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 the 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. He 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.”

“Our interests have diverged.”

Anthony nodded pensively. “Indeed. You always did have a peculiar penchant for your laboratory. And I have always preferred the hells. But we still have one thing in common, do we not?”

“Yes.” That both of them had been born bastards had drawn them together for a time at Oxford, Baxter knew. Perhaps some remnants of that friendship still survived.

“I confess that I was surprised to see you here this morning. I would not have thought that this was your sort of sport.”

“It isn’t.” Baxter replaced his spectacles. “And if you had any sense, Tony, you’d find something more useful to do with your time than engage in dawn meetings. One of these days you’ll find yourself facing someone whose aim is more deadly than your own.”

“And perhaps one whose powder has not been tampered with?”

Baxter smiled faintly. “I trust you are not making any accusations of fraud. After all, your own seconds witnessed the loading of the powder.”

“Yes, but neither of my seconds is a chemist.” Anthony’s expression was surprisingly wry. “They would not have known if a very clever scientist substituted altered gunpowder.”

“Come now, Tony, everyone heard the powder explode when you pulled the trigger.”

“There was certainly a great deal of sound and fury,” Anthony agreed. “But it signified nothing. The ball is still in my pistol.”

“You don’t need the blood of young Norris on your hands. We both know he’s not your customary quarry. He was not himself when he challenged you.”

“I will grant that it was out of character for him.” Anthony looked thoughtful. “And I will agree that there would have been no great satisfaction in lodging a bullet in him.”

“I am pleased to hear that.” Baxter made to move toward the carriage.

“One more thing, St. Ives.”

“Yes?”

Anthony eyed him from beneath half-closed lids. “You are here this morning, I suspect, because the new Earl of Esherton asked you for help in saving his friend’s life.”

“What of it?”

“Rumor has it that the old earl left you in charge of his fortune and told you to keep an eye on young Hamilton.”

“Your point, Tiles?”

“Your half brother got what should have been yours. You are in an ideal position to destroy the inheritance that was denied to you.” Anthony’s hand tightened into a fist. “Why have you not done so?”

Charlotte’s words echoed in Baxter’s head. Anthony Tiles has obviously allowed the facts of his birth to set him on a path that is almost certain to destroy him. Thank God you have carved out a different destiny for yourself.

He looked at the man who had once been his companion, perhaps even a friend, and sensed a truth that he had never before confronted. His father had not bequeathed him the title but he had given his bastard son something of himself. Anthony had not been so fortunate.

“I will not say that I have not reflected on the past at times,” Baxter said slowly. “But perhaps I have avoided the temptation to dabble in serious vengeance because I discovered a more absorbing interest.”

“Ah, yes, your passion for chemistry.” Anthony’s mouth curved derisively. “But to my mind there is nothing so interesting as revenge.”

“Take some advice from an old acquaintance. See if you cannot find something more amusing than the gaming hells and dueling field. You grow too old for this kind of thing, Tony.”

“I pray you will not lecture me. It is bad enough that you have interfered with this morning’s entertainment.”

“No need to play the complete cynic.” Baxter glanced toward the carriage, where Hamilton and Norris waited. “I’m well aware that you took the noble path in this fiasco. I doubt that you are concerned with my thanks, but you have them.”

“Excellent.” Anthony’s smile was distinctly wolfish. “I may find a use for your gratitude. But I assure you that it is misplaced. I never trouble myself with noble behavior. No profit in it for a bastard.”

“Then perhaps you have simply grown more weary of your current pursuits than you know.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“From where I stood it was possible to see that you aimed slightly high and to the left. Had your pistol not failed you, the bullet would likely have gone past Norris’s ear, not through his chest.” Baxter raised his brows. “I do believe that my involvement in this affair was unnecessary.”

Anthony gave him an odd look. Then, without a word, he turned and walked back toward his phaeton and his self-imposed loneliness.

Baxter watched the other man mount the stylish vehicle and drive off into the fog. He had a sudden image of Anthony gradually becoming a ghost.

Baxter’s insides clenched. That could be me.

On the surface he and Anthony seemed very different. Tiles filled his life with feverish excitement and risk. Baxter preferred the orderly, self-contained world of his laboratory. But they had each in their own way built walls to seal out the emotions that could make them vulnerable.

Those same walls ensured that they would be alone the whole of their lives.

Always in the past Baxter had resented and resisted those who had dragged him temporarily out of his laboratory to undertake some irksome family obligation. When his tasks in the outside world had been accomplished, he had been relieved to retreat back into the predictable, well-regulated gloom of his personal realm.

But this time he was not so eager to return to the comfort of his flasks and crucibles and blowpipes. He no longer wanted to be entirely alone.

• • •

Charlotte studied the plump, rosy-cheeked, gray-haired woman seated at the planked table in front of the kitchen fire. “It was very good of you to come here today, Mrs. Gatler.”

“Mrs. Witty promised me that it would be worth my while.” Mrs. Gatler narrowed her robin’s egg blue eyes. “She also promised that you’d never tell a soul that I talked to you about what happened that night.”

“You have my word on it, I have a reputation for confidentiality.”

“That’s what Mrs. Witty said.” Mrs. Gatler slanted a sidelong glance at Mrs. Witty, who was busying herself with bread dough on the other side of the room.

“You can tell ’er anything, Maggy.” Mrs. Witty gave her a reassuring wink. “Knows how to keep a secret, she does.”

“Another cup, Mrs. Gatler?” Charlotte picked up the teapot.

The arrival of Drusilla Heskett’s former housekeeper had taken her by surprise. Ariel had left the house less than half an hour earlier on a shopping expedition with Rosalind. Baxter had sent a message around assuring her that the duel had ended safely but he had not yet come to call.

She had been writing down notes about the investigation, trying to make some connections in her mind, when Mrs. Witty had triumphantly announced the arrival of Drusilla Heskett’s housekeeper.

“Took me some doing to find her,” Mrs. Witty had confided en route to the kitchens. “She didn’t particularly want to be found.”

“I believe I will have some more tea,” Mrs. Gatler said. “Bit of a novelty, y’know, havin’ the lady of the house pourin’ tea for me.”

Charlotte smiled blandly. “My pleasure.” She did not tell her guest that she would have been equally happy to pour gin if it would have loosened her tongue. “Now, then, about the murder.”

Mrs. Gatler darted one last glance at Mrs. Witty and then she leaned forward. “He didn’t know I was there, y’see.”

“Who didn’t know?”

“The one who shot her dead. Mrs. Heskett had given the staff the night off. She often did that when she was expectin’ Lord Lennox to call.” Mrs. Gatler chuckled. “Those two liked havin’ the freedom of the whole house when they went at it. Kitchen, cellar, drawing room, you name it. All over the place, they was.”

“Stamina,” Charlotte murmured.

“You can say that again. Well, I was supposed to go to my sister’s that night but at the last minute I changed me mind. Wasn’t feeling up to it. Decided I’d stay home and take a tonic for the pains. I was in my room behind the kitchens when I heard him in the hall.”

Charlotte frowned. “Whom did you hear? Lord Lennox?”

“No, no, not him. Always knew when Lennox was in the house.” Mrs. Gatler shook her head in admiration. “Those two made a lot of noise. It was amazing, it was.”

“Please continue, Mrs. Gatler. Did the man in the hall make a commotion?”

“No. That’s what was so odd. Arrived silent as the dead. Only reason I knew he was there was because I heard Mrs. Heskett speak to him.”

Charlotte stilled. “She knew him, then?”

“Don’t think so. She seemed startled to see him. Demanded to know what he was doing in her house.”

“You say you heard him in the hall. Didn’t he knock on the front door?”

“No.” Mrs. Gatler’s brows furrowed. “I would have heard him. I figured he must have had a key.”

“A key?”

“Mrs. Heskett was in the habit of giving keys to her favorite gentlemen friends.” Mrs. Gatler shrugged. “Lennox had one.”

Charlotte exchanged a look with Mrs. Witty. Then she turned back to her visitor. “What happened next?”

“Well, I heard the two of ’em talk for a while there in the hall. Leastways, I heard Mrs. Heskett. Couldn’t rightly hear him. His voice was pitched real low. But I knew that he was saying something because every so often Mrs. Heskett answered.”

“Did you go out into the hall to see if your mistress needed anything for her guest?”

“No, I certainly did not. It was supposed to be my night off. If Madam had known that I was around, she’d likely have sent me to the kitchens to prepare a cold collation for her gentleman friend.” Mrs. Gatler grimaced. “The quality never remembers staff’s night off when they’ve got something they want done. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Witty?”

Mrs. Witty made a commiserating noise and went back to kneading the bread dough.

Charlotte poured more tea. “Please continue with your story, Mrs. Gatler.”

“Well, let me see. Where was I?” Mrs. Gatler frowned. “Not much more to tell. After a while Mrs. Heskett and the gentleman went upstairs. A few minutes later I heard the shot. Sent me into a panic, it did. I swear, I couldn’t even move for the longest time. Then I heard him on the stairs.”

“You heard the killer’s footsteps?”

“I heard his voice.” Mrs. Gatler gave a visible shudder. “Mrs. Heskett’s spaniel must have got in his path. He swore at the little beast. Told it to get out of his way.”

“Tell me everything you heard, Mrs. Gatler.”

“I think he must have kicked the poor dog. I heard it yelp. Next thing I know, there’s footsteps coming down belowstairs into the back hall. Went right past my room. I just held my breath and prayed. Never been so terrified in my life.”

“Did the man pause?”

“No, thank the good Lord. He went straight on out through the kitchens. I didn’t leave my room until I was sure he’d gone. Then the dog started to howl. After a while I went upstairs. That’s when I found Mrs. Heskett. She was just lying there in a pool of blood. It was terrible. I don’t believe that she died instantly.”

“Why do you say that?” Charlotte asked quickly.

Mrs. Gatler looked uncomfortable. “She’d sort of dragged herself across the carpet. Got as far as the wardrobe. She’d opened a drawer. There was blood all over the wood. Probably tried to haul herself to her feet. It was dreadful.”

No, Charlotte thought. Drusilla Heskett was not trying to stand. She used her last ounce of life to hide the sketchbook. She knew it held the only clue that could point to her killer.

“Why didn’t you summon the magistrate immediately?” Charlotte asked. “Why did you not come forth to tell what had happened?”

Mrs. Gatler looked at her as though she was not very bright. “D’you think I’m mad? I was the only one in the house that night. The authorities would have assumed that I was the murderer. Staff always gets the blame in a situation such as that, y’know. I’d likely have been arrested. They’d have said I was caught trying to steal the silver or some such thing.”

Charlotte drummed her fingers on the table. “What, precisely, did the killer say when he stumbled over the dog?”

“What? Oh, yes. On the stairs.” Mrs. Gatler swallowed the remains of her tea and looked up with a troubled expression. “I think he said, ‘Get out of my way, you bloody cur.’ Or something similar. But to tell you the truth, it wasn’t the words that stuck in my head. It was the voice.”

Charlotte froze. “The voice?”

“Real rough and hoarse.” Mrs. Gatler shuddered again. “Made me think of rocks rolling around inside a coffin.”

“Dear God.” Charlotte very nearly stopped breathing. The man who had given her the rose and the note was the same one who had murdered Drusilla Heskett. She had actually stood face-to-face with Drusilla’s killer.

No, not quite face-to-face, she reminded herself. The man in the black domino had worn a mask. There was only one person who might be able to put that graveled, broken voice together with a face.

“What’s wrong, Miss Charlotte?” Mrs. Witty brushed the flour from her hands and frowned in concern. “You look as though you’ve been hit by a thunderbolt.”

“The man who employed Juliana Post to tell me those falsehoods about Mr. St. Ives was likely the same man who gave me a note last night.” Charlotte rubbed her temples as she tried to reason out the logic of the situation. “It has to be the same man.”

“How can you know that?” Mrs. Witty demanded.

“The stratagem was the same in both instances. In each case an attempt was made to make me believe the worst of St. Ives.” Charlotte flattened her palms on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “And that man is very likely the murderer. Oh, my God, I must hurry.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Witty called as Charlotte dashed across the kitchen.

“To see Juliana Post.” Charlotte paused briefly in the doorway. “I fear that she is in grave danger. I must warn her.”

“But, Miss Charlotte—”

“Mr. St. Ives will be calling soon. When he arrives, kindly tell him where I have gone.”

Mrs. Witty scowled. “Why ever would Miss Post be in danger?”

“Because she is the only one who may be able to identify the killer. I can only hope that he has not yet realized that she is a threat to him.”