Six

Baxter braced himself for the explosion. But even with his extensive knowledge of volatile substances, he could not have predicted Charlotte’s initial reaction.

She went utterly still. Her eyes widened and then narrowed. Her mouth opened and closed twice.

And then she exploded.

“An engagement?” Charlotte erupted from her chair with more force than the legendary Vesuvius. She gazed at him in wild disbelief from behind the barricade of her desk. “Have you gone mad, sir?”

“Very likely.” Baxter wondered briefly why he was feeling so chagrined by her reaction. It was only to be expected. Why the devil should she be excited by the prospect of playing the part of his fiancée?

Nevertheless, given that he had spent most of the night in a state of semiarousal, it would have been pleasant to see a little less shock and dismay in her eyes. He was not the only one who had succumbed to a burst of passion last night.

“That is a crazed suggestion.” Charlotte made a visible effort to compose herself. “Whatever put it into your head?”

“I thought I made that clear.” He’d worked hard on the logic of the thing. She was an intelligent female. She should have been able to see the problem and its solution as clearly as he did. “If we are to pursue our inquiries into my aunt’s circle of acquaintances, you cannot continue to pass me off as your man-of-affairs. It won’t work. We need a believable reason to explain our connection.”

“A believable reason,” she repeated numbly.

“Yes.” Baxter was suddenly aware of a driving need to pace back and forth across the study. Annoyed, he forced himself to remain bolted to the floor. Pacing was a clear sign of an unsettled emotional state. His emotions were never unsettled.

“You think this reason is believable?”

“If you can think of a better excuse, I shall be happy to hear it.”

“There must be a more reasonable excuse.” Charlotte drummed her fingers on the desk. “Give me a moment to think.”

“Take your time.” The sensation of restlessness grew stronger. To ease it, Baxter picked up the book that was lying on a nearby table. Absently he glanced at the words inscribed on the leather binding. When he saw Byron’s name he swore softly and put down the volume as if it had become red-hot in his hand.

“We could pretend to have become acquainted through a mutual interest in chemistry,” Charlotte said slowly. “We shall say that we met at a meeting of one of the scientific societies.”

“That would account for our initial meeting and for an occasional conversation in public but not much more than that.”

“There is another possibility.”

She was certainly eager to find an alternative, he thought grimly. Obviously the notion of an engagement, even a false one, was anathema to her. “Very well, what is that?”

She slanted him a quick, searching glance and then gazed fixedly at a globe positioned near the window. “We could allow your aunt and her circle of acquaintances to assume that you and I had formed a … a romantic attachment.”

“I would have thought that was the essence of my plan.”

“I meant an illicit sort of romantic attachment.” She turned a bright shade of pink and continued to focus steadily on the globe. “That we are involved in a liaison.”

“Bloody hell. You wish people to think that we’re having an affair? That’s the most idiotic notion I’ve ever heard.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “It seems a perfectly reasonable notion to me.”

“Not in my case.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” She turned her head quickly and then her flush deepened. “Oh, dear. Surely you do not mean to imply that you are not interested in females in that way? I always knew that Mr. Marcle had no inclinations of that sort but after last night, I, uh, gained the distinct impression that you did. Have inclinations. Of that sort.”

“I most definitely possess inclinations,” Baxter said very evenly. “But I do not take them into Society.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Baxter sighed. This interview was faring much worse than he had envisioned. “I’m not the sort who conducts his affairs in the full view of the Polite World. To put it bluntly, I’m not my father.”

“I see.” But she looked bemused.

“Charlotte, the people who know me, know very well that I would never flaunt a paramour, especially a relatively young woman who has never been married, in Society. It would be completely out of character, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I’m beginning to comprehend the situation. You are, at heart, a gentleman, sir. It is very noble of you to worry about my reputation, but I can assure you that I am not at all concerned with gossip.”

“You’d bloody well better be concerned with gossip if you hope to continue in your career after this matter is finished.” It was a shot in the dark, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. I had not considered that aspect of the thing. Do you really believe that gossip about a romantic liaison between the two of us could hurt my business?”

Baxter saw his opening and bore down ruthlessly. “Society can be very fickle and extremely hypocritical about such things. You must be aware that the ladies of the ton whom you hope to attract as clients are known to demand higher standards of those they employ than they do of themselves.”

“I see what you mean.” Charlotte studied her hands. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Witty, has told me tales of elegant ladies who have any number of affairs but who would not hesitate to dismiss a maid who got pregnant by the footman.”

“Just so. Such ladies would certainly be reluctant to do business with a woman who has had a highly visible affair with a man in my position.”

“Your position?”

“As I keep reminding you, I’m a bastard.”

“A bastard who appears to be obsessed with not becoming an object of gossip.”

“Perhaps I wish to avoid it because I have lived with it since the day I was born.”

“Yes, of course.” Slowly she sank back down in her chair. “My apologies, sir. I had not considered your feelings in the matter. It must have been difficult for you at times.”

“Let us just say that scandal broth is not my favorite beverage.” He did not like the sympathy he saw in her eyes. He finally gave in to the restlessness that threatened to consume him. He walked deliberately toward the window. “I have had my fill of it for the past thirty-two years.”

“No doubt.”

He braced a hand on the windowsill. “What I told you about myself during our first interview was nothing less than the truth. I am as bland as potato pudding. What is more, I prefer it that way. I have worked hard to achieve a calm, orderly existence that does not require me to go into Society. I have made it a practice to avoid situations that are likely to produce titillation and rumor. I cherish my privacy above all else.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

He looked out into the rain-drenched garden and saw scenes from his own past. “I do not conduct scandalous affairs with dashing widows. I do not allow passion to create chaos in my life. I do not become involved in liaisons that may oblige me to defend my paramour’s honor at dawn. I do not conduct outrageous rows with my lover in the center of a crowded ballroom while my five-year-old son watches from the balcony.”

“I can well believe that.”

Baxter’s hand tightened on the windowsill. “I do not sire illegitimate children who must answer the taunts of their companions with their fists. I do not produce offspring who, because they are born on the wrong side of the blanket, are forever denied the lands and the heritage that should have been theirs.”

“In short, Mr. St. Ives, you do not conduct your personal affairs in the same manner in which your parents conducted theirs. Is that what you are telling me?”

“Yes.” What in bloody hell had come over him? Baxter wondered. He gave himself a small mental shake to dispatch the old images. He had never intended to say such things to Charlotte. He never discussed his most personal memories with anyone.

“I congratulate you, sir,” Charlotte said very quietly. “And I admire you.”

He turned so swiftly that he caught the globe with his elbow. The world spun away and plummeted toward the floor. Furious with his uncharacteristic clumsiness and all that it implied about his lack of control, he made a quick grab for the globe. He barely caught it before it struck the carpet.

“Damnation.” Feeling a complete idiot, he concentrated on righting the world and setting it back in place on the sill. Then he looked at Charlotte, who was watching him very intently. “For God’s sake, why do you say that you admire me?”

“You are obviously a man of strong will and great fortitude. You have created your own rules. Although you do not possess the title that should have been yours by right of blood, you do possess honor and courage.”

The sincerity of her words stunned him. To conceal his sense of disorientation, he folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the wall. He took refuge in cool amusement. “Kind of you to say so.”

“We do have something in common on this score.” Charlotte touched the ornate silver inkstand on her desk. “It is not only illegitimate offspring who must sometimes stand by and watch as their inheritance is stolen. My sister and I lost most of what should have been ours to my mother’s second husband.”

“Winterbourne.”

“Yes.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened. “Whenever I think of all the things that Ariel has missed because of him, of all the things I could never give her, I … well, I’m sure you understand.”

He watched her closely. “So long as we are being completely honest with each other, I should confess that I have a great deal of admiration for you, also.”

She looked up quickly. “You do?”

“I’m aware that there are not many options available to a lady who finds herself cast adrift with a young sister to support. I’m impressed by what you have accomplished.”

She gave him a small, surprised smile. “Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. Coming from you, such a compliment is gratifying, indeed.”

“And given my deep admiration,” he continued deliberately, “I’m certain you can comprehend why I do not intend to allow you to destroy your reputation in this venture.”

The moment of mutual understanding that had flashed between them vanished with the speed of a magician’s illusion.

Charlotte glared. “You are attempting to manipulate me, sir.”

“I’m trying to convince you with logic and reason. If you are correct in your belief that Drusilla Heskett was murdered by one of her suitors, then that man may well be someone who moves in the Polite World. Correct?”

“Yes, all but one of Mrs. Heskett’s recent suitors were members of the ton,” she said impatiently. “Mr. Charles Dill was the only one who did not move in Society, and as I told you, he died of a heart seizure nearly two weeks before Mrs. Heskett was murdered.”

“Indeed. Then one of those whose suspicions might well be aroused by uncharacteristic behavior on my part could well be her killer.”

Charlotte opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. She grimaced. “You may be correct.”

“Therefore, given my personal inclination to avoid scandal and gossip and your desire not to ruin the chance of future business, we are left with only the one alternative. We shall announce our engagement. It will give us the perfect excuse for going about in Society while we conduct our inquiries.”

A short, tense silence gripped the room.

“We?” Charlotte repeated very politely.

“You are still determined to track down Drusilla Heskett’s killer, are you not?”

“She was a client who may have been killed because I failed to uncover certain crucial information.” Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I owe her some justice.”

“I disagree. You do not owe her anything of the sort. But I realize that I cannot dissuade you from your goal.”

“No, you cannot stop me.”

“As I have explained, I am committed to the same goal because of the promise that I made to my aunt.” Baxter met her eyes. “It seems we must cooperate to achieve our mutual ends.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly in a gesture of mingled resignation and disbelief. “Everything I sensed about you at our first meeting has proven to be true, Mr. St. Ives.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You are, indeed, a very dangerous man.”

Engaged? To Charlotte Arkendale?” Rosalind crashed her dainty teacup down into its saucer. “I do not believe it. You cannot have gone and engaged yourself to such a creature. You must be mad.”

“It’s a possibility that I have considered closely,” Baxter admitted.

“Are you joking with me?” Rosalind gave him a reproving frown. “You know very well that I have never entirely comprehended your decidedly odd sense of humor. Tell me precisely what is going on here.”

“I thought I had explained. It’s the logical course of action, assuming you wish me to pursue my inquiries.”

He walked across the drawing room to examine the new chimneypiece that had just been installed above the fireplace. The elaborately carved design was in the new Zamarian style, as was virtually everything else in the chamber. Rosalind had recently redecorated. The Egyptian-style drawing room with its hieroglyph-covered wallpaper, palm trees, strange statues, and artificial columns had been converted into a Zamarian courtyard scene.

It was the latest in a long line of such alterations for the large town house. Growing up here with his mother and his aunt, Baxter had played in an Etruscan cottage, studied in a Chinese garden, practiced fencing in a Greek temple, and, mercifully, moved out of a Roman sepulchral monument.

From the day he had taken his own lodgings Baxter had established one cardinal rule for his household. No changes in the interior design were made solely for the purpose of accommodating a new fashion.

It occurred to him as he surveyed the gilded chimneypiece that he had always resisted change and the turmoil it brought.

As a child, the major upheavals in his life had always seemed to follow on the heels of some strong, emotional outburst between his parents. The pair had been experts in the fine art of conducting flamboyant lovers’ quarrels and passionate reunions. Indeed, they had thrived on such scenes and had shone particularly well in front of an audience. They had not cared if that audience sometimes consisted of only one small boy.

Baxter had dreaded the inevitable battles, waited anxiously for the reunions, and in between endured the cruelty of his peers.

From his earliest years, he had set out to suppress any trace of his parents’ tumultuous natures that he might have inherited. He had fashioned a life for himself that was designed to be hermetically sealed against strong emotion in the same way that he sealed a bell jar against contaminating vapors.

He told himself that the only excitement that intrigued him was that which took place in his laboratory. But now Charlotte had entered his self-contained, well-ordered world and he feared that he would not be able to resist conducting a few risky experiments.

If he was not very careful things would explode in his face.

“Are you completely convinced that this Miss Arkendale is truly innocent?” Rosalind asked.

“Yes.” Baxter turned away from the fireplace frieze. “I no longer have any doubts at all on that point. When you meet her, you will understand.”

“If you’re quite certain,” Rosalind said hesitantly.

“There is little choice in the matter. She is as determined to track down Drusilla Heskett’s murderer as you are. I cannot talk her out of the business so I am obliged to work with her.”

“You intend to use this fictitious engagement as an excuse for the two of you to go about together.”

“It is the only way.”

Rosalind looked unconvinced. She rested one arm on the elegantly curved arm of the Zamarian green sofa and examined Baxter closely. “I do not know what to say.”

“As it happens, I don’t want you to say anything at all. Not even to your closest friends. No one must know that this engagement is a fraud, do you understand? Absolutely no one.”

“This is to be a conspiracy? Really, Baxter, you can hardly expect me to go along with such an outlandish scheme.”

“On the contrary, I know you very well, Rosalind. I suspect you will enjoy the whole thing very much. It’s just the sort of play-acting that should appeal to your taste for the melodramatic.”

Rosalind managed to look affronted. “What a thing to say to your own aunt.”

“Think of it this way: a gentleman in your circle of acquaintances may be a murderer.”

Rosalind shuddered. “Are you even sure that you are searching for a man? The killer could have been a woman.”

Baxter shrugged. “Mrs. Heskett sent Charlotte a note saying that she believed someone was trying to kill her. She was concerned that one of her recent suitors might had become enraged when she rejected him.”

“I see. This could be quite a fascinating endeavor, Baxter.”

“I thought you’d come to that opinion. Charlotte and I must start somewhere, so we intend to begin our inquiries with Mrs. Heskett’s suitors. The last one to be rejected was Lord Lennox.”

“Lennox.” Rosalind frowned. “Drusilla was quite fond of him for a time. Claimed the man had stamina.”

“Stamina?”

Rosalind looked amused. “Drusilla liked stamina in a gentleman. She also liked it in a footman or a coachman or a groom. To be quite blunt, Drusilla was fond of any man who could keep up with her in bed.”

“I see.” Baxter removed his eyeglasses and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. “Assuming that it was one of her lovers who killed her, we could be looking at a very long list of potential murderers.”

“I doubt it. Few of her conquests would have had a motive for murder. Perhaps I could be of some assistance, Baxter.”

“I do have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is that?”

Baxter replaced his spectacles. “I would very much appreciate it if you would take my fiancée shopping.”

“Shopping.”

“And her sister as well. You may send the bills to me.”

Rosalind’s eyes gleamed. “Good God, Baxter, I’m stunned. This is so unlike you. I do believe you are beginning to sound a bit like your father.”

“Thank you for the warning. I shall be on my guard.”

Three days later Charlotte stood at the edge of a crowded ballroom and smiled with unconcealed pleasure. “I must tell you, Mr. St. Ives, whatever the result of our venture, I shall be forever indebted to your aunt.”

Baxter glanced at her as he took a sip from his champagne glass. “My aunt?”

“Lady Trengloss has made my sister a spectacular success. I know that was not the point of the evening, but I am delighted, nonetheless. I vow, Ariel has had a partner for nearly every dance. Just look at her out there on the floor. She is a diamond of the first water, is she not?”

Baxter frowned as he searched the dancers for Ariel. It was not difficult to spot her. She was taller than most of the other women on the floor. He saw that she was whirling about in an exuberant waltz with a young man who wore a distinctly dazzled expression.

“She appears to be enjoying herself,” he said.

“Yes. My parents would have been so proud. Lady Trengloss was correct when she declared that Ariel must wear only blue and gold. The colors are perfect for her.”

It dawned on Baxter that Charlotte looked very good in the canary yellow satin gown that she wore. It set off the dark flames in her hair and emphasized the green of her eyes. The bodice was low and square-cut, revealing her creamy shoulders and a decorous hint of the gentle swell of her breasts. There was a dashing little confection of a cap trimmed with a yellow plume perched on her head.

This was the first time he had seen her in anything other than a high-necked, long-sleeved day gown, he realized. He was no expert on fashion but in his opinion she was the most attractive woman in the room.

He took a swallow of champagne. “Blue and gold are all very well. I prefer yellow.”

“Yellow would have been quite atrocious on Ariel.”

He slid her a sidelong glance. “I was referring to your gown.”

“Oh.” Charlotte gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you. You look very nice in black and white, Mr. St. Ives. It suits you.”

He did not know whether that was a compliment or not. He suddenly felt compelled to explain his limited selection of evening attire. “As I told you, I don’t go into Society very often.”

“You did mention that you try to avoid the Polite World.”

“No logical reason to order a great many evening coats when one has a limited social life.”

“Very practical of you to stick with black.”

“Haven’t paid much attention to the latest fancy cravat knots.”

“I see.”

“Damned silly for a man to tie his neckcloth in such a tricky way that he can’t even turn his head.”

“There is a lot to be said for simplicity,” Charlotte agreed politely.

He was sinking deeper by the second. Baxter glanced around, searching for inspiration, and was, for once, inordinately relieved to see his aunt on the horizon. Rosalind had Lord Lennox in tow.

“Time to go to work,” Baxter said softly. “That man coming toward us with Rosalind was Drusilla Heskett’s last suitor.”

“That gentleman with the bald head and the bushy whiskers is Lennox?”

“Yes. Would have thought you’d recognize him on sight.”

She frowned. “I never actually saw him, you know. It’s not generally necessary to know what a gentleman looks like in the flesh in order to discover whether or not he is a rakehell or a gamester.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Charlotte pursed her lips. “Nevertheless, I had imagined him to be a younger man.”

“Whatever gave you that notion?”

“Mrs. Heskett’s description of him, I imagine.”

“What did she say about him?” Baxter asked.

“Something to the effect that Lennox resembled a stallion in the bedchamber. She said he had stamina.”

Baxter coughed on his last swallow of champagne. “I see. Why did she reject him?”

“She felt he was too old for her. She was uncertain how long his stamina would last.”

“He’s no youngster. Lennox has got two married daughters. His heir, who is the youngest of the brood, is twenty-one or so. I saw him a short while ago at the buffet table.”

“Lennox’s heir?”

“Yes. Norris is his name, I believe. He was talking to Hamilton. They’re close friends.”

“Who is Hamilton?”

“I beg your pardon.” Baxter deliberately set his empty glass down on a passing tray. “I should have said the fifth Earl of Esherton.”

“Oh, yes. Your brother.”

“My half brother.”

“Whatever.” Charlotte turned to greet Rosalind with a warm smile. “Good evening, Lady Trengloss.”

Rosalind beamed as she came to a halt. She caught Baxter’s eye and winked. He stifled a groan. As he had anticipated, his aunt was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Rosalind dangled Lennox triumphantly in front of Charlotte as though awarding her a prize.

“My dear, allow me to present an acquaintance of mine, Lord Lennox.”

“My lord,” Charlotte murmured.

Baxter barely managed to conceal his surprise as he watched her sink into an elegant little curtsy. The graceful dip was accented with an equally gracious inclination of her head. It all spoke volumes about her past and her upbringing. She had, indeed, been bred for a much higher position in the social hierarchy than the one in which she moved.

“Well, well, well, this is a pleasure, indeed, m’dear.” Lennox bent his gleaming head over Charlotte’s gloved hand. “Allow me to tell you that you look lovely. A vision, indeed. As bright as Spring itself.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Charlotte murmured.

Lennox shot Baxter a knowing look from beneath his bushy brows. “It’s about time you found yourself a wife, St. Ives. A man your age should have more interesting things to do than spend his time mucking around with a bunch of chemicals in a laboratory, eh?”

“Indeed.” Baxter avoided Charlotte’s eye.

“Volatile things, chemicals.” Lennox leaned close to Baxter and lowered his voice so that Charlotte and Rosalind could not hear. “If I were you, I’d avoid ’em entirely now that you’re about to get married. Never know when you might damage something vital in an explosion. Be a shame to crawl into bed on your wedding night and discover you’d accidentally blown off your ballocks in some damn experiment.”

“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Baxter said.

“That’s the spirit, St. Ives.” Lennox clapped Baxter on the shoulder. “I say, any objections to my having a spin around the floor with your lovely fiancée?”

Now that he thought about it, Baxter realized that he did have a few objections. The notion of Charlotte in another man’s arms, even the arms of a man who was old enough to be her grandfather, was an astonishingly unpleasant one. But he saw the gleam in Charlotte’s eye and knew he had better keep his opinions to himself.

“I have a feeling my fiancée would enjoy a little exercise.” Baxter adjusted his spectacles. “Is that correct, Charlotte?”

“I would be very pleased to dance with you, Lord Lennox.” Charlotte placed her hand delicately on his sleeve.

“Excellent.” Lennox led her gallantly toward the dance floor. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

Baxter watched as the pair was absorbed into the crowd of dancers.

“Do stop scowling so, Baxter,” Rosalind murmured. “People will think that you’re preparing to call out poor Lennox.”

“The day I challenge any man to a duel over a woman will be the day I cease studying chemistry and take up alchemy.”

“Sometimes I quite despair of you. Where is your passion? Your sensibilities? Your emotions? No, do not bother to answer that question.” Rosalind peered intently at the crowd. “Do you really believe that Lennox could have murdered poor Drusilla?”

“I doubt it. He does not have a financial motive, for one thing. And in my opinion, he lacks the temperament for murder.”

Rosalind glanced at him in surprise. “Then why are we wasting time with this little drama tonight?”

“I explained that Charlotte is convinced that Drusilla Heskett’s note implicated one of her most recently rejected suitors. Lennox was one of those men. We must proceed in a logical manner.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Well, Lennox is all we have to work with for the moment. I discovered that Randeleigh and Esly are in the country for several days. They are not expected back until the end of the month.”

“I shall have my man-of-affairs make some inquiries in that direction.”

“I cannot picture either of them as murderers, either.”

“Neither can I,” Baxter admitted.

Rosalind gave him a considering look. “You know, speaking of logic, it would appear perfectly reasonable if you were to dance with your own fiancée.”

“I haven’t danced in years. Never was much good at it.”

“That is not the point, Baxter, I merely—” Rosalind broke off to gaze at someone coming up behind him. She smiled coolly. “Speaking of people who believe that they have a motive for murder, here comes Lady Esherton.”

He glanced around and saw Maryann coming toward them. He abruptly recalled the three notes he had tossed into the fire during the previous fortnight. “Bloody hell.”

“She cannot have any reason to speak to me,” Rosalind said, “so it must be you she wishes to corner. If you will excuse me, I believe I see a dear friend on the other side of the room.” She turned and swept off into the crowd.

“Coward.”

He was left to face his father’s widow alone.

Maryann was fifty-two years of age. She had been eighteen when she had married Baxter’s father. The earl had been forty-three. It was his second marriage. His first had been childless and he was desperate for an heir.

The reigning belle of her Season, Maryann had had her pick of the eligible men of the ton but, at the prodding of her ambitious parents, she had set her cap for Esherton. He, in turn, had needed a virgin wife with an unblemished reputation and an impeccable family background. Their wedding had been the match of the Season. Everyone, including the earl’s long-standing mistress, Emma, Lady Sultenham, had attended the festivities.

With her petite figure, gray eyes, and honey-colored hair, Maryann was Emma’s opposite in almost every way. Baxter sometimes wondered if his father had selected her to be his countess because she did not resemble his dashing dark-haired, dark-eyed mistress or simply because he liked the variety.

Two years after the marriage, Emma, who was thirty-seven and considered herself safely past childbearing age, gave birth to the earl’s first son. Esherton had been very pleased with Baxter. He had thrown a huge party to celebrate the event. Unfortunately, nothing could alter the fact that Baxter was a bastard and therefore unable to inherit the title.

Another ten years had passed before Maryann had finally managed to produce an heir for her lord. Baxter was well aware that those years had not been easy for her. The earl had never bothered to conceal his affection for his illegitimate son or his intense passion for Emma.

Baxter did not like the grim determination in Maryann’s expression tonight. It did not bode well. As always when he was obliged to meet with her, he recalled the deathbed vows that had ensured that they could never ignore each other no matter how fervently each wished to do so.

His father had bound them together until Hamilton turned twenty-five. The scene was as vivid in his mind tonight as if the events had transpired yesterday. He had stood on one side of the massive four-poster bed. Maryann and Hamilton had stood on the opposite side.

“The time has come for me to say farewell to my two fine sons.” Arthur, the fourth Earl of Esherton, had gripped both Baxter’s and Hamilton’s hands. “I’m proud of both of you. You’re as different as night and day but you each carry my blood in your veins. Do you hear me, Hamilton?”

“Yes, Father.” Hamilton looked at Baxter, his eyes simmering with resentment.

The earl’s eyes switched to Baxter. “You’re Hamilton’s older brother. Never forget that.”

“I’m not likely to forget the fact that I’m related to him, sir.” Baxter was overcome by a strange sense of unreality. It was impossible to believe that the big, vital, larger-than-life man who had sired him was dying.

Esherton’s trembling hand tightened briefly on Baxter’s. “You’ve got a responsibility to him and his mother.”

“I doubt they’ll need anything from me.” Baxter felt the weakness in his father’s once-powerful fingers and had to blink back the dampness that threatened to film his eyes.

“You’re wrong,” Arthur whispered hoarsely. “Set it out in my will. You’ve got the sort of steady temperament it takes to handle money, Baxter. Damnation, son, you were born steady and reliable. Hamilton’s too young to handle the estates. You’ll have to deal with things until he’s twenty-five.”

“No.” Maryann was the first to realize the full significance of what her husband had said. Her hand went to her throat. “My lord, what have you done?”

Arthur turned his head on the pillow to look up at her. In spite of his weakened state he managed to produce a shadow of the wicked Esherton grin. “You’re prettier now than the day I married you, m’dear.”

“Esherton, please. What have you done?”

“No need to fret, Maryann. I’ve put Baxter in charge of the family finances until Hamilton gets a bit older.”

Maryann’s shocked gaze met Baxter’s. “There is no need for such an arrangement.”

“Afraid there is. Hamilton’s got my hot blood in him, my sweet. He needs time to learn how to control it. Don’t know how my two sons turned out so damned different, but there you are.” Esherton broke off on a racking cough.

Baxter felt his father slip a little further away into the waiting darkness. “Sir—”

Arthur recovered from the coughing fit and fell back, exhausted, against the pillows. “I know what I’m doing. Hamilton’s going to need your guidance and advice for a few years, Baxter.”

“Father, please,” Hamilton whispered. “I don’t need Baxter to handle my money and make decisions for me. I’m old enough to take care of the Esherton lands.”

“Just for a few more years.” Arthur gave a hoarse chuckle. “Give yourself a chance to sow your wild oats. Who better to keep an eye on you than your older brother, eh?”

“But he’s not really my brother,” Hamilton insisted. “He’s just my half brother.”

“You’re brothers, by God.” For a moment a measure of the earl’s old strength burned in his amber eyes. He looked fiercely at Baxter. “Do you understand me, son? You’re Hamilton’s brother. You have a responsibility to look after him. I want your oath on it.”

Baxter gripped his father’s hand. “I understand. Please, calm yourself, sir.”

“Your oath, by God.”

“You have it,” Baxter said quietly.

The earl relaxed. “Steady and clearheaded. Reliable as the sunrise.” He closed his eyes. “Knew I could depend on you to look after the family.”

Baxter shook himself free of the memories as Maryann came to a halt in front of him.

“Good evening, Baxter.”

“Maryann.”

“You have not responded to my requests for a meeting. I have sent three notes.”

“I’ve been occupied with other matters,” Baxter said with the icy politeness he had cultivated years ago for just such occasions. “If this is about money, you know I gave the bankers instructions to honor any reasonable request for funds.”

“This has nothing to do with money. If you don’t mind, I would prefer to discuss the matter in private. Shall we go out into the gardens?”

“Some other time, perhaps. I intend to dance the next waltz with my fiancée.”

Maryann frowned. “It’s true that you are engaged, then?”

“Yes.” Baxter caught sight of Charlotte in Lennox’s arms. They were both moving very briskly around the floor. Stamina.

“I see. I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“There’s no need for you to go out of your way.”

Maryann’s lips tightened. “Baxter, please, I must speak with you about Hamilton. I am extremely concerned. You know very well that your father told me that if I ever needed your help, you would assist me.”

Baxter turned his head slowly to meet Maryann’s desperate eyes and knew that he had no choice in the matter. He had given his father his oath.

He inclined his head a bare half inch in acceptance of the inevitable. “I believe you are correct, madam. It would no doubt be best if we held this conversation out in the gardens.”