A fleeting trace of amusement hovered at the edge of Baxter’s mouth. “Don’t concern yourself. I vowed years ago never to get myself killed in anything so stupid as a duel.”
“I am pleased to hear that.” She smiled in spite of her uneasy mood. “Poor Baxter. All you asked was to be left alone in your laboratory but you’ve been forced to emerge from it in order to deal with all of these vexing problems.”
He raised his brows. “There are problems and there are problems.”
“What does that mean?”
He put down his unfinished brandy and got to his feet. He went to where she sat in front of the fire and gently drew her up out of the chair. “Some problems are vastly more interesting than others.”
“Am I a problem for you, then, Mr. St. Ives?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” He bent his head and crushed her mouth beneath his own.
Fifteen
His need for her swept through him in a wave. He cradled the back of her head in one hand and kissed first her lips and then her throat.
Would she always have this effect on him? he wondered. One moment his thoughts were focused on the problems of murder and a duel, the next he could think-of nothing but the bone-deep satisfaction of having Charlotte in his arms.
He was slowly growing accustomed to the unsettling effects of passion, Baxter thought, but he was no closer to understanding it tonight than he had been at the start of this affair. The mystery of the thing was as strange and compelling as any alchemist’s quest for the Stone.
“Baxter?” Charlotte grasped the lapels of his coat. “Is there time?”
He raised his head just long enough to lose himself for an instant in the fathomless green promise of her eyes. “Not as much as I would wish.” The truth of his own words struck him in a searing flash of understanding. “Bloody hell, there is never enough time.”
“It’s all right.” She brushed her lips across his chin.
“And there is always the possibility that someone may walk in on us.” He cast a baleful glance around the small study. “What’s more, there is never a bed in the vicinity.”
“Baxter—”
“How the devil is one supposed to conduct a proper affair when one does not even have a bedchamber at one’s disposal?”
She pressed her face into his shirt and began to make soft, muffled sounds. Her shoulders quivered.
Alarmed, he pulled her closer and patted her awkwardly. “Good God, Charlotte, don’t cry. I shall think of something.”
“I’m sure you will. You always do.”
The muffled sounds against his chest grew louder. Her whole body shook beneath his hands. He realized that she was giggling.
He put his thumbs beneath her delicate jaw and raised her head. The warm laughter danced in her eyes.
He did not require Hamilton to point out the obvious. No man who possessed even a spark of romantic sensibility would have wasted time complaining about the inconveniences of the situation at a moment such as this.
“I’m delighted that you find it so amusing,” he muttered.
“I find it fascinating. Thrilling. Unbearably exciting.” She stood on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Hard and very enthusiastically.
He silently consigned his own glaring lack of a romantic soul and the assorted inconveniences of the situation to the devil.
The feverish need returned in a tidal wave that flooded his senses. “Why is it,” he said against her mouth, “that I cannot seem to get enough of you?”
Charlotte did not respond. She was too busy unknotting his cravat and peeling off his shirt and coat. In a moment he was bare to the waist.
Her fingers brushed against the old acid scars. She pressed her lips to his savaged shoulder and kissed him gently. Baxter had to close his eyes against the deep longing that welled up within him.
He drew a breath, steadied himself, and then unfastened the tapes of her gown. Slowly he lowered the bodice and watched as the firelight turned her elegant breasts to gold.
She touched the corner of his mouth. “When you look at me in that manner, you make me feel quite beautiful.”
He shook his head, dazed by the storm of emotion that pounded through him. Reverently, he brushed his thumbs across her nipples. “You are beautiful.”
“And you, sir,” she said in a soft, husky voice, “are quite wonderful.”
He groaned and lowered his head to kiss the high curve of one rounded breast. She gripped his shoulders very tightly. Her head fell back. Clinging to him with both hands, she slid the sole of her slippered foot slowly up along the length of his calf When she started to move it back down to the floor, he closed one hand around her thigh and held her pressed warmly against him. The skirts of her gown swirled around his breeches.
He could not wait another moment. He lifted her into his arms and settled her on the sofa. He stood back long enough to unfasten the front of his breeches and then he leaned down to push her skirts up to her waist.
Very deliberately he parted her thighs until her left foot was on the floor. She gasped when she realized how completely open she was to his gaze. Belatedly she tried to close her legs.
“No. Please. I want to see you.” He went down on one knee beside the sofa. He felt her leg tremble against his ribs.
He put his palm against the warm, pink flesh of her sex. She shivered. On the floor beside him, her foot arched in response to the caress.
“Baxter?” The tip of her tongue appeared at the corner of her parted lips. It disappeared again when she moaned softly.
He leaned forward to inhale the exotic perfume of her body. She glistened in the firelight. He parted the soft folds of skin to reveal the tiny bud.
He bent his head and kissed her intimately with exquisite appreciation.
“Baxter.” Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Good heavens, what are you doing?”
He ignored her breathless query and all the disjointed demands for an explanation that followed. He used his tongue to arouse the small nubbin until it was taut and full. He did not pause until she was speechless.
When she screamed softly and dug her nails into his scalp he rose quickly and settled himself on top of her. He licked the taste of her from his lips as he plunged into the tight, hot core of her body.
She convulsed around him, drawing him so deeply inside that he thought he might somehow become a part of her. In the alchemy of that union he was no longer alone.
Everything within him went rigid. In the next moment his climax roared through him, a searing, cleansing fire that somehow left him free in a way that he had never known.
The incense smoldered on the brazier.
He inhaled slowly, deeply, savoring the heightened level of awareness. The power would soon be his to command.
He was ready.
“Read the cards, my love,” he whispered.
The fortune-teller turned over three cards. She studied them for a long moment.
“The golden griffin draws closer to the phoenix,” she said at last.
“This grows more fascinating by the hour.”
“And more dangerous,” the fortune-teller cautioned.
“True. But the danger adds a certain element of interest to the thing.”
The fortune-teller placed another card on the table. “The griffin’s connection to the lady with the crystal eyes grows stronger.”
“We must conclude that she is not a random thread in this tapestry, after all.” He was pleased.
Baxter?” Charlotte stirred languidly. She threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest. “It is getting late.”
“I know.” Reluctantly he shifted position to untangle himself from the froth of her skirts. He got to his feet, adjusted his breeches, and glanced at the clock. “Less than an hour until dawn. Must be on my way. Hamilton will be anxious.”
Charlotte sat up quickly and fumbled with the bodice of her gown. “What about poor Norris? I should think he would be th
e nervous one.”
“Haven’t seen him yet.” Baxter reached for his eyeglasses, shoved them on his nose, and then grabbed his shirt. “Hamilton says he’s very calm about the whole thing.”
“Perhaps the fact that he’s in a trance accounts for his unnatural calm.”
“Bloody magician. Got a lot to answer for.” Baxter scooped up his coat and swung around to say farewell. The sight of Charlotte looking deliciously disheveled made him wish very badly that he did not have such a pressing appointment. “I shall send word when the thing is finished.”
“Be careful, Baxter.” The last of the sweet sensuality disappeared from her eyes as she rose from the sofa. “I do not like this. It has been a strange night. There is something that I did not get a chance to tell you.”
“I shall call on you later this afternoon.” Baxter broke off as he caught sight of a wilted red rose lying on the desk. “There’s that damned flower I saw you carrying earlier at the ball. Meant to ask you about it. Got distracted. Who gave it to you?”
“It’s a long story. It can wait until you’ve resolved Hamilton’s problem.”
He did not care for the troubled expression in her eyes. He crossed the room and plucked the rose off the desk. Then he saw a folded piece of paper beneath it. A chill crawled across the nape of his neck.
“What’s this? A note, too?”
“I assure you, there is no call for jealousy.”
“I’m not jealous. I do not possess the hot-blooded nature required for such a ludicrous emotion.”
“Indeed.” She looked pensive. “I do, you know.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked as he unfolded the note.
“I would hate it if some woman sent you flowers or gave you letters.”
He glanced up, startled by the vehemence in her voice. For an instant the expression in her eyes distracted him from the note in his hand. He cleared his throat. “I doubt that any female would send me a posy.”
“Hah. Don’t place any wagers on that, St. Ives. It is a wonder that I do not have to fend off my competitors with a stick. I suspect that the reason is that you have kept yourself out of Society for so long that no one knows you very well. It’s fortunate for me that you prefer to spend your time in your laboratory.”
Baxter felt the heat rise in his face. Bloody hell, now she’s put me to the blush. Is there no limit to her power over me? “You need not concern yourself with competitors. There aren’t any.”
“Excellent.”
He forced his attention back to the note in his hand. He read it quickly and then read it through a second time in growing disbelief. Your alchemist lover seeks the Philosopher’s Stone of vengeance.… He will use whatever means … including your affections.… Do not become his victim.
“Bloody hell.”
“It is not important now, Baxter. You must deal with the duel first. Then I will tell you about the note and the rose.”
He crushed the paper in one hand and met Charlotte’s eyes across the room. “Who gave you this?”
“I do not know who he was. He wore a black domino. When I saw him, I assumed it was you. But his voice …” She hesitated, as though searching for the words. “It was all wrong. Broken.” She glanced at the clock. “You must go. I promise to tell you everything later.”
“This is the second time that someone has attempted to turn you against me.”
“A useless exercise.” She shook out her skirts as she went to open the study door. “Hurry, Baxter. Hamilton will be waiting. He is depending upon you to save his friend’s life.”
She was right. There was no time now to get the full story from her. First things first, Baxter reminded himself.
“Damnation.” He went out into the hall, picked up his hat, and opened the front door. He looked back at her as she watched anxiously from the entrance of the study. “You have been up all night. Go to bed. I shall call upon you this afternoon. We shall discuss this matter of the note at that time.”
“Very well, but you will send word about the outcome of the duel?”
“Yes.”
“And you will be careful?”
“As I keep reminding you”—he turned to go down the steps—“I’m not the one who is scheduled to meet Anthony Tiles at dawn.”
“I know. And as I keep reminding you, Baxter, I comprehend your true nature too well to believe that you will be as careful as I could wish.”
“I don’t know where you gained the notion that I’m the reckless, neck-or-nothing type. Not only do I lack the temperament for that sort of dashing behavior, I also lack the proper tailor. Good night, Charlotte.”
Dawn arrived with a light, drifting fog that cloaked Brent’s Field in a swirling gray shroud. An appropriate atmosphere for such a grim and stupid affair, Baxter thought.
He stood with Hamilton and watched as the paces were counted off by a young man with an air of dissipation that would have done credit to a confirmed rake twice his age.
“One, two, three …”
Pistols pointed toward the sky, the blank-faced Norris and the feral-eyed Tiles paced away from each other.
“… eight, nine, ten …”
“Are you sure this will work?” Hamilton asked in a low voice.
“That is the twentieth time you have asked me that question,” Baxter muttered. “And for the twentieth time, all I can tell you is that it ought to work.”
“But if it doesn’t—”
“Be quiet,” Baxter ordered very softly. “It is too late to alter the plans.”
Hamilton subsided into nervous silence.
Baxter cast him a swift glance as the deadly cadence was called. Hamilton was a good deal more anxious about this business than his friend on the field. Norris was definitely not his usual self. Baxter had studied him covertly as he had gone through the preliminaries.
Norris had the air of an automaton. He answered direct questions but he would not discuss the situation in any detail. He seemed oblivious to most of what was going on around him. When Hamilton had pleaded with him one last time to give Tiles the apology that would halt the duel, Norris had appeared not to have heard him.
“… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …”
Hamilton shifted and gave Baxter another quick, searching glance. Baxter shook his head once, silently warning him not to speak.
He had done his best to give Norris the best possible odds in the event that his plans were unsuccessful. He had negotiated with Tiles’s seconds for a distance of twenty paces rather than the fifteen that had been suggested. The additional space between the opponents would make accuracy more difficult, even for a man of Tiles’s skill.
“… seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” The dissipated young man grinned with unpleasant anticipation. “Make ready. Fire.”
Baxter heard Hamilton catch his breath. On the field, both men turned. Norris made no attempt to aim carefully. He simply pointed the pistol in Tiles’s general direction and pulled the trigger.
The explosion boomed loudly in the fog.
Tiles did not even flinch. He smiled coldly and raised his pistol.
Norris lowered his weapon very slowly. A perplexed expression passed over his face. He stared at Tiles, who was taking careful aim, and then he looked at Hamilton. Baxter could see the gathering shock and horror in his eyes. He turned back to Tiles. His mouth worked but no words came. A mouse confronting a snake.
With chilling calculation, Tiles fired his pistol.
A second explosion echoed in the fog.
Norris blinked several times and then looked down at himself as though expecting to see his own blood.
He was not the only one who looked surprised. All of the men gathered to witness the duel gazed at the still-upright, uninjured Norris in astonishment.
“Damnation, Tony missed his man,” someone finally said.
The doctor who had been paid to attend the duel emerged from one of the carriages with an expectant, businesslike expression. H
e came to a halt when he saw that Norris was still standing.
Baxter stepped forward. “One shot each. That was the agreement. It’s finished.” He watched Tiles, who was examining his pistol with great attention. “Honor has been satisfied. You know how quickly rumors of this sort of thing spread. Let’s all go home before the authorities get word of this meeting.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. The prospect of being arrested for participating in a duel was enough to add a lively spring to everyone’s step. The men headed for the various carriages parked beneath the trees on the side of the field.
Baxter frowned at Norris, who still looked scared and confused. The glazed expression was gone from his eyes, however. He was once again fully aware of his surroundings.
“I’ll take Norris to the carriage.” Hamilton started toward his friend.
Baxter touched his arm briefly. “I want to speak to both of you later. This morning. Before you take Norris home.”
Hamilton hesitated. Then he nodded. “I don’t know what we can tell you, but we owe you some answers. Norris and I shall accompany you back to your house.”
Baxter started toward his carriage. Anthony Tiles stepped into his path.
“St. Ives, a word, if you don’t mind.”
Baxter stopped, removed his spectacles, and began to polish them with his handkerchief. He did not need his eyeglasses to see the penetrating inquiry in Tiles’s gray eyes.
For all his notoriety, Tiles was not yet as dissipated or as debauched as his companions. Baxter sensed that the festering rage that was eating him from the inside out still provided a sense of purpose. When it had devoured too much, Tiles would be destroyed. Charlotte was right. Anthony was crafting his own bad end.
“What is it, Tony?”
“It has been a long time since Oxford, has it not?”
“Yes.”
“I have not seen much of you in recent years. I have missed your companionship.”