The Lady Chosen (Bastion Club 1)

“The alternative?” Jeremy asked.

“Is to go forward following the lines of inquiry we already have. One, seek Martinbury—he may have more specific information from Carruthers. Two, continue to piece together what we can from the three sources we have—the journals, letters, and notes. It’s likely those are at least part of what Mountford is after. If he has access to the pieces we’re missing, that would make sense.

“Three.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “We’ve assumed that the something—let’s call it a formula—was hidden in Cedric’s workshop. That may still be the case. We’ve only removed all the obvious written materials—if there’s something specificially concealed in the workshop, it may still be there. Lastly, the formula may be completed, written down and hidden elsewhere in this house.” He paused, then continued, “The risk of letting something like that fall into Mountford’s hands is too great to take. We need to search this house.”

Recalling how he’d searched Miss Timmins’s rooms, Leonora nodded. “I agree.” She glanced around the table. “So Humphrey and Jeremy should continue with the journals, letters, and notes in the library. Your people are scouring London for Martinbury. That leaves you three, I take it?”

Tristan smiled at her, one of his charming smiles. “And you. If you could warn your staff and clear the way for us, we three will search. We may need to search from attics to basement, and this is a large house.” His smile took on an edge. “But we’re very good at searching.”

They were.

Leonora watched from the doorway of the workshop as, silent as mice, the three noblemen pried, poked, and prodded into every last nook and cranny, climbed about the heavy shelving, squinting down the backs of cupboards, whisked hidden crevices with canes, and lay on the floor to inspect the undersides of desks and drawers. They missed nothing.

And found nothing but dust.

From there, they worked steadily outward and upward, going through kitchen and pantries, even the now silent laundry, through every room on the lower floor, then they climbed the stairs and, quietly determined, set about applying their unexpected skills to the rooms on the ground floor.

Within two hours, they’d reached the bedchambers; an hour later, they broached the attics.

The luncheon gong was clanging when Leonora, seated on the stairs leading up to the attics—into which she’d flatly refused to venture—felt the reverberations of their descent.

She stood and swung around. Their footfalls, heavy, slow, told her they’d found nothing at all. They came into view, brushing cobwebs from their hair and coats—Shultz would not have approved.

Tristan met her eyes, somewhat grimly concluded, “If any precious formula is secreted in this house, it’s in the library.”

In Cedric’s journals, Carruthers’s letters and notes.

“At least we’re now sure of that much.” Turning, she led them back to the main stairs and down to the dining room.

Jeremy and Humphrey joined them there.

Jeremy shook his head as he sat. “Nothing more, I’m afraid.”

“Except”—Humphrey frowned as he shook out his napkin—“that I’m increasingly certain Cedric did not keep any record of his own as to the rationale and conclusions he drew from his experiments.” He grimaced. “Some scientists are like that—keep it all in their head.”

“Secretive?” Deverall asked, starting on his soup.

Humphrey shook his head. “Not usually. More a case of they don’t want to waste time writing down what they already know.”

They all started eating, then Humphrey, still frowning, continued, “If Cedric didn’t leave any record—and most of the books in the library are ours—there were only a handful of ancient texts in there when we moved in.”

Jeremy nodded. “And I went through all of those. There were no records stuck in them, or written in them.”

Humphrey continued, “If that’s so, then we’re going to have to pray Carruthers left some more detailed account. The letters and notes give one hope—and I’m not saying we won’t ever get the answer if that’s all there is for us to work with—but a properly kept journal with a consecutive listing of experiments…if we had that, we could sort out which recipes for this concoction were the later ones. Especially which was the final version.”

“There are any number of versions, you see.” Jeremy took up the explanation. “But there’s no way to tell from Cedric’s journal which came after which, let alone why. Cedric must have known, and from comments in the letters, Carruthers knew, too, but…so far, we’ve only been able to match a handful of Carruthers’s experimental notes with his letters, which are the only things that are dated.”

Humphrey chewed, nodded morosely. “Enough to make you tear out your hair.”

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Castor left them, reappearing a minute later with a folded note on a salver.

He walked to Deverell’s side. “A footman from next door brought this for you, my lord.”

Deverell glanced at Tristan and Charles as he set down his fork and reached for the note. It was a scrap of plain paper, the writing an ill-formed scrawl in pencil. Deverell scanned it, then looked at Tristan and Charles across the table.

They both sat up.

“What?”