Nine

Charlotte heard the front door slam shut behind Juliana Post. She hurried out into the hall and peered through the window. She was in time to watch Juliana climb into a hackney carriage with an agility that was amazing in a woman who was so far advanced in her pregnancy.

Charlotte whirled around and seized a deep-brimmed straw bonnet from a wall hook. She grabbed the serviceable woolen coat that hung beside it.

Mrs. Witty emerged from the kitchens. She dried her hands on the neat white apron that covered her new bombazine gown and frowned at Charlotte. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I’m going to follow that woman who just left.” Charlotte yanked open the front door and started down the steps. “I want to see where she goes.”

“This is madness,” Mrs. Witty called from the doorway. “She left in a carriage. You cannot hope to keep up with her on foot.”

“The traffic is so slow in this part of town that I should be able to keep the carriage in sight if I hurry.” Charlotte jammed her bonnet down onto her head and started to run.

“But you may have to follow her for a great distance,” Mrs. Witty yelled.

Charlotte paid no attention. Several heads turned to watch as she flew along the walkway. She ignored the assortment of amused expressions and disapproving looks. She was well aware that those who knew her already thought her rather odd. Strangers would only shrug at the sight of a woman rushing through the throng of delivery carts and farmers’ wagons that crowded the streets at this hour of the day.

The lumbering hackney turned the corner at the far end of the street. Charlotte realized that if she cut through the park, she would be able to shorten the distance that separated her from the vehicle.

She turned and dashed through the iron gates that marked the entrance to the small green square. Clutching her bonnet, she emerged, breathless, at the opposite gate.

Mrs. Witty had been right. She could not go on much farther at this pace. Juliana’s carriage was gaining ground.

She scanned the street with a sense of growing desperation. A flower cart driven by a youth of about fifteen stood midway down the block. She raced toward it, waving to get the boy’s attention.

He glanced at her with a curious expression as she reached the cart. “Did ye want to buy some flowers, ma’am?”

“No, but I will pay you well if you will take me up and follow that hackney.”

The boy frowned. “Don’t know if me pa would want me doin’ that, ma’am.”

“I will make it worth your while.” Charlotte hiked up her skirts and started to climb aboard. “I will purchase every flower on your cart if you will help me.”

“Well …”

“Just think, you will be free for the rest of the day and when you return home this afternoon, your pa will be happy enough when he sees you’ve sold every bloom.”

The boy still looked dubious. “You’ll be wantin’ every single flower?”

“Yes, indeed.” Charlotte sat down and gave the young man an encouraging smile. “I love flowers.”

The boy hesitated only a second longer. Then he shrugged. “Me pa always did say the fancy was peculiar.”

He flapped the reins vigorously. Startled, the plump pony broke into a brisk trot. Charlotte strove to catch her breath as the cart jolted forward in pursuit of the hackney.

Fifteen minutes later the flower cart rounded another corner in a modest neighborhood. Charlotte watched Juliana’s carriage come to a halt in front of a small house.

“This is far enough,” Charlotte said. “You need not wait for me. I shall find my own way home.”

“ ’Ere, now, what about me flowers?”

“I have not forgotten.” Charlotte collected her skirts and scrambled down from the cart. “I shall give you my direction. Take all the flowers there and inform my housekeeper that I told you she was to purchase every stem.”

“All right, then.” The boy eyed her. “Are ye sure ye don’t want me to wait for ye?”

“No. I shall be able to find a hackney.” She smiled and rattled off the information he needed to locate her town house. “It is very kind of you to be concerned, but I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Whatever ye say.” The boy clucked at the pony.

Charlotte waited until the flower cart had clattered off down the street before she walked toward the small house Juliana had entered. Mentally she composed a variety of ways to demand an explanation for the woman’s actions. She finally decided that she would be obliged to wait for inspiration until she was inside.

She went up the steps and banged the knocker. There was silence and then came the sound of heavy footsteps. A moment later a stout-looking housekeeper opened the door.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please inform your mistress that I have come to call,” Charlotte said firmly.

The housekeeper peered at her suspiciously. “Did ye have an appointment?”

An odd question, Charlotte thought. A housekeeper might inquire as to whether or not a caller was expected but the word appointment was used for business visits. Her own clients had appointments.

“Yes,” Charlotte said smoothly. “I do have an appointment.”

“Bit early,” the woman grumbled as she stood back and opened the door. “Miss Post don’t usually see her clients until the afternoon.”

“She made an exception for me.” Charlotte stepped swiftly through the opening before the housekeeper could have second thoughts. “It’s rather urgent.”

The housekeeper gave her a quizzical look but did not comment. She closed the door. “May I have your name?”

Charlotte seized upon the first name that sprang to mind. “Mrs. Witty.”

“Very well. This way, then. I’ll let Miss Post know that you’re here, Mrs. Witty.”

“Thank you.”

Charlotte glanced curiously around the hall as she followed the housekeeper. The woodwork gleamed from a recent waxing. The tile floor was clean and polished. The oak and ebony cabinet on the side was handsomely inlaid with brass. Juliana Post did not appear to be wealthy, but she certainly was not impoverished. In fact, for a ruined woman, she appeared to be doing very well for herself.

The housekeeper opened a door on the far side of the hall. “Please go on in, Mrs. Witty. I’ll fetch Miss Post.”

Charlotte swept into the small parlor and halted, astonished.

She found herself in an exotic chamber decorated in the Eastern style. Everything was done in shades of crimson and black. The lingering scent of incense was strong although the brazier was unlit.

It was midday but in there it could have been midnight. The heavy red velvet drapes were pulled across the windows, throwing the parlor into an unnatural gloom. Great swaths of red and black ceiling hangings billowed low over the scene. The only light came from two tall lotus-flower candelabras.

There were no chairs but a number of crimson pillows trimmed with black fringe were arranged on the red and black carpet. A low, scarlet sofa was placed near the hearth.

In the center of the room a small ebony stand held a deck of cards.

“Mrs. Witty?” Juliana Post spoke from the doorway. “I’m afraid that I do not recall our appointment but I believe that I can accommodate you.”

Charlotte removed her bonnet and turned slowly.

Juliana had already changed her attire. She now wore flowing scarlet robes and a great number of beads.

“I did not make an appointment,” Charlotte said.

Juliana stiffened. “It’s you.” Something that might have been fear flickered in her eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“It was not difficult.” Charlotte examined Juliana’s newly slimmed figure and smiled grimly. “I assume that you are no longer concerned about being cast out into the streets and ruined forever?”

Juliana flushed. “It would be best if you left now, Miss Arkendale.”

“I do not intend to leave here without an explanation.”

“I have no explanations to give.”

Charlotte said nothing for a long moment. Then she walked over to the small ebony table. “These are not the sort of cards one uses for whist.”

“No.”

Charlotte bent down to pick up the deck. She examined the ornate decorations on the backs of the cards and then she glanced at the strange figures on the facing sides. She had seen such cards used once long ago at a masquerade party.

“Do you tell fortunes, Miss Post?”

Juliana watched her warily. “I read the cards in order to advise young ladies in matters of love and marriage.”

“For a fee.”

Juliana’s smile was cold. “Naturally.”

“When your housekeeper answered the door just now she assumed that I had an appointment. Did she think that I had come here to have you read the cards for me?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte glanced meaningfully around the room. “I must commend you on your establishment. You have created a most intriguing atmosphere in which to practice your profession.”

“Thank you.”

“It would seem that your business is a profitable one.”

“I manage.” A bitter anger flashed across Juliana’s face. “I have become quite the rage among a certain set of fashionable young ladies. Some of them find it amusing to have me read their fates in the cards. Others take it more seriously. Either way, they are prepared to pay for the entertainment I provide.”

“Have you been in this career very long?”

“Since shortly after my dear guardian finished off the last of my inheritance.” Cynical amusement lit Juliana’s eyes. “That occurred when I was eighteen. Once the money was gone he no longer found it convenient to have me in his house.”

“He sounds as if he came from the same mold as my stepfather.” Charlotte set down the deck of cards. “Do you know, Miss Post, I believe we may have something in common.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“I, too, have a small business that caters to ladies. And I was also obliged to invent a career for reasons not unlike your own.” She smiled faintly. “At least we both managed to escape the usual fate of women in our situation. Neither of us became a governess or was obliged to walk the streets.”

“Please leave,” Juliana whispered. “You should not have come here today.”

“It is not easy for a woman to make her own way in the world, is it?”

The small bells attached to Juliana’s crimson robes jangled dissonantly. She clenched her hands at her sides. “Do not think that you can cozen me into telling you what you wish to know. I will tell you nothing.”

“I am prepared to pay for the information I seek.”

Juliana gave a crack of mirthless laughter. “You’re a fool if you think that there is any amount of money in the world that would persuade me to answer your question.”

“Do you feel so much loyalty, then, to the person who hired you to play the part of a cast-off lover?”

“I made a bargain. I have kept my end of it. What happens now is none of my affair. I must insist that you leave at once.”

Charlotte caught her breath as intuition struck. “You are afraid.”

“That is nonsense.”

“Whom do you fear? Perhaps I can assist you.”

“Assist me?” Juliana gave her an incredulous look. “You can have no notion of what you are talking about.”

“Do you know, Miss Post, in other circumstances, I believe we might have been friends.”

“What in the name of God makes you say such a thing?”

“I would have thought it was obvious,” Charlotte said quietly. “I suspect that we have many mutual interests and concerns. For instance, do you send your bills to your clients after their appointments or do you request that they pay you before you provide your services?”

Juliana frowned. “I expect reimbursement at the time of the appointments. I learned long ago that clients have a habit of letting their accounts languish if I wait to send my bills.”

“I learned the same lesson early on in my career.”

Juliana hesitated warily. “What, precisely, is the nature of your career?”

“You mean, you do not even know that much about me?”

“I know nothing about you, except where you live and that you are engaged to Baxter St. Ives. I was employed to act a role and I did so. That was to be the end of it.”

“I see. Well, as we are both engaged in a similar line, I do not mind telling you something about my business. Generally speaking, though, I do try to maintain a degree of confidentiality.”

Juliana was clearly curious, in spite of her uneasy mood. “What services do you provide?”

“Very discreet services. Ladies who have received offers of marriage sometimes seek me out. I make inquiries into the backgrounds of the men who have expressed a desire to wed them.”

“Inquiries? I do not understand.”

“I attempt to verify that my clients’ suitors are not rakehells, gamesters, or fortune hunters. In short, Miss Post, I endeavor to ensure that the ladies who consult with me do not make the mistake of marrying a man such as your guardian or my stepfather.”

“That is astounding. You make these inquiries by yourself?”

“I have some assistants.”

Juliana appeared reluctantly fascinated. “But how do you obtain your information?”

“From many sources. Servants in the household or those employed in gaming hells and brothels supply some of the answers.” Charlotte smiled wryly. “No one ever notices the staff in such places.”

“That is very true.” Juliana shook her head in amazement. “Inquiries into gentlemen’s backgrounds. What an extraordinarily clever notion.”

In spite of the situation, Charlotte was unable to resist a modest smile of pride. “Coming, as it does, from one who also understands the difficulties and rewards of inventing a singular career for herself, that is a great compliment.”

Juliana’s mouth thinned. “It also sounds an exceedingly dangerous business.”

“On the whole I cannot say that I have had any great difficulty.” Until recently, Charlotte added silently.

Juliana looked uncertain. She glanced over her shoulder as if she half expected to see someone materialize there. And then she took an urgent step closer to Charlotte and lowered her voice. “You say you feel that, in other circumstances, we might have been friends and colleagues.”

“Yes.”

“Speaking as a person who could have been your friend and colleague, I will give you this advice. I do not know what you have got yourself into that involves Baxter St. Ives, but I do know this much. You would do well to abandon whatever course you have set for yourself that is connected to him.”

Charlotte stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I can say no more.” Juliana flung out a hand to indicate the door. “You must leave at once. Do not return. Ever.”

Charlotte was stunned by the undisguised fear that flickered in Juliana’s eyes. “Very well.” She turned and walked slowly toward the door. “But should you change your mind or wish my help, I pray that you will send a message to me. You have my direction.” She put her hand on the knob.

“Miss Arkendale?”

Charlotte turned. “Yes?”

“You did not believe my little charade this morning, did you?” Juliana searched her face. “Not even for a moment.”

“No, not even for a moment.”

“May I ask why? Am I so poor an actress?”

“You are a very convincing actress,” Charlotte said gently. “But I know Mr. St. Ives rather well. He is not the sort to abandon his own unborn child.”

Juliana grimaced. “You are surprisingly naive, considering your choice of career. I will give you one more piece of advice, Miss Arkendale. Do not trust a man who can make you feel passion. Such men are dangerous magicians.”

“I am only too well aware of the risks. I see them every day in the course of my profession. Good day, Miss Post.” Charlotte let herself out of the incense-laced room and closed the door very quietly.

She did not take a deep breath until she was outside on the walk in front of Juliana Post’s small house.

Baxter pondered the idiotic impulse that had prompted him to request his half brother to pay a visit this morning. He did not understand why he had succumbed to the urge to hold this unpleasant conference but he knew one thing for certain. It had been a mistake.

“Well, Baxter, I have answered your summons.” Hamilton stalked back and forth across the laboratory.

It was not an easy task. He was obliged to wend a twisting path between the workbenches, the air pump, and the large stand that held the great burning lens that Baxter used when he needed to generate the most intense heat for an experiment.

Hamilton was, as usual, dressed to the nines. His pleated buff-colored trousers, cream-and-rose-striped waistcoat, elaborately tied cravat, and short, double-breasted coat identified him to all and sundry as a man of fashion.

Baxter eyed him thoughtfully. Hamilton’s clothes always fitted him perfectly and he wore them with a natural, seemingly negligent ease. He was tall and lean and graceful in his movements. His tailors loved him. His gloves were perfectly shaped to his long-fingered hands. His neckcloth was always tied in a rakish manner. His boots gleamed.

Hamilton’s attire was never stained with the residue of old chemicals, Baxter thought. His coat was never rumpled. He did not wear spectacles. The old earl, their father, had had the same innate, self-assured elegance and the ability to set the fashion.

Baxter was well aware that he was the one glaring exception to the commonly held view that the St. Ives men did everything with style.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Baxter said.

Hamilton shot him a quick, searching glance. “I trust you will not waste my time. Have you finally decided to loosen the purse strings?”

Baxter lounged back against one of the workbenches and folded his arms. “Are you short of funds? One would never guess from that expensive new carriage you’ve got parked outside.”

“Damnation, that is not the point, as you are very well aware.” Hamilton whirled around, his shoulders rigid with anger. “I am the Earl of Esherton and I have a right to my inheritance. Father intended for me to have that money.”

“In due course.”

Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “I know that you enjoy the temporary power that you wield over my funds.”

“Not particularly,” Baxter said with great depth of feeling. “I would far rather Father had not burdened me with the task of managing your affairs. It is a bloody nuisance, if you want to know the truth.”

“Do not expect me to believe that. We are both well aware that controlling my inheritance gives you a measure of revenge.” Hamilton came to a halt near the table that held Baxter’s balance instrument. He picked up one of the small brass weights and examined it. “Gloat while you can. I already have the title. In a few years I shall have the fortune.”

“Believe it or not, I expect to survive very nicely without your title or your fortune. But that is not important at the moment. Hamilton, I did not ask you here in order to discuss your financial situation.”

“I should have guessed that you had not changed your mind about the handling of my inheritance.” Hamilton dropped the brass weight back into the pan. He started toward the door. “I may as well be on my way, as it appears that we have nothing to say to each other.”

“Your mother is concerned about you.”

“My mother.” Hamilton came to an abrupt halt. “My mother spoke to you about me?”

“Yes. She sought me out last night at one of the affairs I attended with my … fiancée.”

“There is no reason why Mama would do such a thing,” Hamilton exploded. “I cannot imagine her doing it. She can barely tolerate you. The very sight of you causes her pain.”

“I am aware of that. The fact that she talked to me about her concerns is certainly proof of her anxious state.”

Hamilton watched him warily. “What is it that concerns her?”

“Your choice of amusements.”

“That is utter nonsense. She thinks I’m still in leading strings. But I’m a man now. Mother will have to accept that I have a right to enjoy myself with my friends. It’s only natural that I spend more time at my club.”

“About this club you have recently joined,” Baxter said slowly. “What is the name of it?”

“Why do you care?”

“Merely curious.”

Hamilton hesitated and then shrugged. “It’s called The Green Table. But if you are thinking of applying for membership, I suggest you reconsider.” He smiled thinly. “I do not believe that you would find it suitable to a man of your advanced years and unexciting temperament.”

“I see. Do not concern yourself. I spend little enough time at my own club. I have no interest in joining a new one.”

“I am relieved to hear it. I cannot imagine the two of us hanging about the same club. It would be damned awkward.”

“No doubt.”

“It’s not as if we share the same interests.”

“No.”

Hamilton eyed him suspiciously. “You have no compelling curiosity about the nature of events on the metaphysical plane.”

“You are quite correct in that assumption.”

“And I cannot think you would want to discuss the latest works of the Romantic poets.”

“The subject is not high on my list of dinner table conversation topics,” Baxter admitted.

“And you certainly would not care to experiment with various methods of establishing the truth about the philosophy of the supernatural.”

“Even lower on my list of favored topics than romantical poetry,” Baxter agreed cheerfully. “Are those the sorts of discussions with which you amuse yourself at The Green Table?”

“For the most part.”

“I understood it was a gaming hell, not a philosophical salon.”

“My friends and I have created a club within a club. The management of The Green Table caters to our preferences in a separate portion of the establishment.”

“I see. I believe I shall stick to my laboratory.”

“Yes, that would be best. You would not enjoy yourself at The Green Table.” Hamilton gazed at an array of glass tubes arranged on a nearby stand. “Father spent a lot of time here in your laboratory.”

“He had a great interest in science. My experiments intrigued him.”

“He always said you were quite brilliant.” Hamilton’s mouth twisted. “Called you a bloody hero because of some task you performed during the war.”

Baxter was surprised by that information. “He exaggerated.”

“I was sure he had. You’re hardly the heroic sort.”

“True. Being heroic requires a great deal of energy and strong emotion. Much too wearying for a person of my temperament.”

Hamilton hesitated. “When I was fourteen, Father made me study that book you wrote under a pseudonym, Conversations on Chemistry.”

“I’m sure you found it deadly dull.”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. But I followed one of the recipes for making a mild acid and somehow managed to spill the stuff all over my copy of the book.” Hamilton smiled. “It quite ruined the pages.”

“I see. Hamilton, I am aware that we have little in common but we do share a mutual interest in your inheritance.”

Alarm lit Hamilton’s eyes. “Now, see here, Baxter, if you think to steal my fortune—”

“There is no need to become agitated, I have no intention of helping myself to your money.” Baxter walked to the windowsill and looked at the three sweet pea pots. There was still no sign of any green shoots. “But it has occurred to me that, as the money I now manage for you will one day be yours, you might have some interest in learning how to invest it.”

“Explain yourself.”

Baxter met his eyes. “I could show you how to deal with bankers and men of business. I would be happy to teach you the various ways of investing your income. How to employ the people you will require to manage your estates. That kind of thing.”

“I want nothing from you except the money that is rightfully mine. I am not a child who requires a tutor in finances. There is nothing I can learn from you. Not one damned thing. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton turned back toward the door with an angry, disgusted motion. “I have wasted enough time here today. I have better things to do.”

The door opened just as he reached for the knob. Lambert loomed. He gazed impassively at Baxter. “A somewhat impetuous visitor to see you, sir.”

“Baxter.” Charlotte rushed into the laboratory without waiting for Lambert to finish announcing her. “I must tell you what has just happened. I have had the most amazing … Ooomph.” She broke off in breathless confusion as she barely avoided a collision with Hamilton. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not see you there.”

“I do not believe that you and my half brother were introduced last night,” Baxter said. “We left the ball somewhat early, if you will recall.”

Charlotte glanced at Baxter. A hint of pink tinged her cheeks but he could not decide if the color was the result of her present state of high excitement or because she was remembering her passionate response to him last night.

“Yes, we did leave early,” she murmured politely.

“Allow me to present the Earl of Esherton,” Baxter said. “Hamilton, this is my fiancée, Miss Charlotte Arkendale.”

Charlotte smiled warmly at Hamilton. “Your lordship.”

Baxter watched her sink into an elegant curtsy.

“Miss Arkendale.” Hamilton’s scowl vanished as he took her hand. An unmistakable eagerness lit his eyes. “Lady Trengloss introduced me to your lovely sister last night. I had the very great honor of dancing with her. She is a most charming lady.”

“In that we are agreed, my lord,” Charlotte said.

Baxter cleared his throat. “You have not congratulated me on my engagement, Hamilton.”

Hamilton’s jaw clenched mutinously but the demands of civility prevailed. “My apologies. My felicitations to you both. If you will pardon me, I must be on my way.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said.

Hamilton nodded and hurried through the door.

Charlotte waited until they were alone. Then she favored Baxter with a bright, approving smile.

“So, you decided to take your brother in hand, after all.” She removed her straw bonnet. “Lady Esherton will be greatly relieved, I’m sure.”

“Not bloody likely. Hamilton does not want any advice from me.” Baxter frowned at the clock. “Where the devil have you been, Charlotte? I sent a message around to your house an hour and a half ago. I got a note back from your sister informing me that you were out.”

“It is a long story.” She turned slowly on her heel, examining the laboratory with an expression of great interest. “So this is where you perform your chemical experiments.”

“Yes.” He watched her walk to the windowsill.

“What have you got in these three pots?”

“Sweet pea seeds. I’m conducting an experiment to test the efficacy of adding certain minerals to soil that has been worn out from too many plantings.”

Charlotte touched the earth in one pot with the tip of her finger. “The seeds have not sprouted.”

“No,” he said. “They may never sprout. That is the way of many such experiments. What is this tale that you wish to tell me?”

“It is the most amazing thing.” She turned, shimmering with renewed excitement. “I may as well start at the beginning. This morning I had a visit from a lady who claimed to be pregnant with your child.”

“What?”

“Brace yourself, Baxter. It only gets more interesting.”