Three

She had read Conversations on Chemistry and was familiar with the discredited theory of phlogiston. She could drop Lavoisier’s name into casual conversation. There were a number of excellent books in her study on a variety of other subjects that she presumably had read as well. What of it? Baxter thought. The evidence of an intellectual bent did not prove that she was not a blackmailer and a murderess.

Any number of well-educated upper-class villains could spout scientific facts, he reminded himself. A good education did not indicate a pure heart and an honest soul. Morgan Judd, for example, had been one of the most intelligent, well-read men he had ever met.

Baxter surveyed the fog-shrouded street with a sense of foreboding. The neighborhood was quiet and sedate. Eminently respectable. There were no great mansions but the houses obviously belonged to those possessed of comfortable incomes.

He still could not believe that he had allowed himself to be dragged out on such a miserable night to search for clues relating to a case of murder.

Charlotte was either quite sincere or quite mad, or she was using him to assist her and protect her person while she advanced her own schemes. A lady involved in blackmail and murder would certainly have need of a man-of-affairs-cum-bodyguard.

Baxter stifled a sigh. He really was not cut out for this sort of thing. Life was so much simpler, so much more logical and orderly back in his laboratory.

“We are fortunate to have the fog tonight, are we not, Mr. St. Ives?” Charlotte’s voice was muffled by the hood of her cloak and a thick, woolen scarf. “It will serve to conceal our presence in this neighborhood. Even if someone were to notice us, he would not be able to see us clearly enough to make out our identities.”

Baxter was annoyed by her optimistic spirits. He glanced at her as she stood beside him in front of the darkened Heskett house. Her cloak rendered her anonymous. He knew himself to be equally well covered. He had turned up the wide collar of his greatcoat and pulled down the brim of his hat to ensure that his features were drenched in dense shadows.

The weak gas lights that had recently been installed in this part of town could not penetrate far into the fog. So long as he and Charlotte stayed out of the short range of the lamplight, they would be reasonably safe from detection. Nevertheless, Baxter thought it best to make one more stab at discouraging his new employer from her risky activities.

“You would do well to have some concerns on the subject, Miss Arkendale. As I have already advised you, this little adventure of yours is fraught with danger. It is not too late to turn back. The carriage I hired is waiting just a short distance away in the park.”

“Not another word, if you please, St. Ives,” she said crisply. “You have been attempting to dissuade me from this project ever since we first discussed it. It grows wearying. I did not employ you to be the voice of gloom.”

“I feel an obligation to advise you.”

“I do not employ you for advice, either, sir. Enough. We don’t have time for any more of your warnings and dire predictions. The time has come to get on with it.”

“As you say, Miss Arkendale.”

He watched as she unfastened the low iron gate to the side of the main entrance and started down the stone steps that led to the kitchen.

The front area of the town house, designed to provide access for servants and tradesmen, was situated below street level. Tendrils of fog swirled out of the black pit at the bottom of the steps. Charlotte’s cloaked figure wafted, ghostlike, down into the stygian darkness before Baxter could think of any more warnings or arguments.

He moved swiftly to overtake Charlotte. He caught up with her as she came to a halt in the shadows near the kitchen door.

“Allow me, Miss Arkendale.”

“Very well, sir, but I pray you will not delay us any further.”

“I would not dream of it. Stand back.”

“Whatever for, sir?”

“Miss Arkendale, it is my turn to warn you not to delay us with idle questions. Now that we are committed to this piece of idiocy, speed is of the essence.”

“Of course, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte’s shoes scraped lightly on the stone as she stepped back. “Please proceed.”

Baxter could not see a thing in the thick darkness there below the street. He needed some light but he dared not use the lantern until they were inside the house.

He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew one of three small glass vials he had stored there. He snapped the vial in half. There was a flash of bright, intense light. He used his body to shield the glow. The glare revealed the kitchen door and its lock.

Charlotte gave a startled exclamation. “What in heaven’s name is that, Mr. St. Ives?”

“I have devoted some time recently to working on a new method of producing instantaneous lights.” Baxter fished a set of steel needles out of his pocket. “I am attempting to develop one that will last for more than a few seconds.”

“I see.” Charlotte’s soft voice was imbued with admiration. “How very clever of you, sir. Where did you get those little tools?”

“We men-of-affairs must acquire a variety of skills in order to stay employable.” He had learned to use the lock picks before the venture to Italy, knowing full well that he would be obliged to get through several locked doors in Morgan Judd’s castle.

The light was already fading. Baxter selected a needle and slid it into the lock.

He closed his eyes and applied the lock pick gently. There was a faint click. The lock gave just as the last of the flaring light created by his new phosphorous compound sputtered out of existence.

“Excellent work, Mr. St. Ives.”

“It depends entirely on one’s point of view.” Baxter pushed open the door and moved cautiously into the kitchen. “The new owner of this house, for example, may not be so happily impressed. In fact, he might well have a serious objection to this little act of housebreaking. I certainly would if I were in his shoes.”

“I told you, I made inquiries. The house is empty and likely to remain so until Mrs. Heskett’s heir arrives to deal with the estate. By all accounts he is a distant relative who lives somewhere in Scotland and is quite infirm. No one expects him anytime soon.”

“What of the servants?”

“They all left shortly after the murder. There was no one around to pay their wages. We have the place to ourselves.”

“As you are determined to go through with this business of searching for clues, we had best move quickly.” Baxter closed the kitchen door and lit the lantern. “I instructed the coachman to come in search of us if we did not reappear in the park within half an hour’s time.”

“Half an hour?” Charlotte’s disapproving frown was plainly revealed by the dim, golden glow of the lantern. “I do not know if that will be long enough to go through this entire house.”

Baxter glanced quickly around the empty kitchen. “The sooner we’re finished, the better.”

“Need I remind you, sir, that you are not the one in charge of this affair? You are employed by me and I will give the instructions.”

Baxter brushed past her into the hall. He opened another door and saw an empty sitting room that had no doubt been the province of the housekeeper. “We may as well start with the bedchambers upstairs and work our way back down through the house.”

“Now see here, Mr. St. Ives—”

“Don’t dawdle, Miss Arkendale.” Baxter took the stairs two at a time. “The first rule of housebreaking is to be quick and efficient. Now, then, as I have the lantern, I propose that we work together.”

“Wait for me.” Charlotte’s footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs. “Really, sir, when this is finished, you and I are going to have a serious discussion regarding the precise nature of your duties.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Arkendale.” He turned the corner on the landing and started up the next flight of stairs. “It might save some time if you were to tell me just what we are looking for here tonight.”

“I only wish I knew.” She sounded slightly breathless as she hurried to catch up with him. “I’m hoping something useful will come to light.”

“I was afraid of that.” He paused at the top of the stairs and gazed down the length of the darkened corridor. “The bedchambers, I believe. Shall we start at the end of the hall?”

Charlotte came to a halt beside him and peered into the shadows. “That sounds logical.”

“I am nothing if not logical, Miss Arkendale.”

“Nor am I, Mr. St. Ives.” She lifted her chin and led the way to the door at the end of the corridor.

Baxter followed her into the first bedchamber and set the lantern down on a table. He watched Charlotte swiftly open and close drawers. Her expression was serious and intent. Whatever this was, it was no game to her, he realized.

“May I ask how long you have been pursuing your rather bizarre career, Miss Arkendale?” Baxter halted in front of a wardrobe and opened the door.

“Since shortly after my stepfather was murdered a few years ago.” Charlotte peered into the depths of a dressing table drawer. “My sister and I were left with very little in the way of funds. There are not a great many careers open to ladies. It was either become a governess, which does not provide sufficient income for two, or invent an alternative.”

Baxter pushed aside a row of gowns to check the back of the wardrobe. “Where did you get the inspiration for this particular alternative?”

“My stepfather,” Charlotte said coldly. “Lord Winterbourne. He was a greedy opportunist who took advantage of my mother after she was widowed. He convinced her that he wished to take care of her as well as my sister and myself, but in truth he only wanted to get his hands on her money.”

“I see.”

“My poor mother died within months after Winterbourne married her. I do not think she ever realized what a truly dreadful man he was. But in truth he was a selfish, cruel, unfeeling creature. Neither my sister nor I could mourn him.”

“It does sound as though you are far better off without him,” Baxter said as he tried another wardrobe drawer.

“Infinitely so.” Charlotte went down on her knees beside the bed. “Society is riddled with such despicable liars, Mr. St. Ives. And for the most part women in my mother’s situation are extremely vulnerable. They have very few means by which to ascertain the true facts about a suitor’s background and financial status.”

“So you offer them your services.” Baxter went to the window and probed behind the heavy curtains. “Was your stepfather’s killer found?”

“No.” Charlotte rose to her feet and gazed around the room, searching for another likely hiding place. “Some nameless footpad did the deed.”

How very convenient, Baxter thought. “This business of having one of your clients die on you makes for your second brush with murder in a relatively short span of years. Many people live out their entire lives without ever coming so close to that particular crime even once, let alone twice.”

Charlotte swung around to face him. “Just what are you implying, sir?”

“Merely an observation. Those of us who are interested in science cannot resist noting odd bits of logic and unusual connections.” He was about to let the curtain fall back into place when he saw a slight movement on the other side of the street.

Baxter narrowed his eyes slightly. There was just enough glare reflected from the gas lamp to make out the shadowy figure that slipped through the swirling fog. A servant returning after an evening off from his duties perhaps, Baxter thought.

Or was it someone who had no more business being in this neighborhood than he and Charlotte?

“Is something wrong, Mr. St. Ives? Why are you staring out the window?”

“I was merely examining the street.” The shadowy figure had disappeared. Baxter let the curtains fall back into place. “I believe we have done a sufficiently thorough job on this bedchamber. Let’s move on to the next one.”

“Yes, of course. I wish to find Mrs. Heskett’s chamber.” Charlotte scooped up the lantern and hurried toward the door.

She gave him a sharp, reproving glance as she went past him. Her cloak billowed out behind her in a seething, roiling movement that seemed to reflect its owner’s irritation.

Baxter followed slowly.

A few minutes later, in the midst of searching the last bedchamber, Baxter heard Charlotte give a soft gasp of surprise.

“Find something?” Baxter turned to look at her.

She was down on her knees again, bent at the waist, tugging on some object she had discovered beneath a large, mirrored wardrobe.

“What do you make of this, Mr. St. Ives?” She hauled out a large leather-bound volume and flipped it open.

“What is it?” He walked across the carpet to join her. “A journal?”

“No, it’s a watercolor sketchbook.” Charlotte turned a few pages to reveal a series of delicate pastel drawings. “Very likely it belonged to Mrs. Heskett.” She paused abruptly and stared at one of the sketches. “Good heavens.”

Baxter raised his brows as he surveyed the watercolors. “Mrs. Heskett appears to have had a great interest in classical statuary.”

“Indeed,” Charlotte said dryly. “Greek and Roman gods for the most part, I believe. They are, uh, exceptionally well-endowed figures.”

“Indeed.”

Together they both gazed silently at the pictures of nude male statues that filled the sketchbook.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “I have seen a few of these statues myself in the British Museum. I think it’s safe to say that Mrs. Heskett has taken some artistic liberties with certain portions of the anatomies.”

“One could certainly say that.”

Charlotte closed the book with a snap. “Well, her choice of subject is not of interest to us. The important thing is that I found this sketchbook shoved out of sight beneath the cabinet.”

“What’s so odd about that? Many ladies enjoy painting with watercolors.”

“Quite true. My sister, Ariel, enjoys watercolors also.” Charlotte raised her head, her eyes gleaming. “But she does not hide her sketchbook under a cabinet.”

He suddenly understood where her deductions had led her. “Hold on a moment, Miss Arkendale. I would advise you not to leap to baseless conclusions. It’s highly unlikely that Drusilla Heskett deliberately hid her book of watercolors. It was no doubt accidentally kicked under there by one of the servants when they packed up after her death.”

“I disagree, sir. I think it was deliberately concealed there.”

“If so, it may well have been because of the subject matter. Perhaps Mrs. Heskett did not want her staff to know that she enjoyed drawing pictures of oversized phalluses.”

Charlotte blinked. She looked away and suddenly became very busy attempting to tuck the large sketchbook inside her cloak. “Nevertheless, I shall want to examine it. I’m going to take it with me.” She gave up trying to stuff the book inside her cloak and clutched it very firmly in front of her.

Baxter frowned at her sudden agitation. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had embarrassed her. The notion of the formidable Miss Arkendale being disconcerted by the use of the word phallus amused him.

“Miss Arkendale, I feel compelled to point out that if you take that volume out of this house you will have committed what some would call an act of theft.”

“Nonsense. I’m merely going to borrow it for a while.”

“Borrow it?”

“I am involved in an inquiry into the circumstances of my client’s death, after all,” she reminded him brusquely. “I need as much information as I can get.”

“What sort of information do you expect to find in a sketchbook full of pictures of nude statuary?” Baxter demanded.

“Who can say?” She whirled about and marched determinedly past him. “Come. We still have the downstairs rooms left to search.”

Baxter swore softly and started to follow her. But curiosity and an uneasy stirring at the back of his neck caused him to hesitate.

He went back to the window, moved the curtain aside an inch or so, and looked down into the street. The view from this bedchamber was similar to that of the first room he and Charlotte had searched.

The fog had thickened. The gas lamp across the way was only a pinpoint of glare now. It did nothing to illuminate the scene. Baxter waited for a long moment, searching for shadows amid the shadows, but he could not detect any movement.

“Come along, Mr. St. Ives,” Charlotte called softly from the hall. “We must hurry.”

Baxter released the curtain and turned toward the door. He had seen no evidence of anyone lurking in the fog but for some reason he did not feel any sense of relief.

He followed Charlotte downstairs.

A short time later, he closed the last drawer in a desk and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “We must be off, Miss Arkendale.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Charlotte stood on tiptoe to replace some volumes she had removed from a bookshelf. “I am almost finished.”

“We cannot linger any longer.” Baxter picked up the lantern.

She scanned the bookshelves with a quick, anxious eye. “But what if we have overlooked something of importance?”

“You do not even know what you are searching for, so how will you know if you have overlooked anything?” He took her arm and led her swiftly toward the hall. “Move, Miss Arkendale.”

She glanced at him with sudden alarm. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

“Need you ask?” He drew her down the stairs toward the kitchen. “It is past midnight and we are entertaining ourselves by searching the house of a lady who was recently murdered. You are even now preparing to take an item that once belonged to the previous occupant of these premises. Many people might well feel that there is some cause for concern in this situation.”

“There is no call for sarcasm, sir. When I asked if there was something wrong, I meant something other than your earlier fears concerning our project. You seem more uneasy of a sudden.”

He glanced at her, startled by her perceptiveness. She was right. He had been growing increasingly restless and ill at ease ever since he had spotted the man in the shadows across the street.

It had been a long time since he had experienced this particular very unpleasant, very cold frisson. Three years, to be precise.

He was a man of science and as such he refused to label the feeling as a premonition. But the last time the sensation had struck had been memorable, to say the least. He had the scars to prove how close he had come to getting himself killed.

“Be careful, sir, or we shall both trip on these stairs,” Charlotte whispered. “It will be difficult to get out of here if we are sporting broken legs.”

“We’re almost back to the kitchen,” Baxter said as they went past the housekeeper’s room. “I’m going to put out the lantern now. We will be nearly blind until we get back outside. Do not let go of my arm.”

“Why don’t we wait until we are back on the street before we put out the lantern?”

“Because I don’t want to take the chance of having anyone notice our departure.”

“But no one will be able to see us in the fog,” Charlotte protested.

“The glow of the lantern will be visible, even if our faces are not. Are you ready?”

She gave him an odd, searching look. He thought she was going to continue to argue about the lantern. But something she must have seen in his face apparently convinced her to let the subject drop. She tightened her grip on the sketchbook and nodded once, very quickly.

Baxter put out the light. The darkness of the kitchen enclosed them in an instant.

Relying on his memory of the room, Baxter led the way back to the door. It opened easily, with only a small, betraying squeak. The dim glare of fog-reflected lamplight beckoned from the street above the front area.

Charlotte put a foot on the first of the stone steps. Baxter seized her arm again and held her still. She obediently came to a halt, waiting for him to signal her that it was safe to continue on up to the street.

Mercifully, she did not ask any more questions. He was grateful for her continued silence. He stood listening intently for a moment. The rattle of carriage wheels on the paving stones sounded from somewhere in the distance but there was no indication that anyone waited nearby.

Baxter nudged Charlotte gently. She hastened up the steps. He followed swiftly. When they reached the street he turned and drew her toward the park, where the carriage waited.

The shadows in front of them shifted without warning.

A massive figure loomed out of the mist. The heavily built man was garbed in a bulky coachman’s coat and a low-crowned hat. The glare of the nearby gas lamp glinted dully on the large, long-barreled pistol in his beefy fist.

“Well, now, what ’ave we ’ere?” the man asked in a rasping voice. “Looks like a couple of gentry coves nosin’ around in my business.”

Baxter heard Charlotte draw a sharp, alarmed breath, but she did not cry out.

“Stand aside,” Baxter ordered.

“Not so fast.” There was enough light to see several large, dark holes in places where the villain’s teeth should have been. “You just came out of my house and I ain’t lettin’ you leave with anything that belongs to me.”

“Your house?” Charlotte stared at him in amazement. “How dare you? I happen to know that particular house was recently owned by someone else.”

“Uh, Miss Arkendale,” Baxter said softly. “This may not be a good time—”

“It’s my house, I tell ye,” the big man snarled at Charlotte. “I spotted it three nights back and I been watchin’ it real close ever since.”

“Watching it for what reason?” Charlotte demanded.

“Making sure the owner was gone for a good long while and weren’t planning to come back unexpected-like in the middle of the night, of course.”

“Good heavens, you’re a professional housebreaker.”

“I am that, right enough. Real professional.” The man grinned with pride. “Never been caught on account of I’m real careful. Always make sure the owners are out of town before I go in and help meself. I was getting ready to make my move tonight and what do I see? A couple of the fancy trying to beat me out of my profits.”

Baxter softened his voice. “I said, stand aside. I will not tell you again.”

“Glad to hear that. Ain’t got time for any dull lectures tonight.” The man dismissed Baxter with one last, mocking glance and turned his toothless grin back on Charlotte. “Now, then, Madam Busybody, just what did ye make off with? A bit of the silver, perhaps? A few trinkets from the jewelry drawer? Whatever it is, it belongs to me. Hand it over.”

“We took no valuables from that house,” Charlotte declared.

“Must have taken something.” The man scowled at the sketchbook. “What’s that?”

“Just a book. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“I ain’t interested in no book, but I’ll have a look at whatever ye got inside that cloak. I’ll wager ye tucked a few nice candlesticks and maybe a necklace or two in there. Open that cloak.”

“I will do no such thing,” Charlotte said with icy disdain.

“Mouthy bitch, aren’t ye? Well, here’s a little illustration of what’ll ’appen if ye don’t give me my rightful earnings.”

The man whipped around with surprising speed. He brought the pistol up high as if it were a club and swung it in a short, savage arc aimed at Baxter’s head.

“No,” Charlotte gasped. “Wait, don’t hurt him. He merely works for me.”

Baxter was already moving, ducking swiftly to avoid the slashing pistol. He yanked one of the glass vials out of the small box in his pocket, snapped it open, and hurled it straight into his assailant’s face.

The special phosphorous compound flashed into a harsh, startling light on contact with air. The villain roared in shock and rage and awkwardly leaped back, clawing at his eyes. The pistol clattered on the paving.

Baxter stepped forward and slammed a fist into the man’s jaw. Still partially blinded by the instantaneous light that had exploded in his face, the villain reeled.

“Ye’ve blinded me, ye bloody bastard. I’m blind.”

Baxter saw no reason to assure him that the effect was only temporary. He seized Charlotte’s arm. “Come. I hear the carriage.”

“It ain’t fair,” the villain whined. “I’m the one what spotted that vacant house. It’s mine. Go find yer own house.”

Charlotte glanced back at the outraged villain. “We’re going to inform the magistrate that you’re skulking about in this neighborhood. You’d better leave at once.”

“That’s enough.” Baxter saw the carriage lamps in the distance. He hauled Charlotte forward. “We’ve got our own problems.”

“I don’t want that villain to think that he can go into Mrs. Heskett’s house and steal whatever he likes.”

“Why not? We just did exactly that.”

“Taking this sketchbook is a different matter entirely,” she protested breathlessly.

“Hmm.” The carriage was almost upon them.

“I must tell you, I was most impressed with the way you handled that situation, Mr. St. Ives. Very clever of you to think of using your instantaneous lights in that fashion. Very clever, indeed.”

Baxter ignored the admiration in her words. He was too intent on watching the dark carriage materialize out of the fog.

The horses appeared first, a pair of gray phantoms coalescing out of the mist. The bulk of the vehicle took shape behind them. The coachman, hired from Severedges Stables along with the carriage and team, had driven for Baxter many times. He was accustomed to the eccentricities of his client.

Baxter had patronized the large livery stable for years. He found it more efficient and economical to send around to Severedges’s whenever he required a carriage than to maintain his own stable. In exchange for his long-standing business and prompt payment of accounts, he was assured of service and discretion.

“Anything wrong, sir?” the coachman inquired as he wheeled the horses to a halt.

“Nothing that my companion and I could not handle.” Baxter yanked the carriage door open. He caught Charlotte around the waist and tossed her lightly into the cab. “Take us back to Miss Arkendale’s house.”

“Aye, sir.”

Baxter vaulted into the carriage, closed the door, and sank down on the seat across from Charlotte. The vehicle rumbled into motion.

He checked to make certain that the curtains were still drawn across the windows. Then he turned back to Charlotte. In the pale glow of the interior lamps, her eyes were very brilliant.

“Mr. St. Ives, I cannot thank you enough for your actions tonight,” she said. “You were truly noble and heroic and terribly quick-witted in the crisis. All of my doubts concerning your employment have been resolved. Mr. Marcle was quite right to send you to me.”

Anger surged through him without warning. She could have gotten herself killed tonight, he thought. And there she sat, glowing with enthusiasm and praising him as if he were a servant who had performed his duties particularly well. It was enough to make any reasonable man want to lose his temper.

“I am delighted that you are satisfied with my services, Miss Arkendale.”

“Oh, I am, sir. Most delighted. You will, indeed, make me an excellent man-of-affairs.”

“But in my professional opinion,” he continued very softly, “your reckless actions this evening were intolerable. There is no excuse for such foolishness. I must have been out of my mind to allow you to search Drusilla Heskett’s house.”

“I do not recall asking your permission, sir.”

“You could have been hurt, perhaps even killed by that man who accosted us.”

“I was in no danger, thanks to you, sir. Indeed, I do not know what I would have done without you this evening.” Her eyes glowed. “No man has ever come to my rescue, Mr. St. Ives. It was quite thrilling, actually. Just the sort of thing one reads about in Gothic novels or in one of Byron’s poems.”

“Bloody hell, Miss Arkendale—”

“You were wonderful, sir.” Without warning, she launched herself across the short distance that separated them. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick, exuberant hug.

The folds of her cloak settled lightly around him. Baxter was suddenly enveloped by a warm, tantalizing, indescribable fragrance. It was composed of the light flowery perfume Charlotte wore, the herbal essence of the soap she used, and the incredibly unique, utterly feminine scent of her body.

He felt as though he had been thrust into one of his own bell jars. Some unseen air pump seemed to have sucked all of the oxygen out of the atmosphere. All that was left to breathe was the essence of Charlotte.

A searing awareness flashed through him with the speed of an electrical charge. It created a truly alchemical reaction. The ancients had believed that, with the aid of fire, it was possible to transmute base lead into glorious gold. Baxter knew now that it was possible for the heat in his blood to change his anger into intense sexual desire.

He wanted her. Now. Tonight. He had never wanted a woman so badly in the whole of his life.

He caught her face between his palms as she started to pull away from him. He gazed down at her, baffled by the force of his own need.

“Forgive me, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte looked flustered. Her smile was tremulous. Her eyes went to his mouth. “I did not mean to embarrass you. The excitement of the moment must have overcome my senses.”

Baxter did not respond. He could not think of a damn thing to say.

He did the only thing he could do. He kissed her.