A Heartless Design (18 page)

* * * *

Cordelia washed the soot from her face and changed into a more suitable outfit for the evening. Ivy brought tea and a small plate of fruit to the drawing room. Cordelia sipped from a teacup without tasting anything.

Leona, who had been out visiting friends, returned only a half-hour later. “Cordelia? Bond said you were feeling poorly.” She sat down next to her niece.

“I am just melancholy,” Cordelia said. “I feel as though life has become…” she trailed off.

“Tiring?”

“Complicated. I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to deal with it alone.”

“You are not alone, dear.”

“I know I have you, Auntie,” Cordelia said quickly. “I just mean…oh, I don’t know. I want to be in charge of my life, but should I be?”

“Your father knew you would be capable, my dear. He left everything to you, with no clauses or catches. If nothing else, that act shows his faith in you.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia said, the tears pricking in her eyes. “You’re right, of course.”

“Now please smile, my dear. I’m worried at seeing you so pale and drawn.  I know the robbery has upset you, even if you try to pretend it has not. But you must move on. It happened, most unfortunately, but it is over now.”

The warm feeling in Cordelia’s heart vanished again, although she kept the smile on her face. Her aunt didn’t know that things were far from over. Until Sebastien Thorne could be persuaded to forget about Lear, Cordelia couldn’t rest easy. But how could she produce a phantom? She picked up the teacup again.

Leona had moved on to other subjects. “You’ll never guess who I ran into today,” she said.

“Should I try, or will you tell me regardless?” Cordelia asked.

“You’d find out soon enough,” Leona laughed. “I called on my friend Lady Carey, and who should be there but the Countess of Thornbury. It turns out the ladies both tried to buy the same horse years ago and nearly came to blows over it,” she said, exaggerating the conflict, no doubt, “but they are now good friends. Anyway, I told her that her son had just kindly called on me. She was rather pleased with the boy, I think, for remembering an old acquaintance.” Leona leaned forward, even though they were alone. “I think she feared he was returning to gambling.”

“Maybe he has,” Cordelia pointed out, feeling that everything Thorne did seemed to hold an element of risk.

“True. Oh, my, we should not speculate. But the point is that, as she left, she said she would send an invitation round to a party she is holding this Friday evening. She is looking forward to meeting you.”

Cordelia recoiled. She doubted that very much, and she wasn’t sure she’d be up to the challenge of conversing and dancing as if she had no cares in the world. Sebastien would be there, and she didn’t know if she could act like a mere acquaintance toward him. “That may not be an altogether sound idea.”

“Why should it not be? You’ll enjoy yourself.”

“But Thorne…”

 “Seemed most attentive to you when he called. Why, would you prefer not to see him again?” Leona asked rather impishly.

“It’s not that. It’s just last week I didn’t even know these people existed. And now we’re invited to their parties?” 

“They may have titles, but your blood is every bit as noble as theirs. Don’t forget that your mother was a lady.”

“But I am not.”

“Nonsense. You are the daughter of a lady and a gentleman, and you have lived according to your station. You have nothing to be ashamed of in front of the Thornes.”

Cordelia looked at her aunt. “I still can’t believe that you recognized Sebastien Thorne after all these years.”

Leona blushed slightly. “Well, the truth is that I didn’t. Ivy told me he was in the room before I joined you. I enjoy playing at surprise sometimes.”

“Auntie!” Cordelia gasped. “That’s dreadfully deceptive of you!”

“I know it.” The older lady preened. “But deception is so invigorating. You must try it sometime.”

Cordelia looked down. Her aunt could not possibly know the extent of her own deceptions. Could she?

* * * *

“I’m not attending a party,” Thorne said flatly. It was hours after Cordelia had met with him at the docks, and he could still remember the way the wind played with the few free strands of her hair. He recounted their conversation in his head several times, and admitted that one of his reasons for doing so had more to do with the way he remembered Cordelia’s luscious mouth moving, rather than any need to memorize what he’d learned.

In contrast, the thought of enduring another inane party thrown by his mother nearly caused him to wince in real pain. He was now safely ensconced in his family home, waiting for his mother to see reason. She did not appear to want to do so. “I’m not attending a party,” he repeated.

“Yes, you are. You may be the earl, but I’m still your mother, and you will do this for me.”

“I have a host of things to attend to,” he protested. Unfortunately, he couldn’t talk about most of them. “I certainly don’t have time for driveling conversations with potential wives. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“There may be a few suitable young ladies present,” his mother admitted. “I want you to meet Lady Mary, who is the Marquess of Bromley’s daughter. But there will also be old friends coming. It won’t be painful, Sebastien. And you must step more into the role of earl. Our family has held the honor for so long, and I know you shouldn’t wish to tarnish the luster of our name now.” 

She turned to the housekeeper, who was jotting notes down on a pad. “Oh, that reminds me. Add Leona Wharton and her niece to the list of dinner guests. I’ll have to find two more gentlemen for the list then…” she muttered. “Or perhaps someone will not attend…”

Sebastien went still. Had his mother somehow managed to independently invite Cordelia? What trick of the gods brought that about? He’d have a chance to see her again without subterfuge. He could ask her about Lear, if he hadn’t tracked the man down by then.

“Very well,” he said suddenly. “I’ll be there. But don’t think you can assign all my dance partners on my behalf.” He’d be damned if he got stuck with a vapid miss while Cordelia danced with someone else.

An expression of triumph and relief settled on his mother’s features. “Just be there. That’s all I ask.”

He merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The inclusion of Cordelia on the guest list was convenient, so he’d have to take advantage of it. But first, he had much more to learn about Lear and the plans for the
Andraste
. The business of not tarnishing the title would simply have to wait.

He had to know what was in the Atheneum, which Helm had been so sure was another target of Hayden and his group. Unfortunately, it would be odd for a man with his past reputation to show a sudden interest in such scholarly things. He couldn’t just walk in the next day. So he did the sensible thing: he broke into the building that night.

The Athenaeum stood at the corner of Adam and Manchester Streets, a tall, narrow building with a granite facade. Carved faces of learned men stared out from underneath the roof. The building housed the library and meeting rooms of the Britannic Society for the Advancement of Scientific Learning, which was founded many years ago with the ambition to collect and preserve the scientific works of citizens, and to promote the cause of progress. Alfred Bering had apparently been quite active in the society during his lifetime.

Dressed entirely in black, Thorne found it surprisingly easy to gain entry to the Atheneum. The society did not even hire a guard to watch the building.

But then, he thought, who would think the contents were so valuable? The Society’s members were those sheltered types who never dream of sordid individuals taking advantage of their intellectual pursuits.

Thorne found the reading room and, soon after, the adjacent stacks, where boxes of loose papers, roughly bound manuscripts, and the occasional slim volume in leather lay in state along the shelves. He uttered a quiet prayer of thanks when he saw that the library’s contents were sensibly arrayed by the name of the author. He went directly to the Bs, and at the shelf labeled
Bering, A
. he saw an impressive pile of material. The entries stopped abruptly in March of 1800, which must have marked his death. As Cordelia suggested, nearly everything had something to do with shipbuilding, either specific parts or whole ships. But none of the pages he saw were marked with the name of
Andraste
. So either those plans never made it to the society, or they had already been stolen. But how could he be certain which was right? The sheer weight of paper was intimidating. Even if he broke in every night, he could spend weeks going through all of the papers, and he did not have weeks.

He moved on to
Jay, W.
, where he found a far more modest contribution. He chanced a look through those, surveying the titles and dates. Several early papers thanked Alfred Bering in the first few lines, making the younger man’s link to his teacher clear. Looking deeper, Thorne saw that a few other papers mentioned another name: Lear. The men looked to have written at least a few things together. Jay must also know where Lear lived and how to approach him. Thorne might be able to persuade him if he could not convince Cordelia to help.

Eager to find some hint to the coveted plans, Thorne moved to another bookshelf, where the Ls resided. Lear’s contributions were more numerous than Jay’s, even though the oldest one was dated fairly recently, in late 1800. Thorn leafed through them, reading titles.

“New Methods to Prevent Breakage of Sheerline. Why the
Maid of Kent
Sank. Employing Steam in Propulsion Over Distance,” he muttered aloud. Lear appeared to know his stuff. But Thorne didn’t, and he had to admit that he was lost in the Atheneum. He couldn’t begin to guess which of these things, if any, might be the one Hayden sought.

Then his eyes fell on something tucked among the articles: an invitation asking Society members to contact Lear regarding a problem he was working on. A street direction was listed. Thorne felt a wave of relief. The night was not a failure. He memorized the address, vowing that he’d go there first thing the next day.

He stood up. His mind was racing. Bering, Jay, and Lear were all connected. Something about the years of their work nagged at him, but the more important question was how to identify the all-important papers that Hayden wanted. It looked like only Lear could do that.

Thorne slipped out of the Atheneum and melted into the undergrowth around the building. Perhaps he could convince Lear to simply tell him, if he could find the man. And if he was not as scrupulous as Cordelia thought, Thorne could offer to buy the plans himself. He grinned, thinking of the bill he’d then send to Neville.

Of course, he could act on behalf of the Zodiac and simply
take
all the Atheneum’s papers by Lear. Neville wouldn’t like it—such a move would be indiscreet and provoke questions, and the Zodiac hated questions—but at least the papers would be safe. Of course, they still wouldn’t know which paper was the key. Thorne shook his head as he emerged along the street.

The only real answer was to find Lear. At least he had a way to that now. With luck, he could met the man tomorrow and discover everything. He’d wrap up the mission in a day or two more.
And then do what?
he suddenly asked himself. Wait for the next crisis? Focus on becoming the Earl? Marry a woman he barely knew to secure an heir? Lie to her about his other life? Leave her a widow if something went wrong? The questions rolled on.

Thorne had accepted his role in the Zodiac because at the time he didn’t have to make those choices. Years later, his life had changed dramatically, and he was being pulled in two very different directions. Sooner or later, he’d have to choose.

“But first, I’ll finish this,” he muttered out loud. The shadow of Thorne disappeared into the night.

The next morning, Thorne woke
very early and drove himself to the address that the Atheneum had listed as Lear’s. He surveyed the building and the street, and felt cheated. It was a tobacco shop. But then he noticed the floors above. Perhaps the man rented rooms there.

He went into the shop, where a young woman of about sixteen years was dusting the counter, and asked to see the proprietor. A matron came out of a small back room. “Yes, sir. How may I help you?”

“I am looking for a Mr Lear. I was given this address. Does he live here?”

“None but my family live here, sir. Just above the shop, all seven of us.”

The young woman spoke up. “I think he means the gentleman who has his mail delivered here.” She looked shyly over at Thorne, to see if her guess was correct.

“Oh, of course. Lear!” the mother exclaimed. “Of course. He pays us a small sum to have his mail held.”

“And he picks it up?” Thorne asked hopefully.

“He comes round every week or so,” the young lady explained. “Usually in the mornings, just after I open the shop. That’s why my mother doesn’t often see him.”

“And you give him whatever mail has come.”

“Yes, sir. He usually gives us a penny per piece, though he’ll still leave a penny even if there’s nothing for him. He’s a very thoughtful gentleman, sir.”

“Could you describe him to me?”

“Yes, sir.” From her sudden blush, Thorne guessed that she quite looked forward to the man’s visits. “He has brown hair, and he’s rather tall, and is lean for his height.”

“Middle-aged?”

“Oh, no.” She giggled. “He couldn’t be over five and twenty. He always carries a very thin leather case. Like a portfolio, sir.”

Thorne had assumed that Lear must be of an age with the late Alfred Bering. But this girl was describing someone closer to William Jay’s age. No, he suddenly realized, she was describing William Jay exactly.

“When was the last time he came by?” he asked, his mind racing.

“This Wednesday past, sir.”

“Thank you, dear.” He offered a coin for the girl’s information, which she accepted with a nod.

Then he left, enlightened in one way but now with new questions. Why would Jay pick up Lear’s mail, and why would it be delivered to a shop instead of a home?