Thirteen

The small book was old, one of the most ancient in Baxter’s library. He had not had occasion to examine it in a long while. It was one of a number of alchemical texts that he had acquired over the years. He was not certain why.

Alchemy was a subject that properly belonged to the past, not the modern age. It was chemistry’s dark side, a devil’s brew of occult studies, metaphysical speculation, and supernatural secrets. It was rubbish.

But there was a sense of deep mystery about alchemy that had always intrigued him, especially in his younger days. The endless, obsessive quest for the Philosopher’s Stone, the search for the basic laws that governed nature, drew him in some deep, elemental fashion that he could not explain.

And so he had collected books such as this one.

The leather binding was cracked, but the thick pages were in remarkably good condition. If he had not been so exhausted from the long, sleepless night, he would have been briefly amused by the title page. In the long tradition of alchemists who chose to write treatises on their subject, the author had assigned himself a flamboyant pseudonym. Aristotle Augustus.

Almost as riveting as Basil Valentine, Baxter thought, the name he had used for Conversations on Chemistry. But, then, he’d been only twenty when he had authored the book, just down from Oxford. He’d felt the need of a pseudonym that carried some weight.

Basil Valentine had been a legendary alchemist, a man of mystery. He had delved deeply into the arcane arts of the fire. He was said to have discovered great secrets and learned the nature of raw power.

In short, the name had sounded a good deal more exciting and romantic than Baxter St. Ives.

Baxter liked to think that he had matured a lot since Oxford.

He braced himself with both hands spread wide on the polished ebony desk and studied the slim volume that lay open in front of him. The Latin title translated into English as A True History of the Secrets of the Fire.

The drawing, a crude picture of a triangle inside a circle, was located near the center of the slender volume. Unlike Drusilla Heskett’s sketch, this was more easily comprehended. The squiggles were not worms, but various mythical beasts. The dots were tiny symbols that Baxter recognized as having alchemical references.

The drawing was the usual mixture of metaphors and cryptic designs so beloved by the alchemists. The ancients had reveled in the obscure and had gone to great lengths to conceal their secrets from the uninitiated. Baxter knew that he was looking at a diagram that was meant to be an alchemical key, a pictorial description of a secret experiment that, if conducted perfectly, would lead to the discovery of the Philosopher’s Stone.

There was no doubt but that it represented a direct link with The Green Table. But the questions still remained. Why had Drusilla Heskett copied the diagram into her watercolor sketchbook? Why had someone felt the need to steal the book from Charlotte and why was Drusilla dead?

Baxter closed A True History of the Secrets of the Fire and glanced at the tall clock. It was five-thirty in the morning. After taking Charlotte home, he had been unable to sleep. Driven by a need for answers, he had spent what had been left of the night there in the library. He was in his shirtsleeves. The coat and cravat he had worn that evening lay draped across a nearby chair.

Wearily he removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Foreboding sat on his shoulder, a great dark bird of prey. He could sense the gathering danger. A plan of action was required. He would have to formulate one as quickly as possible. The most important goal was to protect Charlotte while the matter got sorted out. But first he needed some sleep.

A thump and a loud voice out in the front hall interrupted his thoughts.

“Get out of me way, you clumsy oaf. Ye cannot stop me. Move, damn yer bloody hide.”

Baxter sighed. The new housekeeper had a mouth on her that would have done justice to a dock laborer. On the positive side, at least she was an early riser. The last one had often slept through breakfast.

Another thud sounded from the hall.

“I ain’t hanging about another moment. I’d have left yesterday if me sister had been able to give me a bed for the night.”

“If you would perhaps give it another fortnight, Mrs. Pearson.” Lambert’s pleading tones were muffled by the wall. “It is so difficult to find staff. And Mr. St. Ives does pay well, you know.”

“I don’t care how much that madman is willing to pay his staff. All those strange goings-on in that laboratory of his. And right in the middle of the day, too. A lady shrieking as if she was bein’ fiendishly tortured. I won’t tolerate that sort of thing. Get away from the door, ye doddering old fool.”

There was another short murmur of protest from Lambert, a loud exclamation, and a very final-sounding thump. The front door slammed with sufficient force to shake the wall.

Silence fell.

A soft knock on the library door a moment later made Baxter close his eyes in bleak anticipation.

“What is it, Lambert?” He turned slowly to face the door.

Lambert hovered anxiously in the opening. Apparently he had been roused from his bed and had not had time to finish dressing. His sparse gray hair stood straight out from his head. His jacket was unbuttoned and he was wearing only one shoe. He managed to clear his throat with great dignity.

“Begging your pardon, sir, the new housekeeper just gave notice.”

“Bloody hell. There have been no untimely explosions, no flashes of light, no electricity experiments. What went wrong this time?”

“Among other things, Mrs. Pearson was apparently overset by the, uh, incident in the laboratory yesterday.”

“What incident? I was not performing any experiments yesterday.” Baxter broke off abruptly as he recalled just what he had been doing in the laboratory. Fiendishly torturing a lady. He felt a curious sensation of heat in his face. Good God. He was turning red.

“The lady’s scream,” he muttered.

“Aye, sir.” Lambert shifted awkwardly. “The lady’s scream.”

Baxter scowled. “I was merely demonstrating the most effective technique for the operation of the blowpipe. My fiancée is interested in scientific matters. She became quite enthusiastic when she witnessed the lively fire that was produced.”

“Indeed, sir.” Lambert looked wistful. “It must be rather pleasant to be able to operate one’s blowpipe effectively. My own has been giving me trouble for some years now.”

“Yes, well, why are you standing about, Lambert? Get yourself some breakfast and then take yourself off to the agencies as soon as they open for business. We must find ourselves a new housekeeper.”

“Aye, sir.” Lambert bowed his head. “Shall I prepare some eggs and toast for you, Mr. St. Ives?”

“Not necessary.” Baxter idly massaged the back of his neck. “I’m going to sleep for a few hours. I had a long night.”

“Very well.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Baxter went around behind his desk and opened a drawer. He removed a sheet of foolscap, picked up a quill, and scrawled quickly. “Please have this message carried to Esherton’s house as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir.” Lambert frowned as if a thought had struck him. “Speaking of messages, sir, did you see the one I left in the salver on the hall table? It arrived last evening while you were out.”

“No, I did not get it.”

“From your aunt, I believe.” Lambert hobbled across the hall to the table and plucked a folded note from the silver tray. He carried it slowly into the library.

Baxter glanced at the note from Rosalind while he waited for the ink on his own message to dry.

As if he did not have enough problems, Baxter thought. On top of everything else, Rosalind wanted to set a fictitious wedding date to crown his fictitious engagement to Charlotte.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” Lambert appeared even more dithery than usual. “I shall, of course, attend to the matter of acquiring a new housekeeper and I shall see that the message is sent. But this is the day of my regular appointment with Dr. Flatt. If you do not mind, sir, I would very much like to keep it. My joints are quite sore this morning.”

“Of course, of course. Do not miss your appointment.” A thought occurred to Baxter. “Does Dr. Flatt utilize any herbs or incense in his therapies?”

“No, sir. He uses the power of the gaze and certain movements of the hands to focus the animal magnetism. Works wonders, he does.”

“I see.” Baxter yawned as he folded the note for Esherton. “I vow, I do not know what I would do without you, Lambert.”

“I try to give satisfaction, sir.” Lambert took the note, turned, and moved slowly, painfully down the hall toward the kitchens.

Baxter eyed the staircase through the open doorway. His bedchamber seemed very far away at the moment. The sofa was closer and much more convenient.

He closed the door of the library and walked back across the room to set his eyeglasses down on the table that held the brandy decanter. Then he sprawled on the cushions.

For a moment he gazed at the ceiling. Above all, Charlotte had to be kept safe. Sleep claimed him.

The heavy dark wings of the cloak swirled around the monster in the hall. She was relieved that she could not see his face in the shadows. A part of her did not want to know anything more than she already did about the creature. It was as though some innate sense of decency deep within her resisted the necessity to look upon evil and see its face in human form.

But her intellect warned her that evil that could not be identified and named was all the more dangerous in its anonymity. She steadied the unloaded pistol in her hand.

“Leave this house at once,” she whispered.

The monster’s beautiful laugh sent ripples of dread through the darkness. The small waves moved out beyond the past, out into the future where he knew that the pistol was not loaded.

“Do you believe in destiny, my little avenging angel?” the monster asked pleasantly.

The door of the bedchamber flew open.

“Charlotte. Charlotte, wake up.”

Charlotte opened her eyes. She saw Ariel rushing toward the bed. The skirts of her nightgown and a hastily donned wrapper whipped about her bare feet.

“Ariel?”

“You cried out. You must have been dreaming. A nightmare, I collect. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Charlotte struggled to a sitting position against the pillows. Her heart still pounded in her chest. Her skin was damp. “Yes, I’m all right. A bad dream. Nothing more.”

“Brought on by this business of investigating Drusilla Heskett’s death, no doubt.” Ariel paused to light the taper in the stand beside the bed. The flame illuminated her worried face. “Was it one of the old dreams? The sort you had after the night Winterbourne was murdered?”

“Yes.” Charlotte drew her knees up under the quilt and wrapped her arms around them. “It was one of those. I have not been troubled by them in a long while. I thought they had disappeared forever.”

Ariel sank down on the edge of the bed. “What precisely did you do with Mr. St. Ives this evening? You came home so late. I did not see you after you left the Hatrich soiree. Where did you go?”

“It is a long story. I will tell you the whole of it in the morning. Suffice it to say that Baxter attempted to locate Hamilton at his club but we were not able to speak to him.”

“I see.”

Charlotte hesitated. “Has Hamilton ever spoken to you about mesmerism?”

“Animal magnetism, do you mean?” Ariel’s fine brows drew together in a slight frown. “He mentioned it when we went out onto the terrace at the Clydes’ ball. I believe he has an interest in the subject. He seemed to know a great deal about it. He claimed that its potential has been overlooked by most modern scientists such as, ah …”

“Such as his brother?”

“Well, yes.” Ariel sighed. “He seemed rather scornful of Mr. St. Ives’s interest in chemistry.”

“I see.” Charlotte pushed back the quilt and got out of bed. She went to stand at the window. “Baxter and I learned tonight that Hamilton and his friends are experimenting with mesmerism at their club.”

“What of it? Many people form clubs and societies in order to investigate scientific matters that interest them.”

“Yes, I know.” Charlotte touched the cold window glass with her fingertips. She did not know how to explain the strange fear and the unwilling fascination she had experienced earlier that night while observing the activities of The Green Table club. What she had seen had not been good. It had agitated her imagination to the point of bringing on the old nightmares. “But I fear Hamilton’s club may be somewhat unusual.”

“Charlotte, I do not mind telling you that I am becoming more and more concerned about this situation.”

“So am I.” It was a relief to say it aloud. Charlotte turned. “Baxter and I feel there may be a link between The Green Table and Drusilla Heskett’s death.”

“No.” Ariel got to her feet. “You cannot mean to imply that Hamilton had anything to do with Mrs. Heskett’s murder. I will not believe it.”

“I’m not implying anything of the kind. But perhaps someone else in his club had a hand in it.”

“But the club members are all friends of his. Surely none of them would be involved in murder.”

“Does Hamilton know all of the club members well? There are several of them, you know. I counted a half dozen, at least, this evening. Perhaps one or two are not particularly close cronies of Hamilton’s.”

“Perhaps.” Ariel nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I could no doubt determine if that is true. Would it help, do you think, if I asked him about his friends?”

Charlotte hesitated. “No. Let St. Ives handle it. They are brothers, after all.”

“Yes, but I fear there is very little affection between them.”

“Baxter was charged with responsibility for Hamilton. He will fulfill his obligations.”

“You sound very certain of that.”

Charlotte smiled wearily. “I am.”

Ariel watched her closely. “When I said a moment ago that I was becoming increasingly concerned about this matter, I was not referring only to the Heskett murder.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Do not mistake me. I do worry about the investigation, but there is something else that alarms me just as much, if not more.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Are you falling in love with Mr. St. Ives?”

The question stole Charlotte’s breath. Several seconds ticked past before she recovered from the impact.

“Charlotte?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said softly.

“I feared as much,” Ariel whispered. “It seems that you had the right of it after all when you said that he was dangerous.”

Time moved with the thick, oozing quality of honey leaking from a broken pot. Baxter could see the flask of acid arcing toward him through the fiery shadows. He tried to get out of its path, but it was impossible to swim quickly through the flowing amber. All he could do was turn away and raise his arm to shield his eyes.

The flask struck his shoulder. The acid ate quickly through the thin linen of his shirt. And then it was on his skin, burning with the flames of hell itself.

He managed to reach the window. Below, the sea waited for him. He leaped into the darkness.

Explosions roared through the laboratory, turning it into an inferno. An instant before the cold seas closed over his head, he heard Morgan’s voice.

“Do you believe in destiny, St. Ives?”

And then there was only the crashing of the sea against the rocks.

Baxter came fully awake in an instant, his pulse pounding in his veins. He felt the dampness on his back and for a horrifying instant he thought it was the acid.

He levered himself up, off the sofa, clawing at his shirt. And then he realized that it was his own sweat that had plastered the linen to his skin. He sank back down onto the cushions and rested his elbows on his knees.

He leaned forward, exhausted, and took several deep, shuddering breaths. He sought the center of himself, searching for the sense of control he needed.

The crashing waves still echoed in his head.

“Bloody hell, St. Ives. Get a grip on yourself.” Baxter exhaled slowly, deliberately, willing himself into the calm, detached state that served him so well.

The loud smashing noise sounded again. Not the nightmarish memory of seawater against rocks. A fist against the front door.

Baxter rose slowly to his feet, shoved his hands through his hair, and straightened his shirt. Anger coursed through him. He had not had the dream for a long while. He had hoped it had disappeared into the void forever.

“Open this door.”

Hamilton.

Baxter remembered that Lambert had left the house to run various errands. He crossed the library, went out into the hall, and opened the front door.

Hamilton stood on the front step. His jaw was rigid. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits. He lifted his expensively gloved hand and revealed the crumpled sheet of foolscap that he held. “What is the meaning of this outrageous message?”

“I wanted to get your attention.”

“How dare you threaten to cut off my quarterly allowance if I do not dance attendance on you?” Hamilton slapped his stylish riding crop against his boot as he stalked into the hall. He snatched off his high-crowned hat and tossed it onto the table. “You have no right to restrict my income. Father told you to handle my investments until I turned twenty-five. He did not tell you to steal my inheritance.”

“Calm yourself. I have no intention of depriving you of your fortune.” Baxter waved a hand toward the library. “I simply need some information from you and I need it rather quickly. Sit down. The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner you will be on your way.”

Hamilton threw him a suspicious glare and then he strode into the library and flung himself down onto a chair.

“Well?” he asked. “What is it you must know?”

“First, I should show you something that I discovered in a book.” Baxter went to the desk and picked up the small volume he had left lying there. He turned to the picture of the alchemical key. “Have you ever seen this drawing or its like?”

Hamilton glanced impatiently at the picture. He opened his mouth, obviously intending to dismiss it out of hand. But his eyes widened in shock. “Where the devil did you get this?”

“So you do recognize it.” Baxter closed the book. He leaned back against the edge of the desk and studied Hamilton’s angry face. “Something to do with your club, I presume?”

Hamilton tightened his fist around the riding crop. “What do you know of my club?”

“I am aware that you conduct experiments with animal magnetism. Mesmerism, some call it. And that you use ancient alchemical references and a drugging incense to set the stage, so to speak.”

Hamilton leaped to his feet. “How did you discover all this?”

Baxter shrugged. “I have my sources.”

“You have no right to spy on me. I have told you that what I choose to do in my club is none of your affair.”

“It may surprise you to know that I agree with you.”

“Then why the devil are we having this conversation?”

Baxter turned the book in his hands. “Because a picture very similar to the one I just showed you appeared in a watercolor sketchbook belonging to Drusilla Heskett.”

Hamilton looked baffled. “Are you speaking of the Mrs. Heskett who was murdered recently?”

“Yes. I will be blunt, Hamilton. It’s possible that there is some connection between one of the members of your club and Drusilla Heskett’s death.”

“You cannot possibly know such a thing,” Hamilton exploded. “How dare you make accusations of that sort?”

“I’m not making accusations. I’m attempting to alert you to the possibility that there may be a connection here. That’s all.”

“I have had enough of this outrage.” Hamilton started for the door. “I will not tolerate your interference in my affairs. I may not possess my rightful fortune, but I am the Earl of Esherton, by God. I do not bow to the whims of a bastard.”

Baxter held himself motionless. With the skills he had honed over a lifetime, he concealed even the smallest flicker of a reaction. “There is one other small matter, my lord.”

Hamilton reddened in response to the icy politeness in Baxter’s voice. “I do not intend to answer any more of your blasted questions.”

“This is a simple one,” Baxter said very softly. “How well do you know Juliana Post?”

“Post?” Hamilton scowled. “I know of no one by that name.” He leveled the riding crop at Baxter. “I am warning you, St. Ives, stay out of my affairs. Is that quite clear?”

“I understand you very well. So did Father.” Baxter smiled wryly. “He always claimed that there was a great deal of himself in you.”

Hamilton’s mouth tightened. He looked briefly confused, as if he had not expected such a mild response. Baxter had the impression that he was about to say something else. Instead, he swung around and made for the door.

Baxter remembered what Charlotte had said last night. If there is a murderer in The Green Table club, your brother could be at risk.

Another voice, his father’s this time, also echoed in his brain. You will look after your brother after I’m gone. He’ll need some guidance for a while. Boy’s the very image of myself when I was his age. Hot-blooded and reckless. Make sure he doesn’t break his neck, Baxter.

“Hamilton.”

“What is it now?” Hamilton glowered from the doorway.

“You are correct when you say that I have no right to interfere with your pursuits.” Baxter hesitated, choosing his words with care. “But for your mother’s sake and for the sake of the title that Father bequeathed to you, I trust you will exercise some degree of caution. It would be a pity if you got yourself killed before you could produce an heir.”

“I assure you, there is no danger for me at The Green Table. You are merely attempting to alarm me. You wish to make me uneasy in my friendships. It’s quite petty of you.”

“Do you think so?”

“You surely cannot expect me to believe that you’re genuinely concerned with my welfare.”

“Why not?” Baxter smiled thinly. “At least when you deal with me, you have the assurance of knowing that I have no reason to plot against you. After all, if you get yourself killed, the earldom doesn’t come to me. It goes to our very distant, extremely obnoxious cousin in Northumberland.”

“I suspect you would somehow contrive to keep your hands on the money, though.” Hamilton stormed out into the hall, seized his hat, and reached for the front-door knob. “Where the devil is your butler, for God’s sake? Did you lose him, too? I don’t know why you cannot keep staff—” He broke off abruptly as he yanked open the door. “I beg your pardon, Miss Arkendale.”

“Lord Esherton,” Charlotte murmured.

Baxter frowned at the sound of her voice. He crossed the library and reached the doorway in time to see her rising from one of her graceful curtsies.

The familiar jolt of aching awareness sang through him at the sight of her. She was dressed in a green and white pelisse and a gown trimmed with green velvet ribbon. The wide brim of her matching straw bonnet framed her vivid eyes. Little corkscrew curls of dark red-brown hair bobbed in front of her small ears.

“Charlotte.” He started toward her. Then he saw the hackney coach that was standing in the street. “What the devil are you doing here at this hour? And why are you alone? You should have brought your housekeeper or your sister with you. I do not want you dashing about on your own like this anymore.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes in derision. “Ever the gracious host, St. Ives. One would think that you could come up with a more hospitable greeting for your fiancée.”

Baxter set his teeth. It occurred to him that Hamilton no doubt had a point.

Hamilton gave him a superior, sarcastic smile and then inclined his head over Charlotte’s gloved hand.

“I must tell you that if I were in your shoes, Miss Arkendale, I would definitely reconsider this engagement. Baxter’s poor manners are hardly likely to improve after the marriage.”

Charlotte grinned as she stepped into the hall. “I shall bear your warning in mind, Lord Esherton. I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all.” Hamilton shot Baxter another angry glare. “We have just finished our discussion.”

“Already?” Charlotte shot Baxter a quelling glance. But she was all smiles for Hamilton as she casually untied her bonnet strings. “Did he ask you about Juliana Post?”

“What is all this nonsense about some woman named Post?” Hamilton moved out onto the front step. “I have never heard of her.”

“I was certain that would be your answer.” Charlotte’s eyes glinted with satisfaction. “But Baxter felt he had to ask.”

“I see.” Hamilton’s lip curled. “My dear half brother seems intent on amusing himself by interfering in my personal affairs these days. One would have thought that his forthcoming marriage would hold more interest for him. Good day to you, Miss Arkendale.” He pulled the door shut behind him.

Charlotte whirled to confront Baxter. “I told you that I wished to be present when you spoke to him about Miss Post’s visit. Now look what you have done. I suspect you did not employ any tact at all. He’s obviously quite overset by whatever it was that you said to him.”

“Tact is not my strong suit.”

“I’ve noticed. At least you got your answer. I told you that he was not responsible for Miss Post’s visit.”

“So you did.”

“Which means that she may, indeed, be connected to this business, after all,” Charlotte said. “The murderer must have employed her to break up our association because he knew that together we were a threat to him.”

“I do not see how he could have known that. The only thing we had done at that point was search Mrs. Heskett’s house and then got ourselves engaged. Damnation, Charlotte, why did you come here alone?”

She frowned. “Never say that you are truly angry with me simply because I came here without a companion?”

“Yes.” He whipped off his glasses and began polishing them with his handkerchief. “Yes, I am bloody furious with you. All the more so now that I know Hamilton was not the one who sent Miss Post to see you.”

“But, Baxter, it is broad daylight. There was no danger.”

“Bloody hell, woman, we are investigating a murder.” He shoved the glasses back onto his nose. He had lost his temper again. The knowledge appalled him. “The least you could do is display some common sense in the process.”

“There is no need to rail at me, sir. I must point out yet again that I do not take orders from you.”

If he possessed any common sense of his own, he would shut his mouth right now, Baxter thought. Hamilton was right; when it came to handling women and their damned delicate sensibilities, he was clumsy, ungracious, and ham-fisted.

He looked into Charlotte’s beautiful eyes and he knew again the powerful sense of dread that had descended on him earlier. She might be at risk. The dark wings of the recent nightmare stirred and fluttered at the edge of his mind. Anger was the only emotion strong enough to keep the fear at bay.

“Very well, Miss Arkendale,” he said, “we are agreed that you do not take orders from me. If you have no concerns about your own safety, however, you might at least show some regard for my peace of mind.”

Her eyes widened with comprehension. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.

For some obscure reason, her sudden, calm, polite agreement did nothing to pacify him. Instead, he felt obliged to defend his foul mood. “It is not as though I don’t have enough to worry about as it is. My aunt is insisting upon answers that I do not have. Maryann expects me to keep out of trouble my wretched half brother, who will pay me no heed. I have not had any time for my chemical experiments since this whole affair began and I have just lost the fourth housekeeper in five months.”

“I quite understand, Baxter.” Charlotte gave him a brisk, bright smile. “I regret that your life has been so disrupted of late. But never fear. This will all soon be over and you will be free to return to your customary routine. Just think, when we have finished this affair, you need never set eyes on me again.”

Baxter had a sudden vision of himself hurtling toward the crashing waves far below the castle window. The old acid scars burned with cold fire. He fought an inexplicable surge of panic with all the powers of logic and reason at his command.

“Yes, I am well aware of that,” he said very quietly.

A terrible silence descended.

He turned and led the way back into the library. “So long as you are here, I may as well tell you that I think we must change the focus of our researches. Rather than investigate Drusilla Heskett’s other suitors, I believe we should look more closely at the members of Hamilton’s club.”

“Excellent notion. I quite agree with you.” She followed him into the library.

“We cannot overlook the fact that there is a connection to Lennox’s heir, young Norris.”

“Indeed. Mrs. Heskett was having an affair with his father. But I cannot envision Norris as a murderer.”

“Neither can I,” Baxter admitted. “But it is a place to start. I shall enlist my aunt’s assistance. We require an invitation that will get us inside the Lennox mansion as soon as possible.”

“That should not be difficult,” Charlotte said. “Ariel tells me that Norris’s eldest sister is giving a masquerade ball at the family home in two days’ time.”