Marcle’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “You say you seek excitement?”
“Indeed, sir. A man of my nature gets very little of that commodity in the normal course of events.” Baxter hoped he was not overdoing it. “I have always lived a quiet life.”
And what was more, he much preferred his peaceful existence, he thought glumly. This damnable mission that his aunt had begged him to undertake was an unwelcome interruption in his placid routine.
The only reason he had allowed himself to be talked into it was because he knew Rosalind well. She had a flair for the dramatic—her greatest regret was that she had never gone on the stage—but she was not given to foolish fancies and feverish imaginings.
Rosalind was genuinely concerned about the circumstances surrounding the murder of her friend, Drusilla Heskett. The authorities had declared that the woman had been shot by a housebreaker. Rosalind suspected that the killer was none other than Charlotte Arkendale.
Baxter had agreed to look into the situation on his aunt’s behalf.
A discreet inquiry had turned up the information that the mysterious Miss Arkendale happened to be in need of a new man-of-affairs. Baxter had seized the opportunity to apply for the post.
He reasoned that if he could talk his way into the position he would be ideally situated to conduct his investigation. With any luck he would resolve the matter in short order and be able to return to the calm refuge of his laboratory.
Marcle exhaled heavily. “It’s true that working for Miss Arkendale can sometimes produce an element of excitement, but I am not altogether certain it is the type of adventure you would enjoy, Mr. St. Ives.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
“Believe me, sir, if it’s excitement you crave, you would do better to take yourself off to a gaming hell.”
“I don’t enjoy games of chance.”
Marcle grimaced. “I assure you, a lively hell would be infinitely less maddening than embroiling yourself in Miss Arkendale’s affairs.”
Baxter had not considered the possibility that Charlotte Arkendale was a candidate for Bedlam. “You believe her to be mad?”
“How many ladies of your acquaintance require a man-of-affairs who can also undertake the duties of a bodyguard, sir?”
An excellent question, Baxter thought ruefully. The entire matter sounded more bizarre by the moment. “Nevertheless, I wish to apply for the post. It is obvious why she needs a new man-of-affairs. You are retiring, after all, and she must replace you. But perhaps you would be good enough to explain why Miss Arkendale is in need of a bodyguard?”
“How the devil should I know the answer to that?” Marcle tossed aside his pen. “Miss Arkendale is a most peculiar female. I have served as her man-of-affairs since the death of her stepfather, Lord Winterbourne. I can assure you, these past five years have been the longest years of my life.”
Baxter eyed him curiously. “If you disliked your post, why did you continue in it?”
Marcle sighed. “She pays extraordinarily well.”
“I see.”
“But I must confess that whenever I received a letter of instruction from her, I trembled in my shoes. I never knew what strange demand she would make next. And that was before she took a notion to add the duties of a bodyguard to the post.”
“What sort of demands does she make in the normal course of affairs?”
Marcle groaned. “She has sent me to make inquiries of the oddest people. I have gone haring off to the North in order to obtain information on a certain gentleman. I have interviewed the managers of the most appalling hells and brothels on her behalf. I have inquired into the financial affairs of any number of men who would be shocked to learn of her interest.”
“Odd, indeed.”
“And most unladylike. Upon my oath, sir, if she did not pay so handsomely, I would have quit my position after the first month of service. But at least I was never required to act as a bodyguard. I am grateful for that much.”
“You have no notion of why she feels herself to be in danger?”
“None whatsoever.” Marcle’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “Miss Arkendale has not seen fit to confide in me on that score. In truth, there is a great deal Miss Arkendale has never seen fit to confide in me. I am extremely vague about the actual source of her income, for example.”
Baxter was very good at controlling his expressions. A bastard, even one who was the by-blow of a wealthy earl, learned the skill early on in life. The talent served him well at that moment. He managed to convey only casual interest in Marcle’s last statement.
“I was under the impression that Miss Arkendale’s mother, Lady Winterbourne, had a substantial income from her first marriage,” Baxter said carefully. “I assumed the inheritance was passed on to Miss Arkendale and her sister.”
Marcle’s brows rose. “That is what Miss Charlotte would have you believe. But I can tell you that Winterbourne squandered nearly every penny of the Arkendale inheritance before he had the grace to get himself murdered by a footpad five years ago.”
Baxter removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “Just what do you suspect is the real source of Miss Arkendale’s money?”
Marcle examined his nails. “I will be truthful, sir. Although I have assisted in the investment and management of her income for five years, to this day I have no notion of where the money originates. I recommend that if you take this post, you follow my example. Sometimes it’s best not to know all of the facts.”
Baxter slowly replaced his eyeglasses. “Fascinating. I expect some distant relative died and left an inheritance that has made up for the one that Winterbourne frittered away.”
“I do not believe that to be the case,” Marcle said slowly. “I succumbed to curiosity a couple of years ago and made some discreet inquiries. There was no such wealthy Arkendale relative. I fear the source of her funds is simply one more peculiar mystery surrounding Miss Arkendale.”
It was no mystery at all if Rosalind was correct in her conclusions, Baxter thought. The lady was a blackmailer.
A distinct tapping sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Charlotte, who had come to a halt near the fireplace. She was drumming her fingers on the marble mantel.
“I do not see how Marcle could possibly have imagined you to be qualified for this post,” she said.
Baxter had had enough of arguing the point. “It is not as if there are a great many men about who can meet your absurd requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
She glowered. “But surely Mr. Marcle can find me a gentleman who is more suited to the position than yourself.”
“Have you forgotten? Marcle is halfway to Devon. Would you mind telling me precisely what it is about me that is so unsuitable?”
“Other than your lack of skill with a pistol?” she asked much too sweetly.
“Yes, other than that failing.”
“You force me to be rude, sir. The problem is your appearance.”
“What the devil is wrong with my appearance? No one could be more unprepossessing than myself.”
Charlotte scowled. “Do not feed me that Banbury tale. You most certainly are not a potato pudding. Just the opposite, in fact.”
He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You must know very well, sir, that your spectacles are a poor disguise.”
“Disguise?” He wondered if he had got the wrong address and the wrong Charlotte Arkendale. Perhaps he had got the wrong town. “What in the name of the devil do you believe me to be concealing?”
“Surely you are not suffering from the illusion that those spectacles mask your true nature.”
“My true nature?” Baxter lost his grip on his patience. “Bloody hell, just what am I, if not innocuous and unprepossessing?”
She spread her hands wide. “You have the look of a man of strong passions who has mastered his temperament with even stronger powers of self-control.”
; “I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes narrowed with grim determination. “Such a man cannot hope to go about unnoticed. You are bound to attract attention when you conduct business on my behalf. I cannot have that in my man-of-affairs. I require someone who can disappear into a crowd. Someone whose face no one recalls very clearly. Don’t you understand, sir? You give the appearance of being rather, well, to be quite blunt, dangerous.”
Baxter was bereft of words.
Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her pacing. “It is quite obvious you will never be able to pass for a dull, ordinary man-of-affairs. Therefore, you must see that you would not do at all for my purposes.”
Baxter realized his mouth was hanging open. He managed to get it closed. He had been called many things, bastard, ill-mannered, and a great bore being among the more common epithets. But no one had ever labeled him a man of strong passions. No one had ever claimed that he looked dangerous.
He was a man of science. He prided himself on his detached, unemotional approach to problems, people, and situations. It was a trait he had honed to perfection years ago when he discovered that, as the bastard son of the Earl of Esherton and the notorious Emma, Lady Sultenham, he would be forever excluded from his rightful heritage.
He had been a subject of speculation and gossip since the day he was born. He had learned early to seek refuge amid his books and scientific apparatus.
Although some women initially found the notion of an affair with the bastard son of an earl somewhat exciting, especially when they learned that he was a very wealthy bastard son, the sentiment did not last long. The weak flames generated in the course of his infrequent liaisons burned for only a very short time before sputtering out.
His affairs had become even shorter in duration since his return from Italy three years ago. The acid burns on his back and shoulders had healed but he was marked for life.
Women reacted to the raw, ugly scars with shock and disgust. Baxter did not entirely blame them. He had never been handsome and the acid lacerations had done nothing to improve his looks. Fortunately, his face had been spared. He was, however, fed up with the inconvenience of having to make certain that the candles were snuffed and the fire banked before he got undressed and climbed into bed with a lady.
On the last such occasion, some six months ago, he had nearly brained himself on the bedpost when he had tripped over his own boot in the inky darkness of the widow’s unlit bedchamber. The incident had put a distinct damper on the remainder of the evening.
For the most part, he sought his satisfactions and pleasures in his laboratory. There, surrounded by his gleaming beakers, flasks, retorts, and blowpipes, he could avoid the empty conversations and frivolous pursuits of the Polite World. It was a world he had never enjoyed. A world that did not begin to comprehend him. A world that he found excruciatingly superficial and insipid. A world in which he had never felt at home.
Baxter schooled his thoughts and forced himself to reason swiftly. Charlotte had plainly dismissed him as a possible man-of-affairs. A new approach was required if he was to convince her to employ him.
“Miss Arkendale, there seems to be some discrepancy between your view of my nature and the views of virtually everyone else in the world. May I suggest we resolve the matter by conducting an experiment?”
She went very still. “What sort of experiment?”
“I recommend that you summon the members of your household and ask them for their opinions. If the consensus is that I can successfully go about my duties unnoticed and unremarked, you will employ me. If they concur with your views, I shall take my leave and look elsewhere for a post.”
She hesitated, clearly dubious. Then she gave a quick, decisive nod. “Very well, sir. That seems quite logical. We shall conduct the experiment at once. I shall summon my sister and housekeeper. They are both extremely observant.”
She reached for the velvet bell pull that hung beside the fireplace and gave it a strong tug.
“You agree to abide by the results of this test?” he asked warily.
“You have my word on it, sir.” She smiled with illconcealed triumph. “We shall settle the matter at once.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Baxter adjusted his eyeglasses and sat back in his chair to await the outcome of the experiment.
He was certain that he could safely predict the results. He knew his strong points better than anyone else. No one could top him when it came to appearing as bland and uninteresting as a potato pudding.
• • •
Twenty minutes later, Baxter went down the steps of the Arkendale town house with a sense of quiet exultation. He noted that the crisp March breeze, which had been decidedly chilly an hour earlier, now felt fresh and invigorating.
There was nothing quite like a properly conducted scientific experiment to settle things, he thought as he hailed a passing hackney. It had not been easy but he had finally secured his new post. As he had anticipated, Charlotte Arkendale was the only person in the small household, indeed, very likely the only person in the whole of London, who would ever notice him in a crowd.
He was not sure what her peculiar notions concerning his nature said about her except that they definitely verified John Marcle’s opinion. Charlotte was a very unique sort of female.
Not at all what one would expect in the way of a blackmailer and murderess, Baxter thought.
Two
“I do not know why you are fretting so, Charlotte.” Ariel paused to examine a tray of eggs arranged on the sideboard. “Mr. St. Ives appears to be just what you wanted. A man-of-affairs who will not draw attention to himself when he goes about his duties. He also seems to be in excellent physical condition. Not so tall as one might wish, but quite broad and solid looking about the shoulders. I think that he will serve nicely as a bodyguard should such a necessity arise.”
“I thought him sufficiently tall.” Charlotte wondered morosely why she felt compelled to defend Baxter’s stature. Why did she care if her sister thought him less than perfect in height? “I had to look up to meet his eyes.”
Ariel grinned. “That is because you are a trifle short. In a most attractive fashion, of course.”
Charlotte grimaced. “Of course.”
“In truth, Mr. St. Ives is not more than an inch above my own height.”
“You are very tall for a woman.” And graceful and willowy and very, very lovely, Charlotte thought with a rush of sisterly pride. Perhaps it was more in the nature of maternal pride. After all, she reminded herself, she had been responsible for Ariel since the death of their mother.
And Ariel had turned out wonderfully well, Charlotte decided. She was a beautiful young lady of nineteen. Fair haired, blue eyed, and blessed with classical features and, yes, striking stature, she was the living image of their mother.
Charlotte had had many regrets and doubts in the course of the past few years. She had been all too well aware that she could never make up for what had been lost. Ariel had been only eleven when their tall, handsome, affectionate father had died. She had been barely thirteen when they had lost their beautiful, vivacious mother. Then Winterbourne had destroyed the inheritance that would have allowed Ariel freedom of choice in so many things, including marriage.
One of Charlotte’s greatest regrets was that she had been unable to give her sister a Season. With her looks and poise and the education she had received first from their beautiful bluestocking mother and that Charlotte had continued, Ariel would have been a smashing success. What’s more, she thought, her sister would have thoroughly enjoyed the opera and the theater and the excitement of the balls and soirees. She had inherited their parents’ love of art and entertainment. She should have had a chance to meet the people who should have been her social equals. She should have had an opportunity to dance the waltz with a handsome young man.
So many things that should have been Ariel’s had been lost.
Charlotte pulled herself back to the problem at hand. S
he forced herself to do what she always did when thoughts of the past threatened to lower her spirits. She concentrated on the future. And right now that future included Baxter St. Ives.
“I wish I could feel as certain about Mr. St. Ives as you do.” Charlotte propped her elbow on the morning room table and rested her chin on the heel of one hand.
“He is a perfect man-of-affairs,” Ariel declared.
Charlotte sighed. It was now quite clear that she was the only one in the household who sensed that there was a great deal more to Baxter St. Ives than met the eye. Yesterday Ariel and Mrs. Witty, the housekeeper, had both pronounced themselves well satisfied with Marcle’s replacement. The two were so convinced of their impressions that Charlotte had almost begun to doubt her own instinctive wariness.
Almost, but not quite. She had had a great deal of experience assessing gentlemen, after all, and her intuition in such matters rarely failed her. She could not dismiss it out of hand.
But she was baffled by the fact that the others could not see past the lenses of Baxter’s spectacles to the truth that blazed there.
He claimed to have an interest in chemistry but in her opinion, he was no modern man of science. The man had the eyes of an alchemist, one of those legendary seekers obsessed with the search for the mystical secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone. She could easily envision him hunched over a fiery crucible, concocting experiments that would enable him to transmute lead into gold.
Intense intelligence, unrelenting determination, and a will of iron burned in the amber depths of his eyes. The same qualities were etched into his blunt, strong face. She had sensed something else in him, too, something that she could not quite define. A hint of melancholia perhaps. Which, now that she considered it, was not unexpected.
There was a long artistic tradition of depicting that dark, wistful emotion with the emblems of alchemy. Those who engaged in an endless quest for nature’s arcane secrets were no doubt doomed to experience episodes of despair and disappointment.
Baxter St. Ives was far and away the most interesting man she had ever met, Charlotte admitted to herself. But the same qualities that made him intriguing could also make a man dangerous. At the very least, they made him less than pliable.