He uncapped one of the containers. “Alas, I’m going to destroy all your lovely work on the valves. Otherwise they could run the boiler at three-quarter speed and prove it works. But once the dastards are arrested, there’s no reason why you and Mrs. Ashton shouldn’t take rightful ownership of the prototype. After you’ve repaired the damage, and I formulate iron for your new boiler, it should function perfectly, allowing you and the widow to file for the patent and carry on your mentor’s work.”
Benedict’s face lit with a beatific glow at the mention of the invention. “Our new steam engine will change the world, and for the better.” But his smile quickly gave way to a sigh. “How unfair that Eli is not here to see it.”
“You, of all people, ought to know that life is rarely fair.” Wrexford methodically stirred the potion.
“You know about my past?” asked Benedict in a small voice.
“As we parsed through all we knew about your disappearance, Sterling was forced to tell us. He never doubted you for a moment.” The earl checked the liquid’s color. “Nor did Miss Merton.”
“I don’t deserve her,” came the hollow reply.
Ah, the follies of youth. Though given his own romantic history, Wrexford conceded he wasn’t in any position to feel smugly superior. He paused for a moment, watching the bubbling chemicals . . . and was suddenly struck by the realization that he wasn’t ready to cock up his toes just yet. For some reason, it bothered him—a great deal, in fact—that he hadn’t yet had the chance to tell Charlotte . . . how he felt about her.
Love. Had he just admitted that? Perhaps not, as the earth hadn’t erupted in fire and swallowed him into the deepest pit of hell. Still, the word didn’t feel half so frightening as he had imagined. Indeed, it seemed to have settled somewhere deep in his chest and was pulsing a very pleasant warmth throughout his whole being.
He looked up. “If you would slink away from the lady you love because you think yourself unworthy, then you likely are.”
Benedict blinked.
“For God’s sake, let her decide for herself! She seems to have a brain, and knows how to use it.”
It seemed to take several heartbeats for his words to penetrate the young man’s despair. “W-Why thank you, sir! That is very sage advice—”
“Of course, it’s all a moot point if you stick your spoon in the wall here.” On that note, Wrexford extinguished the flame. “So help me fill the vials and refasten the lids—and bloody hell, don’t spill any of the mixture on yourself. I’ll close the door as I leave, so you should be safe in here. I don’t expect that anyone will come check on our progress for at least several more hours—and if Skinny reaches the place I sent him, I expect help will be here before then.”
Assuming Raven had survived and passed word of what had happened to Charlotte, and that she, in turn, had mustered the full force of their friends. That he refused to believe otherwise was perhaps a sign of his newfound sentimental weakness. Charlotte would likely tease him unmercifully for being such a romantic.
A clash of verbal swords I would gladly welcome.
Wrexford indicated the vials. “I’m leaving the explosives with you. Stand guard at the door, and if you hear anyone take hold of the latch, let it swing open and wait until they enter the room before smashing the glass at their feet. The oak is thick enough to shield you. Give the flames a moment to subside, then run like the Devil and make your escape.”
“Like hell I will.” Benedict fixed him with a resolute scowl. “I’m coming with you. You may need help in fighting the guards.”
Wrexford heaved a sardonic sigh. “Have you any experience in fighting for your life?”
Benedict’s expression betrayed a baleful twitch.
“I didn’t think so. And as I’d rather not die because of your bumbling, I’d prefer you stay here.”
“I’m good with my fists,” began Benedict.
In no mood to waste time with further arguments, Wrexford threw a quick punch that caught the young man square on the jaw.
“So am I,” he murmured as Benedict dropped like a sack of stones to the floor. If things went awry with his own plan, it might save the fellow’s life to be found bruised and unconscious.
But with a little luck we might both prove wrong the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished.
After rubbing the sting from his knuckles, Wrexford pocketed the acid, drew his knife, and set to work on the lock.
CHAPTER 28
“Someone’s coming.” Raven tensed and shifted slightly, trying to peer through the heavy, muffling mist swirling around the wooden pilings. Charlotte heard it, too—the soft slap of steps on the muck-slickened cobbles.
“Don’t move,” ordered the boy, slipping a hand inside his boot as he tried to slither forward and shield her with his scrawny body.
Charlotte held him back. “Stay where you are,” she ordered. He had already taken far too many risks. “I’ve got a pistol, which is—”
Two short, fluttery whistles cut off the need for any protest.
“It’s Hawk,” said Raven and gave an answering signal.
A moment later, his younger brother darted out of the fog, shadowed by the wraith-like figure of a second boy, and found their hiding place on the wharf.
“We’ve found him! We found him!” said Hawk, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush.
Charlotte felt a fizz of heat surge through her veins and suddenly the ice was melted from her blood.
“And look who brought the news—”
“Skinny, ye little bugger,” cut in Raven, reaching out to cuff his friend on the shoulder. “We thought you was dead.”
“Oiy, I wudda been feed fer de fishes iffen we hadn’t diddled them scurvy bastards wot had us in limbo.”
Pulling the urchin into her arms, Charlotte gave him a fierce hug. “Thank God you’re safe, Skinny.”
The boy’s face—what little skin could be seen beneath the coating of filth—turned beet red. “Ain’t the Almighty ye gots te thank. It’s His Nibs, who be a wery clever cuffin.”
“He’s unhurt then?” asked Charlotte quickly.
“Oiy,” answered Skinny with a gap-toothed grin. “And God help them shamming cads when he tickles their ribs wiv his blade.”
She was suddenly cold again. “How many men is he up against?”
“Dunno exactly.” Skinny frowned in thought. “There be two leaders, an mebbe three or four brutes guarding the building.”
Six against one. And Wrexford had the nerve to accuse her of being reckless.
“We need to go help—”
Raven caught hold of her cloak as his brother darted out to the wharf and gave another whistle. “O’course we’re going te help him. Hawk says Mr. Sheffield will be here in a tic. He’s got Griffin with him, and a half dozen other Runners.”
Sure enough, a group of men, moving quickly and quietly, materialized from the mists. Reining in her impatience, Charlotte drew her hat down lower on her brow and took care to stay several steps behind Raven and Skinny as they moved out to join the others.
“More guttersnipes?” Griffin made a face. “Your band of informants appears to be more numerous than the rats that infest these hellhole rookeries, Mr. Sheffield.”
“And a good deal more useful,” snapped the earl’s friend. “So don’t bite the paws that feed you, Griffin. Filthy though they may be, they’re going to make you smell sweet as roses to your superiors.”
The Runner gave a grunt. “Let us hope they’re not just blowing stinking smoke up our noses.”
“We ain’t!” piped up Skinny, every bony angle of his body bristling in indignation. “So shut yer gob and prime yer barking irons.” The boy skipped a few steps toward one of the narrow streets leading away from the wharf. “Move yer pegs and follow me.”
* * *
The lock mechanism quickly yielded to the probing point of Wrexford’s blade. Pressing his palm to the age-dark oak, he slowly eased the door open. There was no sign of
movement, save for the shadows, their sinuous slithers crowding out the weak aureoles of light cast by the widely spaced wall lanterns. He slipped into the corridor, keeping deep in the darkness, and crept toward the muffled sounds of life to his left.
As he came to a turn, Wrexford peered around the corner and saw two guards up ahead. They were crouched down on the floor, half hidden in the opening of a small side room, their weapons set aside as they took turns rolling dice through the flickering of their own lantern’s flame. If he could sneak past them, another turn would bring him to the room with the steam engines.
With luck, their boredom would play in his favor, thought the earl. As would their greed. The pile of coins on the floor was growing. He waited, timing the rhythm of the rattling ivories and the resulting hoots of triumph and disgust.
“Bloody hell—Lady Luck be a she-bitch.”
A few quick steps, then Wrexford held himself very still.
The guard added another oath. “Gimme a swig of yer gin.”
As light winked off the pewter flask, the earl darted past the doorway.
So far, so good. He waited another moment, but the clatter of the dice showed the game was continuing. Moving quickly, he turned another corner and followed the ghostly wisps of steam to the engine room. His blade made quick work of the lock, and as he ventured a glance inside, the glow of the wall sconces showed the space was deserted.
Whoosh-clang. Whoosh-clang. The small test model of the valves was running at quarter speed, the noise sounding like a sleeping dragon that had swallowed a hammer. Hurrying around the spitting, sweating metal, Wrexford approached the much larger machine, which was sitting in silent slumber at the back of the room. Though the light was dim, he had no trouble locating the condenser. From the nearby tool bench he grabbed up a small wrench and removed several bolts, allowing him access to the interior. One by one, he emptied the half dozen vials of his potent corrosive acid mixture into the casing. The precision valves would quickly be ruined, and as the villains didn’t have the drawings, the demonstration couldn’t happen—even if he and Hillhouse weren’t rescued.
Wrexford replaced the cover and bolts. It was now time to sabotage Blackstone’s departure.
Making his way around the workbenches, the earl slipped between two coal bins and was just coming abreast of the hissing prototype when a noise at the door signaled someone was about the enter. He quickly took shelter in a deep alcove near the bins.
The portal bumped open with a bang, and a moment later the earl saw why. Black with coal dust, the two pitifully small boys he had seen imprisoned with Skinny were struggling to push a large wheeled container over to the bins.
“Ye lazy buggers, stop slacking.” The brute with the cudgel was behind them. Quickening his steps, he lashed out a vicious blow with his stick that knocked one of the boys to the ground.
Outrage boiled through his blood, but Wrexford kept a grip on his wrath, reminding himself that stopping Blackstone would put an end to such torments. Temper, temper . . .
And then with a nasty laugh, the brute began kicking the boy, his thick hobnailed boots drawing blood. Another few blows and—
Be damned with the consequences. Wrexford shot out of his hiding place and caught the brute by his collar.
“Only craven cowards hit children,” he growled as he swung his foe around and smashed a hard blow to his face.
Grunting in pain, the brute staggered back, then regained his balance and swung his cudgel at the earl’s head.
Wrexford ducked under the stick and with a swift pivot slammed his knee into his foe’s crotch. A gasp—followed by a thump as the brute dropped to the floor, writhing in agony. Still caught in the haze of fury, the earl swung his foot, taking savage satisfaction in the thud that knocked the brute unconscious.
The sound seemed to snap him out of his rage. Rubbing at his brow, he paused for a moment as his senses cleared. He wasn’t proud of the last kick—but he had never claimed to be a saint.
He hurried to the fallen boy, who had been helped to his feet by his comrade. They both stared at him uncertainly, looking torn between fear and hope.
“Listen carefully, lads,” he said softly. “I’ll have you out of here in a tic, but you need to do exactly as I say.” Taking their hands, he led them to the door. A quick check of the corridor showed the sounds of the struggle hadn’t been heard over the noise of the engine. “Go quickly and quietly to the door leading to the coal pile. Once you’re outside, run like hell and lose yourselves in the alleys. Understood?”
The boys nodded.
Another check. “Go!” urged Wrexford, and watched them dart off. They were street-tough urchins, used to surviving the cruelty of the rookies. The odds of escape were in their favor. More so than if they had stayed locked up with a violent brute.
Charlotte would likely tease him for having a conscience. A smile played over his lips. Was his cynicism softening?
Interesting though the question was, he had other things to think about. Skinny had indicated that the stairs to the upper level were to the left and at the end of the corridor. Wrexford gave the boys a moment longer to escape, then left the engine room, taking care to draw his knife and re-engage the lock to imprison the brute before continuing on his way. The gloom deepened, the wisps of steam dissolving to dampen the air with an oppressive chill. He had just reached the stairwell and set his foot on the first tread when an icy tickling touched the nape of his neck.
And then the chill suddenly turned coldly metallic.
“You surprise me, Wrexford,” said Blodgett over the click of a pistol being cocked. “Word is you’re a cold-hearted bastard, but it seems you have a fatal weakness for little boys.”
A weakness, to be sure. Whether it would prove fatal remained to be seen.
“I dislike cowards who prey on those too small to fight back,” he replied calmly.
“Bad luck for you.” Blodgett laughed and jammed the pistol barrel harder against the earl’s neck. “Up you go. You’ve become a thorn in my side, and I think it time to remove the irritation once and for all.”
They climbed in single file to the top of the landing. A twitch of the weapon told Wrexford to turn right.
“Open it,” ordered Blodgett as they came to a closed door.
Lord Blackstone looked up from the pile of papers on his desk and slowly removed his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“He was in the engine room, and managed to free the urchins,” announced Blodgett.
A frown thinned Blackstone’s mouth, but his expression quickly relaxed. “Come, Geoffrey, it’s nothing to worry about.” A curt laugh. “Even if the brats dared to tell anyone, who would believe them?”
“I say we shoot him now. It’s clear he’s not going to do as we asked.”
The marquess’s face hardened to a frown. “You’re becoming a little too fond of shedding blood,” he said sharply. “As I’ve cautioned you, a smart man solves problems with his brain, not his more primitive instincts. Put down the pistol.” A slap of his palm indicated a spot on the desk. “Now.”
Blodgett paled but did as he was told. “Y-You thought it an exceedingly clever plan to murder Ashton and frame Hollis for the deed,” he muttered, moving back to stand by the side table covered with tools.
“So it was. But Nevins was unnecessary. And now . . .” Blackstone leaned back and tapped his fingertips together in thought.
It was a gamble, thought Wrexford, but perhaps the tension between father and son could be turned to his own advantage. Otherwise, he would soon be a dead man.
And he wasn’t quite ready to shake hands with the Devil.
“Since I’m not long for this world, Blackstone, kindly satisfy my curiosity on how you put all of this together. I’m assuming it was Blodgett who killed Ashton and carved the symbol on his belly. But Hollis—”
“Hollis had received a note—one he thought was from Ashton—revising the rendezvous at Half Moon Gate to twenty minutes after the original time,”
exclaimed Blodgett hotly. “You frightened him off before the night watchman I sent could catch him.”
Ah, the noise he had heard by the body, thought Wrexford, as more pieces of the puzzle fit together. But there was still something that wasn’t clear. “How was Hollis drawn into the plan?”
“I knew him from his loitering around the mill,” answered Blodgett. “It was pitifully easy to have one of our hired men convince him that Ashton was, like himself, an altruist and wanted to discuss sharing the profits of any new inventions with his workers. However, Hollis was warned that he needed to set up a rendezvous during Ashton’s visit to London, and that it needed to be done with great secrecy, as Mrs. Ashton was dead set against giving any blunt away.”
“Clever,” conceded Wrexford. “But—”
Blackstone sighed. “But then I fear Geoffrey overreacted. He felt it necessary to eliminate Hollis so he didn’t start putting two and two together and figure out he had been set up to take the blame.”
“I tell you,” muttered Blodgett, “I had reason to believe he had overheard us in Leeds talking about the patent papers.”
“I fear you have an overactive imagination,” murmured the marquess.
Wrexford didn’t correct him. Instead, deciding to play thorn-in-the-side to the hilt, he thrust the point in a little deeper. “It was, as Blodgett said, an exceedingly well-thought-out plan,” he said loudly. “Even Hollis’s death might have slipped by without the authorities connecting it to Ashton. But . . .” He looked at Blodgett. “Killing Kirkland was the nail in your coffin.”
The earl then slowly shifted his gaze to Blackstone. “And yours, too. I doubt the House of Lords will show mercy to a man who kills his own firstborn son.”
“I was first,” rasped Geoffrey. “Just as I was always first in my father’s affections. Kirkland was an indolent wastrel, while I had the intellect and ambition of a true son of Blackstone.”
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 31
