Eighteen

Charlotte sipped lemonade and surveyed the crowded ballroom floor, where Ariel was engaged in the waltz with yet another distinguished and rather besotted-looking young gentleman. Pleased with the glow of pleasure on Ariel’s face, she smiled at Rosalind, who had come to stand beside her.

“Lady Trengloss, I wish to thank you for what you have done for Ariel. My mother would have been so pleased to know that my sister had a taste of a London Season.”

“It has been my pleasure. Haven’t had an opportunity to fire a young lady off into the ton since my last niece came out. Forgotten how much fun it all is.” Rosalind wielded her elegantly painted silk fan with enthusiasm. “Ariel is a charming young woman. She has attracted any number of admirers.”

Charlotte sighed. “I fear that all of them will swiftly disappear once it becomes known that my engagement to your nephew has been called off. I confess, I worried about that a great deal at the start of this business, but Ariel insists that she does not care a fig if her admirers vanish when they learn the truth.”

“She is very levelheaded for her tender years.” Rosalind gave Charlotte a sidelong glance. “For which you must take the credit, I believe, my dear.”

“Not at all. She has always been inclined in a practical direction. Ariel quite rightly declares the Season to be a fine source of entertainment, rather like the theater. She tells me that when the curtain falls, she will be content to go back to her usual pursuits.”

Charlotte prayed that would be the case. Ariel was still so young. No matter how much common sense one possessed at nineteen, life was bound to seem a bit dull when the invitations and the posies ceased arriving at the door. The important thing was that Ariel did not get her heart broken during her brief experience of Society.

As for her own heart, Charlotte thought, her only hope was to immerse herself in her work until it mended. But she knew that no matter how many new clients she took on or how many interesting inquiries and researches she made into the backgrounds of gentlemen, she would never be able to forget her lover with the alchemist’s eyes. There could never be another Baxter.

Rosalind gave her a considering look. “As long as we are discussing such matters, I feel that I should tell you that I am as grateful to you as you say you are to me.”

“If you refer to my investigations, I assure you I entered into them for my own purposes.”

“I was not speaking of the murder inquiries.” Rosalind folded her fan with a snap. “I may as well be blunt. I have been concerned about Baxter ever since he returned from Italy three years ago. He had always been far too somber for his years. Even as a child, he possessed an unnerving degree of self-mastery and restraint. He always kept a certain distance between himself and others.”

“As though he were observing and measuring you the way he would examine one of his chemical experiments?”

“Indeed.” Rosalind shuddered delicately. “Quite disconcerting at times. But after the dreadful accident in Italy, he disappeared from Society altogether. He almost never emerged from that cave he calls a laboratory. I feared he was developing a distinct tendency toward melancholia.”

“Melancholia?”

“There is a strain of it in the blood, you know.”

Charlotte frowned. “I was not aware of that. Everyone says that his parents were an outrageously charming, exciting pair who were the talk of Society. I understood them to be full of the liveliest spirits.”

“A bit too lively at times,” Rosalind said quietly. “There was a price to be paid for such strong passions. And I do not speak of reputations.”

“I understand. It has been my observation that people of strong passions often have both a dark and a light side to their temperaments. It is as if nature sought to forge some sort of balance in their humors but in the process created extremes.”

“Very observant, my dear. That is precisely how it was with Baxter’s parents. Esherton, for all his intellect and delight in life, had a dangerous temper and a tendency toward great recklessness. It’s a miracle he survived to enjoy old age. As for my sister …”

“What about her?” Charlotte prompted.

“She was beautiful, intelligent, and gloriously effervescent. Most of the time. She indulged her independence and her eccentricities. Everyone who knew her was enthralled by her, even when she behaved outrageously. Only her family and her most intimate friends knew that on occasion she would sink into the depths of melancholia.”

“It would seem that Baxter became an alchemist out of sheer necessity,” Charlotte said.

“Alchemist? Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I believe he sees himself as the product of a mix of extremely volatile chemicals. He felt he had no choice but to learn to control the fires that might ignite dangerous explosions.”

Rosalind’s brows rose. “An interesting analogy. What I wished to say, my dear, is that I believe you to be the best thing that has happened to Baxter in years.”

Charlotte was so startled, she nearly dropped her lemonade. “Lady Trengloss. That is very kind of you but surely you overstate the case.”

“It’s no less than the truth. You appear to understand him and deal with him in a way that no one else can quite manage.”

“Come now, he is not all that mysterious.”

“Actually, he is, but that is beside the point. Pardon my curiosity, but I must ask you a very personal question.”

Charlotte eyed her warily. “Yes?”

“There is no delicate way to phrase this so I shall come straight out with it. Has Baxter by any chance mentioned the possibility of a real marriage between the two of you?”

“No.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “He has not.” And a short while ago he as much as told me that there was no possibility of any other sort of long-standing connection, either.

Their passionate liaison had become inconvenient. It seemed to Charlotte that the brilliant glow of the chandelier dimmed for a moment.

But she had more pressing concerns, she thought. She would not rest easily tonight until she knew for certain that Baxter was safe.

Baxter raised his candle to view the empty chamber in which he and Hamilton stood. He studied the unmarked layer of dust on the floor. “No signs of anyone having been in this room for years.”

It was as though they walked through an abandoned house, he thought. The thick walls and heavy floor timbers muffled even the noisy reverberations of the crowded gaming room on the ground floor.

The upper story of The Green Table was another realm, a gray, spectral world where only a magician would feel at home.

“This makes the fourth chamber we’ve investigated up here,” Hamilton said. “I vow, I’m expecting to see a specter at any moment.”

“Only someone inclined toward Romantic poetry or Gothic novels would see ghosts in these rooms.”

“As it happens, I’m inclined toward both the poetry and the novels,” Hamilton said cheerfully.

Baxter shot him a speculative glance. “I do believe that you’re enjoying yourself.”

“This is the most exciting thing I’ve done in months.” Hamilton grinned. “Who would have thought that I’d be in your company when I did it?”

“I’m aware that you find me hopelessly boring, Esherton. But bear in mind that I hold the purse strings of your fortune for another few years.”

“You certainly know how to ruin the mood.”

Baxter turned to leave the dusty chamber. “Come. Time grows short and there’s still one more room on this floor.” With a last glance at the undisturbed chamber, he walked back out into the hall.

“I’m right behind you, brother.” Hamilton followed quietly.

Baxter went toward the closed door located at the end of the corridor. An old, tattered carpet that stretched the length of the hall silenced his footsteps.

“This one should prove more interesting than the others.” Baxter came to a halt in front of the central door.

“Why do you say that?”

“This chamber is located almost directly over the one you and your friends use for the meetings of your secret club.”

Hamilton studied the door with interest. “What of it?”

“You say your magician appears without warning. One moment he is not in the room, the next, he is standing in your midst.”

“You believe he descends into our meeting chamber from this room?”

“As I told Charlotte, this mansion was once a brothel. Such establishments are commonly equipped with peepholes and hidden staircases.”

“Good God.” Hamilton gazed at him in frank astonishment. “Are you saying that you actually discuss such things with Miss Arkendale?”

“Charlotte is a lady of many varied and unusual interests.” Baxter surveyed the doorknob. There was no film of dust to mar the metal. It gleamed dully in the flickering light. Someone had recently entered this chamber.

“If a discussion of brothels constitutes your notion of polite conversation, it’s little wonder that you’ve never experienced much luck with the ladies, Baxter.” Hamilton reached out to open the door. “I really must remember to give you some pointers.” He grinned over his shoulder as he pushed the door open and walked into the room.

Baxter felt rather than heard the rumble of hidden gears. “Hamilton, wait.”

“What’s the matter?” Hamilton took the candle from him and strode into the center of the chamber. He glanced at Baxter, who hesitated on the threshold. “The place is empty, just like the others. Is something … Baxter, the door.”

Baxter sensed the movement overhead. He looked up and saw a solid gate fashioned of iron. With a sound like that of a sword being drawn from a scabbard, it descended swiftly downward out of the lintel. He realized that when it was in place it would seal the chamber.

He only had a second to make a decision. He could either retreat back out into the hall or join Hamilton inside the treacherous chamber.

“Bloody hell.” He crouched and threw himself swiftly across the threshold.

With a soft, sighing scream, the iron door slammed into the floor.

“Christ.” Hamilton stared at the metal wall that now occupied the space where the door had been. “We’re trapped.”

A sudden, acute silence descended.

Baxter straightened. He saw that Hamilton was correct. The single window was covered with an iron shutter.

“Opening the door and crossing the threshold obviously triggers the mechanism that activates the gate,” Baxter mused. “Quite clever. Presumably the owner of this place knows how to prevent that guillotine from carving him up like a leg of mutton every time he enters this chamber. Must be a hidden switch somewhere on the outside wall.”

Hamilton whirled to face him. “Baxter, this is not an interesting little problem to be solved with scientific deduction. We’re trapped.”

“Perhaps.” Baxter continued to study the chamber.

Unlike the other rooms on the top floor, this one was sumptuously furnished. There was a heavily draped bed, a large wardrobe, a massive desk, and a Chinese screen. A stone fireplace occupied one wall.

He began to prowl the room. “Perhaps not.”

“What the devil does that mean? I must tell you, Baxter, this is no time to become cryptic and inscrutable.”

“Give me a moment to think.”

“You should have stayed out in the corridor,” Hamilton muttered. “Why did you enter this chamber when you saw that the gate was closing? Now we are both locked inside this place. If you had remained outside, at least you would have been free.”

“Whoever designed this room will have been clever enough to ensure that he had an escape route for himself,” Baxter said absently.

He took the candle and held it aloft. He saw the note on the wide desk immediately. The sheet of foolscap was folded and sealed.

“Even if there is a means of escape, how are we to find it?” Hamilton demanded. “Baxter, we could be trapped in here until we die of thirst or hunger. No one will hear us through these walls.”

Baxter did not respond. His entire attention was riveted on the note. He walked toward the desk.

“Baxter? What is it?”

“A message.” Baxter set down the candle. He picked up the note and looked at the seal. The wax was embossed with the same alchemical image that Drusilla Heskett had drawn in her watercolor sketchbook. A triangle within a circle. “From the magician, I believe.”

Hamilton hurried toward him. “What does it say?”

Baxter broke the seal and unfolded the crisp foolscap. There was only a single line on the page.

“What does it mean?” Hamilton asked.

“It means that we were expected.” Baxter crushed the note in his fist. “Come. There is no time to delay.”

“I’m quite willing to leave this chamber.” Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “How, precisely, do you suggest we accomplish that feat? Neither of us is small enough to get up that chimney.”

Baxter started to tell him that the wardrobe was the most likely place to conceal the entrance to a hidden staircase. But a familiar odor stopped him cold.

“Incense,” he muttered. “Bloody hell.”

Hamilton frowned. “Yes. I can smell it.” He glanced around the room in consternation. “But how is it entering this chamber? There is no brazier in here.”

Baxter turned toward the fireplace and held the candle aloft. Great puffs of pale, smoky vapor billowed silently out of the cold stone hearth. “Someone on the roof is using a large bellows to force the incense down into this room.”

“It is not quite the same fragrance as the incense that we use in our meetings. Stronger. Not as pleasant.” Hamilton coughed. “And there is far too much of it. Good God, what are they trying to do to us?”

“Use your cravat to shield your nose and mouth.” Baxter pulled his own neckcloth free and quickly fashioned a mask for the lower half of his face.

Hamilton did the same.

Baxter turned back to the wardrobe and yanked open the doors. “There has to be a mechanism here somewhere. Your magician appeared out of the wardrobe in the chamber downstairs.”

He touched one of the panels at the back with questing fingertips. Then he prodded the bottom.

“The incense is too heavy.” Hamilton’s voice was muffled by his cravat. “It will choke us to death.”

Baxter glanced at him. Hamilton was staring, transfixed, at the ugly clouds that roiled forth from the fireplace.

“I could use some assistance here, Esherton.” Baxter deliberately put an icy, authoritative edge on his words. He needed to get Hamilton’s full attention.

Hamilton swung around with an odd, jerky movement. Above the edge of his makeshift mask, his eyes were slightly glazed. “What … what do you want me to do?”

Baxter’s fingers brushed against two small indentations in the corner of the wardrobe. “I believe I’ve found our escape route.” He tugged hard. The back panel of the wardrobe swung open with a well-oiled squeak. A shadowed opening appeared.

“A staircase.” Hamilton gazed at the narrow flight of steps that led down into the darkness. “How did you know it would be here?”

“I saw how your magician materialized in the chamber below the other night. There had to be a staircase in this wall. It was the only solution.”

“You saw him? Baxter, you never cease to amaze me these days. Discovering this staircase was a damned brilliant deduction.”

“Simple logic.” Baxter picked up the candle and stepped into the wardrobe. “As I said, the brothel that previously occupied these premises catered to exotic tastes. Patrons paid extra to use staircases and peepholes in order to watch the activities taking place in various rooms.”

Hamilton stepped into the wardrobe behind him. “For a chemist, you seem to know a great deal about this sort of thing.”

“I cannot take the credit.” Baxter started down the small staircase. “Father mentioned this particular brothel to me on one or two occasions. He was something of an expert on such establishments. Close the wardrobe door. It will block some of the incense.”

“Father had a wife, by God.” Hamilton shut the wardrobe door. “And a mistress, too, come to that. Why in blazes did he frequent brothels?”

“An excellent question.” Baxter inhaled and caught the tang of incense through the linen neckcloth. “Damn. The incense is seeping through the wardrobe doors. Hurry.”

“I feel a little odd.” Hamilton’s boots thudded softly on the steps. “My head is spinning.”

“It cannot be far.” Baxter sucked in his breath as the flame of his candle suddenly blossomed into a blinding, golden ball of fire. He nearly dropped the taper. “Bloody hell.”

This batch of incense was very powerful, indeed. It was already affecting his senses, even in a limited dose.

“Baxter?”

“Don’t stop.”

It seemed to take forever to negotiate the cramped staircase. Invisible tendrils of the vapor followed them. Baxter realized he was staring too intently at the candle flame. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw himself headfirst into it.

Hamilton’s hand clamped unsteadily on his shoulder. “Everything is so strange. This incense is foul stuff.”

Loud footsteps echoed from the chamber above just as Baxter stumbled into a wooden panel set into the wall.

“There’s someone up there,” Hamilton whispered. “Looking for us.”

Baxter listened to the voices as he fumbled with the panel.

“Where are they?” a man growled. “I won’t stay in this room long, I tell ye. Not even with these masks.”

“They’re in here somewhere. They tripped the snare, didn’t they? Must have fainted by now. Collapsed on the other side of that desk or behind the screen, most likely.”

“Hurry. The magician said that too much of this damned smoke can kill. He wants ’em alive.”

Baxter found a handle. He shoved hard. The wooden panel moved silently aside. The candlelight revealed the inside of another wardrobe. For some reason it required an enormous effort to open the doors.

The room beyond was empty and unlit.

He staggered out of the wardrobe.

“I recognize this place,” Hamilton whispered as he followed Baxter. He jerked off his cravat and drew a deep breath. “This is the room where the members of my club gather for our experiments. Always wondered how the magician managed the trick of appearing when we summoned him.”

Voices from the chamber above echoed eerily down the staircase.

“Hell’s teeth, they’re not here,” one of the men shouted. He sounded on the edge of panic.

“They’ve got to be here.” There was sharp desperation in the other rough voice. “We heard ’em when we were on the roof.”

“Look behind the screen.”

“Smoke is so damned thick in here, it’s hard to see. Got to find ’em. Pete and Long Hank will have the Arkendale female by now. If we don’t bring St. Ives to him, the magician will murder us with one of his bloody tricks.”

Baxter shoved Hamilton toward the door. “Go. Find Charlotte. Maybe it’s not too late.”

“You hired Runners to protect her.”

“I cannot rely on them.”

“But what about you?” Hamilton demanded softly.

“I must let them take me.”

“No.”

Baxter met his eyes. “Don’t you understand? If they’ve already got Charlotte, then it’s the only way I’ll find her.”

“But what if they don’t have her yet? You’ll be risking your neck for naught.”

“I know how to look after myself. Just go. You must try to protect Charlotte.”

Hamilton’s eyes, still watering from the effects of the incense, were eloquent with reluctant understanding. He nodded once, abruptly, and then, without a word, whirled and ran to the door.

Baxter took a deep breath of the relatively fresh air in the room and stepped back inside the hidden staircase. He slid the panel shut and started up the steps.

“The bed,” one of the men in the room above said hoarsely. “Look beneath the bed.”

Baxter made it to the top of the steps. The vapor was not so strong as it had been a few minutes earlier. The men had opened the iron gate and allowed fresh air into the chamber. Nevertheless, there was enough of the incense left to unsettle his concentration. He had to work very hard to make his way quietly into the wardrobe.

“There ain’t anyone under the bed. This is bloody strange, if you ask me. Maybe we’re dealing with another magician.”

“Don’t be a fool. Look inside the wardrobe.”

Baxter got the secret panel at the back of the wardrobe closed. He collapsed on the bottom of the heavy wooden closet in what he hoped was a realistic faint.

The wardrobe doors slammed open.

“One of ’em’s in here.” The voice was thick with relief. “He’s wearing spectacles. Must be St. Ives. No sign of the other one, though.”

“Then we bloody well don’t tell the magician that there was a second cove with him,” the other man said decisively. “It’ll be our necks, if he finds out one got away.”

“Agreed. But where did the other one go?”

“Must have got out before the trap closed. Don’t matter none. St. Ives is the important one. And from the looks of things he’ll be sound asleep for a good long while.”

Rough hands reached for Baxter. He forced himself to remain limp and unresponsive as he was dragged from the wardrobe.

His eyes were already closed in order to add credence to his role, so he decided that he might as well say a prayer. Let Hamilton get to Charlotte before the magician’s men do.