Eleven

He had been nothing more than an experiment for her. A damned experiment.

Baxter’s initial rage was now inextricably bound up with a gut-wrenching sense of frustrated despair. He fought hard to conceal both behind the veil of emotionless detachment that had worked so often and so well for him in the past.

He escorted Charlotte home with a brusque civility that clearly annoyed her but it was all that he was prepared to give. She sat across from him in the carriage, her spine elegantly straight, and refused to meet his eyes during the whole of the short ride. She kept her attention fixed on the street. There was a flush in her cheeks but Baxter concluded that it was not a result of the fact that he had just made love to her. She said not a single word.

Her lack of conversation suited him perfectly, he thought. God knew he’d had more than enough of strong emotions today. He certainly did not want to discuss them.

He followed her up the steps of her little town house in silence. It was a relief to retreat into the deep, remote place where feeling was muted, distanced, and far easier to contain.

Mrs. Witty opened the door with alacrity. “About time you got home, Miss Charlotte. Miss Ariel and myself were starting to fret. Wondered if we ought to send word to Mr. St. Ives—” She broke off as she took in the sight of Baxter standing on the step behind Charlotte. Her face cleared. “Oh, I see you found her, sir. Well, that’s a fortunate turn of events.”

“That depends upon one’s point of view.” Baxter ignored Charlotte’s glowering, sidelong glance as he stepped into the hall.

He stopped short as the overpowering fragrance of a vast quantity of massed flowers hit him in a scented wave. “What the devil is this? Have you turned the house into a bloody conservatory?”

Mrs. Witty grimaced as she followed his gaze. “They started arriving this morning. Used every vase and bowl we had in the house. Quite a sight, eh?”

Rank upon rank of vases filled with innumerable blooms were clustered in the hall. Pots of marigolds marched up the staircase. Tulips framed the mirror. Roses and orchids and lilies were massed against the walls.

Baxter was abruptly incensed. “Who the devil thinks he has the right to send you all of these damned posies, Charlotte? The only man you danced with last night was old Lennox.”

“I sent some of them to myself.” Charlotte untied her bonnet strings. “I made a bargain with the young boy who drove the flower cart, you see. He only agreed to help me follow Miss Post after I said I would purchase all of his wares.”

“Ah, yes. The bloody flower cart boy.” Baxter scowled at Mrs. Witty. “Were you a party to that episode?”

“Don’t look at me, sir.” Mrs. Witty took his hat. “I’m entirely innocent. I suggested that chasing after Miss Post was not the wisest course of action, but who listens to the housekeeper? In any event, not all of these flowers are from the flower cart. A good many were sent around this morning by Miss Ariel’s admirers.”

Charlotte brightened. “Of course. Ariel was the toast of every young man in the ton last night. The gentlemen fell at her feet in droves.”

“Charlotte, you’re back.” Ariel’s voice sang out from the rear of the hall. Quick footsteps sounded on the tile as she hurried toward the front of the house. “I was starting to become concerned. Mrs. Witty said that you’d gone haring off after some woman who claimed that Mr. St. Ives had seduced and abandoned her—Oh, Mr. St. Ives.” Ariel blushed as she emerged from the corridor. “I did not see you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it.” Baxter folded his arms and propped one shoulder against the door frame. “I’m accustomed to being ignored.”

“Pay no attention to him.” Charlotte marched briskly toward the stairs. “Mr. St. Ives is in an ill temper. Show him into my study, Mrs. Witty. I shall be down in a minute. I want to freshen myself. It has been a somewhat hectic morning.”

“Hectic.” Baxter watched Charlotte hurry up the staircase. “Yes, indeed. Just another busy morning in the laboratory observing the results of one’s experiments, eh, Miss Arkendale?”

She paused on the landing to give him a brittle smile. “As you say, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Bear in mind that occasionally the results of certain experiments take some time to develop,” he said. “As long as nine months in some instances.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in shock as his meaning sank home. Bleakly satisfied, he turned and walked into the study.

Another scented wave swept over him. This room, too, was filled with blooms. A particularly large bowl of pale pink roses dominated the scene.

Nine months. His own words struck him with the impact of a hammer blow. What if Charlotte was pregnant?

He made for the brandy table.

Charlotte’s outraged yell sounded from the floor above just as Baxter got the top off the brandy decanter.

“It’s gone.” Footsteps pounded overhead. “The bastard took it.”

Baxter put down the decanter with a long-suffering sigh. A man could not even take a medicinal draught in this household without being interrupted.

He made his way back to the doorway of the study. Ariel and Mrs. Witty were gazing up at the landing in openmouthed astonishment. Charlotte stood there looking as though she had just received a strong jolt from an electricity machine.

“What is it?” Ariel demanded. “What happened?”

Mrs. Witty stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

Charlotte flung her arms wide. “I just told you. Didn’t you hear me? He took it.”

“Calm yourself, Charlotte,” Baxter said. Everyone fell silent and turned to look at him. “Now, then, why don’t you tell us precisely who took what?”

“The villain we surprised here in this house last night,” she said impatiently.

“What about him?”

“I concluded that he had not managed to steal anything, but I was wrong. I only thought to check those items that I believed would appeal to a thief, the silver and such.” Charlotte drew a breath. “I did not bother to check Drusilla Heskett’s watercolor sketchbook. I stored it in a wardrobe drawer.”

Baxter went cold. “Are you saying it’s gone?”

“Yes. That was no ordinary housebreaker, Baxter. He was after that sketchbook. And he got it.” She leveled an accusing finger at him. “I told you that book contained a valuable clue, St. Ives.”

Baxter adjusted his spectacles absently as he considered the implications. “When you have finished refreshing yourself, come down here at once. Kindly do not dawdle.”

“Damn you, St. Ives. Don’t you dare give me orders in my own house. Furthermore, I do not dawdle. I’m the one who followed Miss Post this morning, if you will but recall. When I attempted to tell you about the incident, you created a … a great distraction right there in your own laboratory. Any dawdling done this day was done by you, sir.”

Baxter closed the study door very gently and went back to the brandy table.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling vastly more composed, Charlotte swept into the study. Ariel and Mrs. Witty followed on her heels. Baxter was seated in the wingback chair in front of the fire. He glanced at the women and put down the half-finished brandy.

“About time,” he murmured as he got to his feet.

Charlotte ignored him. “It is extremely fortunate that I thought to tear out the page that contained Drusilla Heskett’s little drawing.” She went around her desk and opened a drawer. The torn sheet of sketch paper was inside, right where she had put it last night after Baxter had left. “This has got to be the clue. It was the only odd thing in the sketchbook.”

“I thought there were a number of oddities in that sketchbook,” Ariel said cheerfully. “Some of them quite interesting.”

Charlotte scowled at her as she put the ragged page on top of the desk. “That is precisely why I removed this particular sketch.”

Mrs. Witty peered at the pen-and-ink drawing. “Looks like so much nonsense to me. A triangle within a circle, three worms swimming about, and—” She squinted. “What’s that thing in the center? A dragon?”

“Some sort of winged creature, I believe.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Difficult to be certain. Mrs. Heskett did not possess a great talent for drawing. Except for certain types of anatomical studies, that is.”

Baxter crossed to the desk. “Let me see the picture.”

Charlotte felt a stirring sensation on her skin as he came to a halt and stood gazing down at the sketch. She had his full attention now, she thought. The news of the theft of the sketchbook had caused him to focus his considerable intellect on the situation.

It seemed to her that the quiet power he radiated when he was this intense shimmered around him in an invisible aura. She wondered how Ariel and Mrs. Witty could fail to notice. And then she saw that both of them had moved slightly, as if to give Baxter more room. But in truth there was ample space at the desk. Neither seemed aware of the subtle change in position.

Charlotte almost smiled. Most people might not be conscious of Baxter’s solid, inner strength, but that did not mean they failed to respond to it in an instinctive fashion.

He picked up the sheet of paper and looked more closely at the drawing. His brows drew together in a dark line above the rims of his spectacles. “There is something familiar about this picture.”

Excitement rushed through Charlotte. “What do you mean? Have you seen such a design somewhere else?”

“Perhaps. A long time ago.” Baxter glanced up from the drawing. His eyes met hers. “I shall have to do some research in my library.”

“You have seen something similar in one of your books?” Ariel asked quickly.

“Possibly.” He eyed the picture again. “I cannot be certain, but if memory serves, it is a very ancient thing.”

“Ancient.” Charlotte shuddered. “Why in heaven’s name would Mrs. Heskett have copied an old design in her sketchbook and why would someone want to steal it?”

“You’re assuming that whoever took the sketchbook did so because of this drawing,” Baxter said.

“The villain must have been after that picture. It was the only one that was different and unusual.”

“Hmm.” Baxter folded the sheet of paper. “It has been my experience as a chemist that the easiest way to go about finding solutions to problems is to begin by eliminating obvious loose ends.”

Mrs. Witty sighed. “Seems to me that all ye’ve got at this point are loose ends, sir.”

“One or two can be snipped off,” he said. “With luck, the situation will become clearer once I have taken care of them.”

“You refer to the matter of Miss Post’s visit,” Charlotte said. “What do you intend to do?”

“Assure myself that there is no connection between her and Drusilla Heskett’s murder,” Baxter said. “The way to eliminate that possibility is to discover whether or not my half brother sent her to you in an act of deliberate mischief.”

“Hamilton?” Ariel’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “You cannot mean to suggest that Lord Esherton sent Miss Post to tell that outlandish tale to Charlotte?”

“He thinks Hamilton may have done it as a sort of practical joke,” Charlotte explained hastily. “I have told St. Ives that is highly unlikely.”

“Unlikely? It’s impossible,” Ariel declared. “His lordship is a gentleman. He would never stoop to such a nasty trick.”

Baxter raised his brows. “I see Hamilton has managed to make an excellent impression on this household.”

Ariel gestured toward the large vase of pink roses. “He sent those magnificent flowers this morning. His taste, as you can see, is very refined. He is not the sort to play a vicious practical joke.”

Baxter gave the roses a disgusted look. “It doesn’t take exquisite sensibilities or a noble character to conclude that it is appropriate to send roses to a lady the morning after a ball.”

“An interesting observation,” Charlotte said dryly. “One could certainly expect any gentleman, even one unaccustomed to the ways of Society, to know enough to send flowers to a lady following a particularly memorable evening.” She paused deliberately. “Or even after a memorable morning, for that matter.”

Baxter shot her a disconcerted glance. Charlotte could have sworn that a hint of ruddy color appeared high on his cheekbones. She favored him with her brightest smile.

Ariel was distraught. “Mr. St. Ives, surely you do not believe that your own brother conspired with Miss Post?”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “As I said, I intend to learn the truth of the matter. Once we know how Miss Post is involved in all of this, we shall have some notion of how to proceed.”

Charlotte stepped quickly around the edge of the desk. “I wish to be present when you speak with your brother.”

“Not bloody likely,” Baxter said.

She gave him another smile, this one not quite so bright. “Let me put it this way, St. Ives. A bargain is a bargain. Either you take me with you when you confront Lord Esherton or I shall be forced to conclude that you wish us to pursue this investigation independently of each other. Our partnership will be at an end.”

He regarded her with a thoughtful expression that did nothing to mask the banked flames in his eyes. “Blackmail is it now, Miss Arkendale? The range of your talents never ceases to amaze me.”

The accusation hurt. She tried valiantly to conceal the pain behind a coolly amused look. “In my business, Mr. St. Ives, one learns to use whatever tools happen to be at hand in order to complete the task.”

“I see.” He inclined his head and turned to walk toward the door. “Well, I trust you enjoyed the tool that you used so very effectively less than an hour ago in my laboratory, Miss Arkendale. I assure you, that particular length of iron has never been so well heated in such a small, warm crucible.”

For an instant Charlotte could not believe she had heard right. And then outrage poured through her. “Of all the damnable nerve.” She snatched up the nearest hefty object, a vase of pansies.

Ariel gave a small cry of alarm. “Wait, those are some of my flowers.”

Her protest came too late. Charlotte had already hurled the vase. It struck the door, which Baxter had somehow managed to close very neatly behind himself as he stepped out into the hall.

A half hour after midnight, Baxter sat in the shadowed depths of the carriage and studied the front door of The Green Table from the opposite side of the street.

A light fog cloaked the scene. Carriages came and went, depositing raucous gentlemen in various stages of inebriation at the foot of the steps. Baxter saw Hamilton, Norris, and several laughing companions erupt from one vehicle. They bounded toward the entrance of the establishment.

“Well?” Charlotte demanded. “Did you see your brother go inside?”

“Yes. He has managed to avoid me all afternoon and evening, but I’ve finally cornered him.” Baxter eased the curtain across the window and sat back in the seat. “I believe I recognize the premises. This house was once a popular brothel known as The Cloister.”

“I recall hearing of The Cloister.” There was sharp disapproval in Charlotte’s tone. “Some of the so-called gentlemen I researched at the beginning of my career were rumored to favor the place. What would you know of it, sir?”

Baxter hoped that the darkness concealed his quick, amused grin. “I assure you, I am aware of it by reputation only.”

“I see.” Charlotte cleared her throat. “I do not believe that I have come across any reference to The Cloister for at least two years.”

“It was closed some time ago. There has obviously been a change in management.”

“Yes. It may be a rather raffish gaming hell now, but that is certainly a step up from a brothel, if you ask me.”

Baxter smiled. In the deep darkness of the unlit cab he could barely make out Charlotte’s face. The hood of her cloak shrouded her features.

He still was not quite certain how he had allowed himself to be convinced to bring her along tonight. Blackmail threats aside, she had a way of achieving her own ends, he thought. A strong, formidable woman, indeed. Perhaps that was one of the reasons on the growing list of why he was so attracted to her. She was definitely not the sort to succumb to a fit of the vapors or burst into tears whenever she wanted her own way. She stood toe-to-toe and insisted upon what she viewed as her rights.

As difficult as Charlotte was proving to be, there was something to be said for a strong-minded female, Baxter decided. With Charlotte, a man did not have to waste a great deal of unnecessary time and energy catering to a lot of damned delicate feminine sensibilities.

She had not complained of the fact that he had made love to her on a laboratory workbench, for example. He suspected that many women would have taken deep offense. He had to admit that the setting had lacked something in terms of romantic ambience.

On the other hand, she was the one who had labeled the passionate interlude an experiment, Baxter reminded himself. He supposed he should have been relieved that she had not placed too much importance on the event, but for some reason he could not stop brooding about it.

With each passing day, Charlotte was becoming increasingly adept at disrupting his calm, orderly existence.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Go into The Green Table and drag Hamilton out here to the carriage, where I can speak to him in private.” Baxter removed his eyeglasses and placed them in the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Why are you taking off your spectacles?”

“Because I would prefer that no one take any notice of me. Those who know me are accustomed to seeing me in eyeglasses. I wish to keep this matter a private one between Hamilton and myself.”

“I understand,” Charlotte said gently. “It is a family thing, is it not?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“But how will you be able to find Hamilton in the crowd without your eyeglasses?”

“A friend of mine, the Earl of Masters, is something of an inventor. He designed an interesting watch for me.” He pushed open a window curtain far enough to allow a shaft of weak moonlight to enter the carriage. Then he removed his pocket watch and snapped it open. He held the watch close to his eyes as though trying to make out the time the way a man did in a shadowed room. He gazed at Charlotte through the glass watch cover, which was, in fact, a single lens.

“How very clever,” Charlotte said. “A sort of quizzing glass.”

“Masters is a clever man. He designed some of my chemical apparatus for me.” Baxter closed the watch and put it back into his pocket. He reached for the door handle. “Don’t suppose it’s worth one more attempt to talk you out of being present when I question Hamilton?”

“Save your breath, sir. I was the one who actually spoke to Miss Post, after all. If Hamilton is guilty of this mischief, which I doubt, I have some questions of my own for him.”

“I feared as much.” Baxter got out of the carriage. He turned back as a thought struck him. “I have a question of my own concerning Miss Post’s visit to you.”

“What is it?”

“What with one thing and another, I overlooked one very odd piece of this business.”

“Yes?”

“Why was it that you did not believe Miss Post’s tale? What made you think that she was not my cast-off paramour?”

Charlotte gave a ladylike snort. “Don’t be ridiculous, Baxter. You would never abandon some poor woman who was pregnant with your child. Such a callous action would be completely out of character for you. Whoever sent Miss Post to me with that wild tale obviously did not know you well.”

Baxter studied the line of her firm, straight nose, which was just barely visible beneath the hood of her cloak. “I think it far more likely,” he said softly, “that whoever commissioned Miss Post to act her role did not know you well, Charlotte.”

He closed the carriage door before she could respond.

He glanced back once as he went down the street toward The Green Table. She would be safe, he thought. The coachman from Severedges’s would keep an eye on her.

In spite of the unpleasant scene that lay ahead, he found himself smiling a little as he walked through the light, swirling fog. Most ladies would have believed Juliana Post’s outrageous story. It was an all too common tale. Women alone in the world very often fell prey to the cruel seductions of men who had few qualms about abandoning them once the liaisons became inconvenient.

In the course of her extremely unusual career, Charlotte had become better acquainted than most of her sex with the dark side of masculine nature. Her view of men was pragmatic to the point of cynicism. It would have been quite natural for her to have believed the worst that Miss Post had to tell her. Yet she had not given a moment’s credence to the lie.

Baxter savored that thought as he approached the steps of The Green Table. For some reason that he did not want to examine, it was of vital importance to know that Charlotte had believed in him when faced with such damning evidence. Surely she had some spark of genuine affection for him that went beyond a mere desire for passionate experimentation.

A carriage rumbled to a halt in front of the gaming hell just as Baxter reached the steps. Loud laughter and coarse jokes sounded from the cab. The vehicle’s door slammed open and five young, drunken dandies spilled out onto the pavement. One of them lost his balance on the wet ground and wound up planted on his rear. His friends found his predicament hilarious.

Baxter stood back in the shadows and waited as the newcomers righted themselves and paid the coachman. When they turned to stagger up the steps, he fell in behind them. They never noticed as he went through the door in their wake.

The dim, firelit interior of The Green Table was thronged. Without his spectacles, the scene had an unfocused quality that seemed remarkably appropriate. Baxter did not need his eyeglasses to conclude that there was little chance of anyone observing him in the crowd. It was still early by Town standards, but the men who filled the overheated room were already sunk deep in heavy play at the green baize-covered tables. No one paid him any attention.

A roaring fire on the large hearth threw a hellish red glow over the scene. The air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and smoke.

Baxter found a secluded corner protected by a large, well-endowed stone figure of a nude female. He removed his pocket watch and held it up as though to get a closer look at the face. He studied the crowd through the single lens. The faces of the hell’s patrons sharpened abruptly.

There was no sign of Hamilton or Norris.

Frowning, Baxter started to close the watch. Movement on the stairs at the rear of the large room made him hesitate. He raised the lens again and took a quick look.

Several young men, including Hamilton and Norris, were on their way to one of the upper floors. Baxter wondered if there were private dining parlors above or if the new owner of the premises had elected to continue offering the services of a brothel in a more discreet fashion.

Then he recalled something Hamilton had said about the management providing a special meeting place for the members of his exclusive club.

Baxter shut the watch case and dropped it into his pocket. He did not need the single eyeglass to make his way across the room.

But when he got closer to the bottom of the staircase, he saw a large, somewhat blurred figure lounging against the banister.

While the crowd milled around him, Baxter took out his watch and risked another survey. One glance at the thick features of the heavyset man on the stairs was all that was necessary. He was looking at a guard. The man had obviously been posted to protect the elite club members privileged to partake of the pleasures that were offered on the upper floors.

Curiosity and a strong sense of foreboding descended on him in equal proportions. The ground-floor gaming room of The Green Table was bad enough. It was the sort of place in which a careless young man could lose a great deal in a night’s deep play. Whatever lay overhead was probably a good deal more unpleasant.

What sort of devilish nonsense had Hamilton gotten himself involved in? Baxter wondered. He could almost hear his father’s voice telling him to keep an eye on his younger half brother.

Stifling a resigned groan, Baxter eased his way back through the crowd to the front door. He waited until a group of patrons chose to leave and quietly attached himself to their number.

Outside on the pavement he made his way to the corner of the street. He paused to fish his eyeglasses out of his pocket and put them on. Then he turned and went down an alley that looked as though it would take him to the rear of The Green Table.

Most of the nearby buildings were dark at this hour but there was enough light from the windows and the kitchens of The Green Table to guide Baxter. The establishment was three stories high. From the alley he could see that the windows on the top floor were dark. But on the floor below, a tiny sliver of light escaped from one window.

Years ago, The Cloister had been notorious, Baxter reminded himself as he prowled through the shadows of the garden. In its heyday, it had been the sort of place that had traded in a variety of illicit activities and exotic tastes. It was an establishment that had needed clandestine entrances and exits, not to mention peepholes and hidden staircases.

It was the sort of place that had attracted his father.

A privy stood in the unkempt garden. As Baxter watched, a drunken man staggered out of the necessary and made his way back into the club through a rear door. A moment or two later, Baxter followed him. He found himself in a small servants’ hall. It was empty. A flight of narrow, twisting steps led to the upper floors.

He took the steps with caution. Fortunately, they were all in sound condition. He paused on the first landing. The door that opened onto the hall was locked. He had not thought to bring his lock picks, so he was obliged to pause long enough to correct the problem with the wire earpiece of his eyeglasses.

A moment later he was inside the darkened corridor.

He was about to make his way down the hall toward the room where he thought he had seen a light when he heard the scrape of a shoe on a wooden stair tread.

The sound was too light and too tentative to have been made by the guard.

He waited in the shadows. A figure swathed in a voluminous cloak entered the narrow hall.

He stepped quickly away from the wall and locked one arm around his pursuer’s throat.

“Do not move. Not one word. Not one sound,” he warned very quietly.

The trapped figure froze and then nodded quickly, silently. Baxter caught a whiff of a familiar scent, part herbal soap, part female, absolutely unmistakable. The particular fragrance was forever registered on his senses. He would go to his grave able to recognize it. It would no doubt be his grim fate that even on his deathbed, he would still suffer the sweet, aching tug of desire whenever he inhaled it.

“Bloody hell, Charlotte. What are you doing here?”