Page 51 of All Scot and Bothered
“That’s not at all what I—”
“Ye think I’m naive enough to believe that ye stumbled into this professionyesterday?” He advanced as he spoke, until he was almost nose-to-nose with Cecelia. For the first time maybe ever, she was grateful for her height and her heft, and drew upon every inch she could claim.
And still he loomed over her.
How did one do that? she wondered. Turn standing into looming. She’d never wished so intensely as in that moment for the knowledge of a proper loom.
As it was, she simply threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin, wishing that any kind of conflict didn’t make her stomach roil and a cold sweat to bloom. “You don’t have to believe a word I say, my lord. I suppose your only task would be to find out who has done this to my establishment and why.”
At this, his eyes went flat. All the electricity leaching out of them as if disappointment deflated his anger.
“Ye are right, of course,” he stated coldly. “Tell me, Miss Teague—or is it Miss Thistledown?—did yer aunt give ye any indication as to the nature of these dangerous secrets?”
“Well, not exactly.” Cecelia swallowed, doing her bestnot to be cowed by the cords in his neck and the vein pulsing at his temple. “Not… in so many words.”
“Speak plainly,” he clipped. “Aye or nay?”
“Nay—er—no. She categorically did not reveal them to me… as of yet.”
He eyed her with great suspicion, and Cecelia knew she was being obtuse in trying to avoid a lie, but also not wanting to reveal anything that might put her in more danger. She was not so foolish as to reveal the existence of the codex before it could be deciphered.
“Ye’re telling me ye have no idea who would want to do something like this?” he asked.
“Not a clue.”
“A motive, perhaps?” he pressed. “A rival, a dissatisfied customer, unpaid debts, an unhappy employee, et cetera.”
Cecelia shook her head. “Could be anyone, all told. I’ve not yet been able to find the accounts.”
Alexandra bent down, swiping her finger through the white film blanketing the rubble. She lifted the finger to her nose, smelling it, and then touched the tip of her tongue to the substance before spitting delicately. “We at least know what agent was used in the explosion,” she said.
“Gunpowder,” Ramsay stated drolly.
“Precisely.” Alexandra looked over at him as though he’d surprised her. “How did you know?”
“I was a soldier, remember? I’d recognize that scent anywhere.” He eyed his sister-in-law. “How didyeknow?”
“Refined black powder is often used in excavation,” Alexandra answered. “It leaves behind this white residue and tastes of steam and sulfur with a hint of something like urine from the saltpeter.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, testing the substance. “I wonder, though. This was a rather small explosion, as these thingsgo. Contained to this specific part of the house. Also, there’s a taste here I can’t quite decipher. Bitter…”
Francesca lifted her skirt and toed the rubble with the tip of her boot. “Could there have been an agent other than gunpowder involved here? Nitroglycerin, perhaps?”
“Nitroglycerin is too unstable for such calculated destruction.” Cecelia slid from beneath the chill of Ramsay’s impressive loom to crouch near the fall of stones that made a treacherous ramp of debris up to the ruins of the second floor of the residence. She remembered something she’d learned about in a chemistry and alchemy lecture she’d attended at Cambridge not so long ago given by a Dr. Alfred Nobel.
“The French recently manufactured a melanite that is more stable than nitroglycerin.” Cecelia reached down to duplicate Alexandra, swiping at the powder with her finger and testing it with the tip of her tongue before she spit it out.
“Just as I suspected,” she proclaimed. “It’s likely a trinitrophenol they’ve named carbazotic acid. Because of Dr. Nobel’s advancements in explosives, one is now able to cap and contain carbazotic acid in a bomb with a rather predictable blast radius.” She looked up, her stomach flipping over with dread. “Also, he spoke of a timing device used in the railway attacks claimed by the Irish Sinn Fein a couple of years ago.”
“So the culprit could have been long gone before the device even detonated?” Francesca lamented. “The devious pillock, whoever he is!” She kicked at a rock.
As if he’d come out of a trance, Ramsay made a low noise containing what she thought was a foul word, drawing their attention. “Explosive compounds. Carbazotic acid. Where in the name of the bloody devil did the three of ye come from?”
“Ecole de Chardonne for girls on Lake Geneva,” Francesca answered.
“And the Sorbonne thereafter,” Alexandra supplied helpfully. “Along with a few supplemental courses through various Continental and American universities.”
He blinked once. Twice. Regarded them as though he would put them under a microscope.
He eyed Cecelia with a new misgiving, and it didn’t take a mind reader to realize that he wondered if she was responsible for the destruction of her own home. “I thought ye were a mathematician. What does that have to do with extensive knowledge of explosives?”
