furnished, and had the appearance of a small parlor, with a tantalus standing on a sideboard, a writing-desk set by the window and two winged chairs either side of a glowing fire. “Please, your grace, do make yourself comfortable.”
Logan had to pass on his condolences for the death of the earl’s wife. “I believe since I saw you last, my lord, you suffered a sad loss.”
His lordship’s face turned grave and he nodded. “She was my life’s companion. I miss her every day.” He showed no emotion, but then, he never had. Few people knew what Macclesfield was thinking by studying his face.
That was why he’d been so attracted to Lady Damaris last night. A jolt went through him when he recalled her face, so expressive and unguarded in its responses to him. He’d read so much there.
Now was not the time to think of flirtation. He set his thoughts aside until later. She could be the wife he was looking for, but he would have to do more research. Later.
Putting his leather folder aside, Logan accepted a glass of brandy from the tantalus, served by the earl himself. His lordship did not lock it up again once he poured the two generous libations. He took a seat opposite Logan. His brown cloth coat and cream-colored waistcoat did not denote a man of fashion. The white full-bottomed wig Logan disdained was firmly set on his head, and the buckles at his knees and on his shoes gleamed gold. The wide black band around his left arm, and black enameled ring on the third finger of his left hand added an appropriate touch of somber mourning.
His lordship took a sip of his drink before he set it on a small table by his side. “I am delighted to see you again, Glenbreck.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. It is kind of you to greet me personally,” he said, wondering why his lordship wished to speak to him privately.
Macclesfield put his empty tumbler down with a decisive snap, and leaned forward, his arms gripping the chair, so much that he put dimples in the sturdy crimson upholstery. “Your grace, you are the very man I need. You know we have two candidates for membership. We have published articles from both on the subject of the transit of Venus. You are an expert in the field, and I would value your opinion before we make our decision. Personally, I favor Brady.”
Logan raised a brow, but did not respond hastily. He preferred to keep his powder dry. “May I know why?”
Macclesfield beamed heartily and took a deep breath, the gold buttons on his waistcoat glinting in the May sunshine. “Sir Peter has offered an endowment. He has a house he does not use, and he will make it over to the Society, together with a sum to provide the instruments and charts required.”
“I see.” Sir Peter Brady was, in effect, buying his way in. “I have to point out that his work is not the finest. I would call it adequate or pedestrian.”
His lordship sighed. “But the extra facility and endowment would be so useful. It could lead to more discoveries, and a faster resolution.”
Hold your fire, his inner self warned. Logan’s standards were high, very high where his beloved astronomy was concerned. He compromised for nobody. The stars didn’t, so why should he?
Now the private interview made sense. Macclesfield had brought him here so he could have his say before the meeting, to spike his guns. If he felt strongly enough about the topic, he might be persuaded to make the endowment.
“Could we offer memberships to both candidates?”
“It is possible. What is your opinion of D. Singer’s work?”
“Brilliant,” Logan said. “He grasps the subject, is meticulous with details and draws sound conclusions. He would be a considerable asset. We need to snatch him up before he decides to take his work elsewhere.”
“Singer has said he will attend today. Finally, we get to meet him.”
Logan’s heart leaped. Of all the work he’d read on the transit of Venus, he considered Singer his nearest rival. Perhaps they could work together to the same end. The transit was an important factor in the discovery of longitude, and whoever achieved that would collect a wealthy prize and numerous accolades. Logan would gladly give up both if he could do the work.
Yes, it would be worth it. He would make a provisional offer. “I could be persuaded to match Brady’s offer, if Singer turns out to be suitable. He holds my vote from ability.”
“That would be an extremely generous offer, your grace.” As usual, the earl gave no indication of what Logan had just offered him, but he knew.
Macclesfield’s watch chimed the hour. He pulled it out of his waistcoat pocket and flipped the lid open. He ponderously got to his feet, accompanied by an ominous creaking underfoot. Floorboards rarely remained quiet.
The earl had been more spry the last time Logan had seen him. Perhaps the death of Lady Macclesfield had affected him more than Lo
gan had supposed. His cynicism infected every part of his life, except for his studies, but he had good reason for it.
Then why could he not forget a pair of sparkling eyes and a stolen kiss he could not regret?
Enough.
“We must move to the committee room,” Macclesfield said. “We asked Mr. Singer to attend at half-past, and Sir Peter Brady will be with us shortly afterward.”
That meant Logan would have a chance to meet D. Singer, and discuss his theories. That interested him far more than any political maneuvering.
The committee room was already full. Logan had thought it might be, considering the muted conversations and the creaking of floorboards outside that had gone on during his conversation with the earl. The slight lull in conversation was probably more for the earl than for Logan, although he exchanged bows with several men before he took his place at the long table dominating the room.
Lord Macclesfield sat in the large chair at the head of the table and they got to work.
Sadly, this appeared to be a committee meeting for business rather than to discuss the increasingly exciting developments in the sciences. Considering Lord Macclesfield had pushed through the change in the calendar with the help of his colleagues a few years ago, so far the connection had benefited everyone. Time and space went hand in hand. The more accurate calculation pleased Logan’s heart, although it had infuriated the mob, who had instigated riots, demanding their ten days back.
Idiots. Explaining seemed to make matters worse. Why were people so illogical?
Logan stretched his legs under the table, working out the kinks from sitting for so long. He’d walk back to his house. The exercise would do him good.
“New members,” Lord Macclesfield announced, reading from his list. The man sitting next to him, the one who took the notes, as opposed to the secretary who merely checked and signed them, dipped his pen in the crystal inkpot. He squeaked his way through the names. The list was short.
“Mr. D. Singer and Sir Peter Brady.” Lord Macclesfield glanced at Logan, his eyes sharp.
“Your grace, what are your opinions on Sir Peter?” his lordship prompted. He fixed his gaze on Logan. “What about his work?”
Logan nodded. “Adequate.” He had thought long and hard about that description. “He doesn’t make overt errors, although he does jump to conclusions. He has made a few assertions we are not nearly ready enough to state as facts yet. With the race to delineate the transit of Venus, this becomes even more important than ever. If we get a fraction of a number or observation wrong, we could be so far out as to lose the impetus altogether.”
“So we cannot rely on his academic work.” Macclesfield shrugged. “He has offered to endow us with a magnificent new observatory and laboratory for the further studies of astronomy. You cannot deny, gentleman, that such a facility would be invaluable over the next several years. It would give us the advantage we need over the French and the Italians. Both nations are hot on our heels. If we wish to be the first to discover the vital information the transit of Venus will bring us, such equipment is necessary.”
“What’s he offering precisely?” That came from Lord Willoughby, the vice president who sat directly opposite to Logan.
“A house and endowment, where we may place a library and equipment for the use of members.”
Logan grunted. “Telescopes aren’t much use in London. They keep lights burning day and night, and that’s not good for star-gazing.” He hadn’t meant to sound grudging, but that was the truth.
“He is thinking more of the instruments of calculation.”
“Ah.” Chronometers, sextants, quadrants and globes. All were expensive, and beyond the means of many students of the science.
“So he is buying his way in.” That came from the secretary, Thomas Birch, who was a self-made man. The universities were barred to him, since his parents were Quakers, but Birch had used the other way of gaining a superior education—he had entered the church. He did not appear any more religious than the other fourteen men sitting at the table today, but that didn’t matter. It was a career choice rather than a vocation.
Willoughby got out his snuff box, a fine example in gold and white enamel, examined it as if he had never seen it before, flipped the top open and took a pinch.
Logan had been thinking of establishing a scholarship for needy, but worthy, scientists. So many slaved under limited budgets and time. But to present his idea now would be seen as an attempt to stave off Sir Peter’s membership. Not politic. Perhaps another time. He might have to exchange that for the endowment he’d offered. He would wait for his moment.
“Our second candidate is someone we have never met.” Lord Macclesfield perched a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and pinched them into place. He squinted at the paper as if it were hard to read. More likely the lenses were not sufficient to help the problem that many people had, that of reading at close quarters. He looked up and smiled. “You’ve read Mr. Singer’s articles?”
Logan gave him a bland smile in return. “I have, indeed.” Annoyingly, he had left his folder in the sitting room. He could remember the salient points. The committee was unlikely to want details. Already, a few were fidgeting. “Mr. Singer’s work is outstanding. He has a meticulous method, asserting nothing he cannot demonstrate. I feel his contribution would be invaluable to the Society.”
“What, in particular, has he done?”
“He has assessed several tricky questions and suggested totally new methodologies, which are worth trying. We would be well served by accepting him into the Society.” The articles had impressed Logan, but he suspected the tidbits Singer threw off were in the manner of breadcrumbs leading to a different target. Following the trail like a hungry bloodhound, he had determined to discover what Singer was about. He would woo the man, if he had to, offer him any amount of material help if he would but share a little more.
He cleared his throat. “To make the competition a little fairer, I would be prepared to match Sir Peter’s offer. I have been thinking of making an endowment, but my thoughts were to fund needy but promising students. We want to broaden the intellectual pool. The discovery of the transit of Venus has become a race, and the more talented people we have on our side, the better.”
This search wasn’t an intellectual pursuit. The discovery would sharpen the development of longitude so much that it enabled discoveries beyond the known world. And the riches that involved.
The committee murmured their appreciation.
“But we don’t want to spurn Sir Peter,” Birch pointed out.
In other words, they wanted both endowments. Logan would not make his offer unconditional. He said nothing.
Macclesfield pursed his lips, lifting his gaze to peer at Logan over the rim of his glasses. Logan remained perfectly still. The men stayed like that, until the earl broke the connection and returned his attention to his notes.
Folding his hands together in front of him, over his papers, he nodded. That nod was all the confirmation Logan needed.
“Very well,” the earl said. “I know it is usual to admit one person at a time, but with two such promising candidates, we could perhaps make an exception.”
Excellent. Logan would tolerate Sir Peter if he could have Mr. D. Singer. And he could use his endowment elsewhere, to the project he preferred. But he would do it on his own. He wouldn’t allow the Society to dictate who he should and should not give his money to.
Macclesfield flicked another glance at Logan. “If Singer has arrived, he is waiting outside for the signal to enter. Sir Peter will follow after.”
Tense did not begin to describe Damaris’ mood. She arrived at Crane Court clutching the letter of invitation in her hand, with Matilda determinedly by her side. The man who answered the door wanted to dismiss them. It was Matilda who had the nerve to say, “We are Singer’s agents, sir, and we have the authority to report all business back to him.”
The man paused, his hand on the door as if ready
to close it in their faces. He looked them over, deliberately, head to foot and back again. “Is there something wrong with the gentleman?”
“He is often ill,” Matilda said firmly and utterly mendaciously. “He rarely ventures outdoors.”
“And what are you to him?”
“Relatives.” At least it was Matilda doing the lying. Damaris had little practice, and she was very bad at it.
Reluctantly, the man opened the door wider. “The committee is in session. You’re early, so I will show you to the room next to the one they are using. They will call you when they want you. If they want you.”
Matilda glared at him, but he merely turned and led the way inside.
He took them to a comfortable room, with two armchairs set either side of a pleasantly glowing fireplace. Matilda tsked and picked up a fireguard that was perched to one side, settling it firmly before the fire. “You’ll burn the place down.”
The man grunted and left them to their own devices.
The seat was obviously intended for a man. Its spreading base would cope well with a man’s full-skirted formal coat, but not the wider hoops ladies wore. It was just as well Damaris had decided on relatively modest clothes today, more like the ones she had worn for years before her startling advancement in society. Her green gown with the plain petticoat was of better quality, to be sure. In the old days, she wouldn’t have worn such a fine string of pearls around her throat, either. Unlike Matilda, who had dressed in the height of fashion since the day the bemused triplets had first met her. Matilda’s figured mid-blue silk gown and dazzling white petticoat, not to mention the frivolous column of satin bows decorating her stomacher were testament to the dressmaker’s art.
Matilda sat on the edge of the chair set opposite the one Damaris chose. She carefully unpinned and set aside her hat and began to remove her skin-tight gloves.
A Hint of Starlight Page 3
