Chapter 4
After spending half of the night at the Duke of Chelmsford’s with the authorities, Rachel now sat in the library of Anthony’s ancestral home for further examination of George’s terrible demise. Lady Ward had retired from all the excitement of the evening. Rachel had changed out of her silk gown and rested on a brocade chair opposite Anthony.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, warding off the damp winter chill and illuminating a vast number of leather bound books that populated the shelves from the floor to the gallery above. How she itched to read every tome and how lucky Anthony was to live in a scholarly paradise.
Anthony sans his frockcoat, leaned forward, rested his elbow on his knees, easy in his skin, yet attentive. His ebony hair, pulled back in a queue, fell over his snowy white shirt. Other than a tear in his stocking there was no evidence of their fall into the barberry bushes. Her face heated from the memory of that awkward position. She tilted her head to the ceiling of gilded stucco, that presented framed paintings of God, angels in war, and the seizure of earthly mortals from demons below.
Anthony caught her staring at the motif, his deep baritone voice infused with shades of deeper meaning. “The artist demonstrated the deadly poison of the serpent destroyed by joy that filled the souls of the vanquished and served the power of redemption.”
How wonderful he was to distract her for a moment from the night’s events. Not to be outdone, she said, “The artist has captured the iron hand of right and absolute, yielding a stronger force that defeats evil and allows us to move from darkness to light.” As she parlayed the response, a lightness tingled in her chest, enjoying the shared intellectual camaraderie. Touché, Lord Anthony.
Anthony pressed his lips together. “Or has the artist divined the experiences of our past are the architects of our present?”
She could not think of one thing to counter his debate, not when she swiped a tiny rapier and Lord Anthony served a blow with a battle-axe. I will win next time. Rachel smiled and for a moment, the embossed tomes, the beeswax candles sputtering in candelabras, and then the walls, melted away. The world, and all its inherent drama, vanished leaving only the two of them, and an intangible profoundness that left them intimately connected.
Catching her breath, Rachel ripped her stare from Anthony’s compelling regard, thankful for the interruption of Duke Richard Rutland’s entrance and trailed by a servant carrying tray of food. The servant poured tea and following the Duke’s nod, departed, closing the doors behind him with a light snap.
Duke Richard Rutland stared out the heavily draped windows. His silence loomed. He was a tall, handsome, imposing man, regal with dark hair greying at his temples, and smartly dressed despite the lateness of the hour. He did not have the thickening middle that a man his age would present. No. He was rather robust and appeared as one who rode horses for hours, and…he was forbidding. His staunch demeanor gave the appearance of someone you’d dare not cross.
The Duke sat behind his massive rosewood desk. “I wanted to talk to the two of you without the authorities. There is more to George’s death and the attempt on your lives this evening. We’ve been lax since Nicolas and Abby’s kidnapping a year ago. Again, we are being played upon by an unseen adversary.”
Anthony rubbed his thumb across his chiseled jaw. “I remember the whole situation as if it happened yesterday. During Abby’s betrothal party, both father and I had received a life and death summons to my laboratory.”
Duke Richard threaded his fingers through his hair. “Fortunately, my impatient nature saved us. For I believed a hoax had been played and we left, seconds before the lab exploded. During the chaos, Abby had been abducted by Percy Devol, a madman bent on revenge against the long deceased Duke of Rutland, Anthony’s grandfather, holding the insane and illogical belief that he was the rightful heir to the dukedom. His goal had been to eliminate all of the Rutlands.”
Anthony stood, strode to a sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Imprisoned aboard the Civis, Abby would have perished under the thumb of the ship’s Captain, a former slaver, and his dreadful crew if not for your cousin, Jacob Thorne. Fortunately, his privateering activities included capturing the merchantman in which Abby was held prisoner.”
Anthony picked up his drink and tossed it back with a single swallow. “Our enemies were clever during the orchestrated disorder. My oldest brother, Nicolas and heir and had been captured and locked away on a Portuguese slaver bound for Brazil where he was meant to die enslaved in back-breaking labor beneath the hot tropical sun. His ship never reached Brazil.”
The duke spun a crystal paperweight on his desk, seeming absorbed with the activity. Light reflected from candles flashed from the sphere, and disappeared in the shadows. “I received a message today from the King,” he said. “One of His Majesty’s frigates discovered wreckage in the Caribbean Sea, confirming the ship Nicolas had been imprisoned on was destroyed by a hurricane, and all passengers and crew lost at sea. British Naval ships are scouring the West Indies, in case there may be survivors.” The duke paused, pulled in a deep breath, retaining his stoic demeanor. Yet, his voice quivered when he said, “I will not give up on my son until we have combed every corner of the Caribbean.”
The duke let go of the paperweight and leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything either of you could add? Some observation of suspicious people at the Chelmsfords? A conversation overheard of anyone who might have been involved with George’s murder? I need clues. Anything to stop the rogues who attack and endanger our family.”
“I was present the night Percy Devol attempted to kill Abby in Boston,” Rachel said. “Devol had admitted there were three more enemies of your family. I would start there. Who would have reason enough to hate and kill the Rutlands?”
The Duke raked his fingers through his hair. “How many times have I gone over that same scenario? How many investigators have I sent out only to return empty-handed?”
Rachel patted her lips with a napkin. “Abby and I concurred that for anyone to take on the Duke of Rutland was sheer insanity. So, the question remains, who has the resources to hire two ships to take both Nicolas and Abby? Not Devol. That alone took money and power.”
The Duke aimlessly flipped through a few scattered papers. “I am a member of Parliament. My support of the Duke of Richmond in ending the war with the Colonies has met with defiance and animosity. The war is breaking England’s economy sustaining pay for a half-million, soldiers, marines and seamen between the Americas, West Indies and the Mediterranean. As a result, I have cultivated enemies—those who profit from the shameful public expenditure.”
Rachel took a sip of tea and placed her cup in the saucer. “Clearly the culprits were intent on making the last of the Rutland lineage suffer. That comes from hatred and that particular emotion comes from fear or a perceived injustice and, perhaps, from something personal.”
The Duke of Rutland’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Now our adversaries are emboldened and have moved from their dormancy over the past several months to regroup. Their next line of attack is Anthony, the subsequent heir.”
“Do you think it was Lord Robert Ward who pushed the urn on us? I didn’t want to bring his name up with the authorities since I’m a Colonial and he is a…Lord of the realm. He was so angry with you, Anthony. Just before the vase fell on us, I heard that same gravely laugh, like he had swallowed his lung.”
Anthony’s head snapped around, eyes intent on her. “I heard it too and had my suspicions, but there was an octave difference. Beneath Lord Ward’s bullish exterior, he is a coward, not a murderer.”
Rachel shuddered. “The flower pot was meant to kill you, Lord Anthony.”
Anthony returned to the settee, sat back, tension visible in his wide shoulders. “I don’t believe the urn was meant to kill me. There are two separate events that must be reviewed. I believe the urn falling on us was orchestrated to propel us into the bushes to discover George’s body.”
Rachel’s fingers fluttered to her chest. “You’re right. That means the killer knows you. How you’d react to protect me. The killer, or killers, wanted to show you how vulnerable you are…and that they are watching.”
“With certainty, the killer followed my movements. Waited until I was leaving Chelmsford’s and then had the audacity to plant George’s body there to make his sordid deed public.”
“The murderer wants attention. But why kill your assistant?”
“Perhaps George had seen or heard something that he shouldn’t have. I had a bad feeling this morning when I received a note from his brother that he had not been home for three days. Not the norm for George’s character.”
The Duke sighed. “I imagine his brother took the news badly.”
“Very badly. I promised I would get to the bottom of this atrocity.”
The duke steepled his fingers. “We are to assume that whatever George discovered happened three days ago. Perhaps he came face to face with the criminal set on killing you.”
“Ask around, Father. The servants, gardeners, stable boys, visitors? Someone must have seen something around the estate. George was a good-sized man and easily noticed.”
“They will strike again. To ferret them out will be another matter. I will hire extra guards to station around your laboratory and the house.”
Anthony scoffed, “We cannot live in fear.”
“We must be vigilant at all times. I cannot risk losing you, Anthony.”
Rachel heard the sad-sweet tone in the Duke’s voice, and his love for his son. To have lost his eldest must be crushing to him.
“On another note, I heard of your provocation with Lord Ward.” The Duke lifted a knowing brow. “So unlike you.”
Anthony stared at his father. “I was justified.”
The duke nodded. Rachel could see he would not interfere. The Rutlands were a tight family and loyal to one another.
Beyond the French doors the first fingers of dawn stretched in a brilliant display of lavenders, pinks and golds. When Anthony angled his head to the door, she wrinkled her brow, discerning his mysterious cue. She caught on, and standing, placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I will say good night.”
Anthony followed her into the hall. “Would you be willing to help me in the laboratory?”
Ten minutes later, and barely able to tamp down her glee, she met Anthony near the row of arborvitae that bordered his lab. Despite missing a night of sleep, she was ready to plunge into one of his scientific projects. They followed smooth flagstones where moss flowed in between the cracks and feeling soft beneath her slippers.
“Miss Thorne,” he said, in just the way his father, the Duke would say her name−evenly and with a slight bow. “Am I to believe that you came to England to see my lab?” The fervent scientist, impassioned discoverer, both vanished in that seasoned gallantry.
“There may be some truth in that assumption.” Rachel sighed. “I’m visiting England for three months and desire to make the most of my visit.”
“I thought the husband hunt was in your scheme.”
“Wrong. Husband hunting was Abby’s idea.”
“With the war going on in the Colonies, travel must be difficult.”
“I will return the same way I came. Lisbon is a neutral port for American ships. My brother, Ethan is scheduled to sail there and meet me.” They rounded the tall shrubs, the unusual edifice topped with a ridiculous number of cupolas and towers burst into view.
“What do you think of it?”
She wrapped her cloak tighter around her to ward off the wintry air, half-wishing for the roaring fire in the library and smothered a laugh. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“That bad?”
“Horrific. What madness did the architects have on their minds? Looks like a wedding cake with swirls of frosting piled to the heavens.”
“A culinary confection? That is a new commendation. Absurdity was the ecstasy of the designers, yet I cannot claim ownership to the fanciful design no more than I can complain about the monstrosity. Duke Cornelius Westbrook, a close family friend paid for the laboratory and desired a replica of the famed Palace of Sintra in Portugal with the accompanying turrets and towers.”
“But all the pink?”
“Embarrassing. A most unfortunate circumstance was that no one was allowed to see the atrocity until completion. My father has incessant nightmares and has ordered the concealment of the horror from the rest of the world by planting taller arborvitae around the perimeter. When I first laid eyes on the structure I wanted to stab hawthorn spikes through my eyeballs.”
Rachel giggled and clapped her hands together to warm them from the cold. “A sense of humor or revenge?”
“Although not related, Duke Cornelius is a like a favorite uncle and has been indispensable to our family for years. When Abby was abducted, he discovered the kidnapper’s note in the library and did everything in his power to assist in finding Abby and Nicholas. He insisted on building a new laboratory for me, so I could never offend him for his generosity. I have accepted the grandeur and pretend not to notice every time I walk to the lab.”
Anthony held open the door for her to enter. To be alone with Sir Anthony would be considered scandalous. Rachel gave herself a stern shake as she fixed her gaze on the equipment at the back of the room, and willed her shaking legs to carry her all the way, praying she would not break another flask. Since he wasn’t bothered by the shocking behavior, she hid her discomfiture behind a prudently arranged mask of calmness as the heels of her boots clipped a sharp echo across the floor. This was in the interest of science after all.
But it just wasn’t a scandal that made her stomach quiver. After the attack in Boston, she had been shy of men. One man had tried to kiss her in the garden and she ran from him, vomiting in the bushes. She had locked herself in her room for days, thrown books at the wall and cried into her pillow. Nightmares interrupted her sleep. She swallowed a metallic taste of fear, anything to banish the tragedy from her consciousness.
She glanced up from beneath her lashes, hoping Anthony had not seen her distress. Why was she not afraid of him? Because he is your best friend’s brother…he’s family.
He had changed his clothes. No heavy embroidery or gold braiding was attached to his mode of dress, imparted by most men of his rank who enjoyed excess and personal vanity. No. His taste was simple and modest, yet yielded a sensual elegance from black tight-fitting silk breeches and silk stockings that molded the muscles in his calves. He shrugged off his perfectly tailored coat. Rachel inhaled. Weren’t his shoulders wider in his immaculate muslin shirt and cravat? How long before his well-groomed appearance—most likely owed to the precision of his valet—became disordered?
He took her coat, his fingers lingering on her shoulders before placing their coats on a hook. Rachel moved away, noting a room to the right she had not seen before. She blushed when she saw the cot, and then assumed that Lord Anthony worked late into the night or took a nap while waiting on his experiments to complete.
She shifted her gaze away from the cot. “May I have a look at the transcripts of the experiment you propose?”
“Do I have your sworn secrecy?” He held up his notebook like the Holy Grail.
“Abby is like a sister to me. I would never betray her family.”
He pulled out a chair for her and slapped down his notebook. She poured through the contents, turning page after page, trying not to focus on Anthony, stationed behind her, reading the text with her…so near that she could feel the warmth of him and breathe the faint whiff of sandalwood. She admired his talent and reports on where he had duplicated many of Dr. Franklin’s experiments. She tilted her head up to look at him. “Why do I have the distinct feeling you have many of your notes in your head?”
He flashed a wicked smile.
She smoothed a page in front of her with an unsteady hand, and then positioned a beaker and volumetric flask just so.
“For the exact same reason I challenged Lord Ward last night. Unwittingly, I had hired an assistant who had been employed by Ward. The scoundrel copied pages of my notes and transferred the information to Lord Ward who, in turn, took credit for my work.”
She tapped a finger on her lip. “The Royal Society of Science is the coveted prize. That is why we must improve on what you have crafted. To do that I need what is in that head of yours. Care to expound?”
“Dr. Franklin grouped several Leyden jars into what he described as a battery. By multiplying the number of holding vessels, a stronger charge could be stored, and more power would be available on discharge.”
“And what do you propose?”
“To make a better battery. To prove that electricity can be generated chemically and to make the battery a continuous and reproducible source of electric current.”
Rachel stared at him, completely absorbed, trying to grasp the significance of his genius. “It is insane, Lord Anthony. Impossible. It can’t be done.”
“I call it the Unicorn.”
Rachel let out the breath, Anthony’s spell still woven tightly around her. “Because it has never been seen. There have been only short bursts of electricity, nothing consistent.” She examined his notes again. “Why saltwater?”
Anthony shrugged as if his genius were no great feat. “Electrical fire loves water, is strongly attracted by it, and they can subsist together. My theory is salt water is added density and greater will be the conduction. I hate to see you caught up in all this nonsense, Miss Thorne. But even more disconcerting, being near me could get you hurt or killed.”
He referred to his assistant’s murder and the consequences of being associated with the Rutland’s. She cocked her head and studied him, regardless of the inappropriateness of it. He was a curious man. A genius, but an enigma. Tall and lean, a day’s growth of a beard and brilliant blue eyes, clear as the sky that graced a summer morn. Anthony Rutland was superb. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. Besides you owe me.”
“How’s that?”
“You saved my life.”
She watched his forehead furrow, saw a range of emotion playing across his face, too complex to discern. Guilt? Desperation? Suffering? What? And why? Suddenly she wanted to know everything about him.
He leaned closer, his head dipping down, but his eyes, sincere now, burned at her through dark lashes. His hand hovered in the space between them, his expression a mixture of pain and longing.
Then, as if realizing something, he dropped his hand, his emotion disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared.
He moved away.
Rachel shook her head, unable to dispel the look in his eyes…the despairing, haunted look…as he’d reached toward her. Anthony had scars, hid them well beneath a veneer of isolation. Frightening to be sure, but the naked, yearning, the agony she’d glimpsed painted her unease with bewilderment.
She cleared her throat. “The Chinese believed that through the act of saving someone’s life, you are responsible for that life. Since we will be working together, call me, Rachel.”
He swung around, dangled his disbelief, left it hanging in the air. “Miss Thorne. That is the most convoluted…you should be indebted to me.”
“Rachel.” She repeated.
“What?”
“Call me Rachel. While we’re working in the lab, call me by my name.”
“On one condition, you tell me how a Colonial woman is so well educated?” He handed her a roll of gold foil. “Wrap the gilt paper with the gilt face next to the glass.”
He was back to business, shuttered behind his passion for discovery. When she finished the wrapping, she pushed the gilt wrapped jars toward him. “Of course, the brute that you are had to reveal me as a bluestocking at Lord Chelmsford’s. I won’t forgive you for that. All the tongues will be wagging.”
Anthony was standing over her, his hands calmly placing a metal rod through the cork, inserting it into the bottle, not a bit of quiver or restlessness in his hands. She suddenly became aware of how real and large and solid he was and had to force herself to stop squeezing the bottle.
“Since when have I cared about wagging tongues and the rest of humanity? My family and you excluded.”
“The rest of humanity? Lord Anthony, you are incorrigible.”
“Anthony,” he insisted. “Since you are my assistant−”
“Colleague,” she corrected and handed him another metal rod to insert in a cork. His mouth closed like he swallowed a cup of vinegar. Having a hard time with that notion?
She plunged ahead with her history and education. “An Oxford tutor was supplied to my cousin, Jacob, and my brother, Ethan, with shipments of books from England. Anything required for their education was made available without any knowledge of the benefactor. The tutor noted my capabilities and included me.”
Anthony rubbed the back of his neck, bestowing a baleful stare.
Rachel’s stomach clenched.
“That doesn’t explain the vast extent of your knowledge. Lord Ward was educated in the best of England’s institutions. You could have him for breakfast.”
Rachel laughed, warming to the subject. “I thank you for the compliment.
“I always tinkered with things, making them better. When my father and Jacob started the shipyard in Boston Harbor, I begged to accompany them and became a regular visitor.”
“Your knowledge of hydraulics?”
“I studied the Greeks and Romans, fascinated by the mechanical properties of liquids. I improved on a suction bilge pump, making a double-handled lever, with its fulcrum between the common suction pump. I implemented up-and-down pump handles to drive two pump boxes with two valves in each box that released the water in the bilges and fed the sludge into the sea.”
Anthony scoffed. “And you invented this while tagging along?”
She moved to the clock on the wall, decorated with a rich Chinoiserie that played a minuet on the quarters of six bells. “Actually…when I ran the shipyard.”
Anthony turned his head toward her. “You ran a shipyard?”
She peered through the beveled side glass absorbed with the gears and their workings. “I had to,” she said, curling her finger around a tendril of hair and still studying the gears. “This clock is based on Harrison’s design.”
“And you know that because—”
“Because of the two counterweights at the top of the clock linked by a metal coil in the middle. This is designed to swing back and forth, to act as shock-absorbers against the roll of a ship.”
He stopped gathering the jars and gave her his full attention. “Of course, your experience in the shipyard. Harrison designed the clock to take in temperature, humidity, and motion so sailors could calculate longitude with precision. No ship should be without it.”
She looked out a front window and caught the yellow gorse and the flattened spiny leaves of Butcher’s Broom, lining the lake. “My father died at the Battle of Bunker Hill. My mother followed, dying of influenza, but I believe more from a broken heart from the loss of my father. My brother, Ethan was out privateering. My younger brother, Thomas, died.” Her voice caught from the memory of Thomas. “When the British controlled Boston, we suffered the impressment of soldiers in our home.” If only Thomas…his senseless death… Guilt, simmered beneath the surface like a capped volcano, unable to erupt. She clutched her heart and tamped down the misery.
Anthony took a step toward her, but stopped when she shook her head.
She didn’t want sympathy. Didn’t deserve it.
“War broke out and Ethan had been captured and, as far as I knew would breathe his last breath in an English prison. Jacob had been accused of a crime he didn’t commit, escaped Boston, and embarked on privateering, raiding the coasts of England. My family had put too much work into the shipyard to let it collapse. I was the only Thorne left. The workers came to me because they didn’t want to lose their jobs.”
She walked to the sink arrangement and pushed the pump up and down until a spray of water burst out, and then opened the cupboard beneath to investigate the brass piping. “Fascinating to have a pump inside. Brass, too. A fine piece. Guericke’s vacuum pump? How deep is the well?”
“I made improvements of Guericke’s design. Forty-three feet. I insisted the lab be built over the well. About the shipyard—”
“When the British left Boston, I was commissioned by the Continental Congress, who had authorized the creation of a Continental Navy, to build ships needed to counteract the British naval activities in coastal waters and to facilitate the seizure of commercial and military prizes. So through the encouragement of the workers and Patriots, I managed the shipyard.”
“Remarkable.” Anthony finished all thirty-five jars, seven rows of five, sealed with a wooden cap and contact wires projected within.
She glanced at him. “I did what I had to do and readily handed over the reins when Jacob returned. The time freed me to work on other interests.”
“Electricity.”
“Exactly. I was always fascinated when I scuffed my feet over the rug and static fire would appear. After reading Dr. Franklin’s notes, I improvised by taking a glass jar with a metal foil cemented to the inside and outside surfaces, and then, projecting a metal terminal vertically through the jar lid to make contact with the inner foil. Like making lightning in a jar.” She paused to examine the cluster of jars. “What do you hope to attain by making this series?”
Anthony brushed a wand near the top of the jar, prompting an electrical charge. “You see, the charge passes along the rod and is held within the insulated vessel. Watch when I touch the conducting element to the ends of the rod.”
Electrical fire snapped from the device.
“You have stored energy.” In a twinkling of the eye, pure energy boomed around them, and Anthony transformed into an eager boy, full of innocent enthusiasm. His excitement was infectious, the pursuit of the unknown and attaining discovery a sphere of activity in which they were permitted to remain children.
She clapped her hands together. Oh, how he made her world full of magic.
When the spark went out, Anthony let out a breath. “It is not good enough. There has to be improvement.”
She stroked a gilded jar, her fingers traced the subtle shape of each dip and turn, then rubbed against the thick ridge of the stem. A little purr escaped from her throat and the slight shift of his body caused her to look into deep stormy blue eyes. His pulse throbbed at the base of his throat. The force of his aura crashed through her like an electrical charge. Heart racing, she shifted back a step.
Someone knocked. Anthony opened the door and bade a footman to enter. “His Grace has sent a reminder that it is time to get ready for the ball,” he intoned, pivoted and left.
Thank goodness for the distraction. To have a bath. No. To dunk her body in ice-cold water.
“That nonsense. Doesn’t he see how important our work is?”
Our. She liked the ring of his opinion. “What time is it? My goodness the whole day has vanished. Maybe it will be good for you to get out and seek entertainment, clear your mind.”
“Or clutter it. Nonsense and absurd is the human mating game.”
“It can be fun, too,” she coaxed.
“I suppose having your teeth pulled is fun.”
Rachel moved past him in a swirl of skirts, confining her laughter to a snort. “You have to escort me. It wouldn’t be proper otherwise.”
“You didn’t think about having a proper chaperone once today.” Anthony grumbled, the words in him like electricity, dashing itself against glass.
She noted Anthony’s scowl. “I did but we are friends. No. More like brother and sister, and this is in the interest of science.”
“That’s what you call it. Very well, off to the broodmare competition.”
“You are terrible.”
“I thank you for the compliment.”