Eight

Baxter was conducting some sort of experiment. Charlotte knew it with absolute certainty as soon as his lips touched hers. This kiss was different from the one they had shared in the carriage the other night. Even as he pulled her close against him and tightened his arms around her, she could feel him holding back something of himself.

It was as though he thought to observe and control the results of the embrace. She wondered if he believed that he could regulate his own desire the way he did the flames he used to heat volatile chemicals.

With understanding came a shock of anger. She was not some curious mixture to be tested and examined in a laboratory. Charlotte tightened her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. She was suddenly determined to show Baxter that he could not remain an aloof observer of his own passion.

If this was an experiment, she decided, he was as much a part of it as she.

“Charlotte.” Baxter’s mouth moved on hers, tasting, probing, exploring. His hands moved up to cradle her head. He shoved his fingers into her hair, loosening the pins. “Say my name again.”

“Baxter.” Excitement flowed through her, so bright and hot that she could not believe that he did not feel it also.

“Again.” He slid his thumbs along the line of her jaw.

“Baxter.”

“Open your mouth for me.”

She obeyed. And then gave a soft, muffled gasp of surprise when his teeth sank gently into her lower lip.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know.” She clutched at him, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

He sifted his fingers through her hair. Pins pinged on the polished surface of the desk. And then he slid his hands downward, pausing briefly on her bare shoulders.

“You are so soft.” He stroked the curve of her throat and moved his mouth to the place just below her ear. “Everything about you is smooth and soft.”

She flattened her hands on his chest, savoring the feel of the sleek muscles beneath his crisp, white linen shirt. “And everything about you is very strong and very hard.”

Baxter lifted his head. He removed his spectacles and set them down on the desk beside the fallen hairpins.

She looked into his eyes and caught her breath. Without the veil of his eyeglasses the alchemist’s fires that burned in his gaze flared more intensely than molten gold. She could see the danger, but the flames fascinated and enthralled her.

“I want to feel your breasts in my hands.” Baxter tugged gently at the tiny sleeves of her gown.

The bodice fell away, baring her to the waist. She shivered, violently aware of the lamplight that revealed her taut nipples. She ached. It was a delicious, thrilling, unbelievable sensation. She heard herself cry out softly when Baxter cupped her in his palms.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice was so low and husky that the words were almost inaudible.

He rasped his thumbs across the tips of her swollen breasts. She could not get any air into her lungs. It was only the driving need to inhale more of his intoxicating, utterly masculine scent that made her draw in another deep breath.

A great urgency poured through her. She crushed the fabric of his shirt in her fingers. Her head fell back. “Baxter. This is incredible.”

“Yes.” He bent his head and took one nipple between his teeth.

“Oh, my God.” Swiftly she untied his cravat and sought the fastenings of his shirt with trembling fingers.

He froze. “No.”

She ignored him. She got the shirt open and pushed her hands inside.

“Bloody hell.” Baxter did not move. It was as if he awaited a blow he knew he could not avoid.

She touched him eagerly, savoring the heat and strength of his body. Her fingers moved through the crisp, curling hair of his chest and then she wrapped her arms around him and flattened her palms against his back.

She felt the roughened skin and knew it for what it was. Baxter was badly scarred.

It was her turn to go very still. She raised her head and looked at him. “You’ve been hurt.”

“Three years ago.” His eyes were grim and unwavering. “Long since healed.”

“What happened?”

“Acid.”

“Dear God. A laboratory accident?”

His smile was completely lacking in humor. “In a manner of speaking.”

“I am so sorry. It must have been very painful.”

“Not anymore. But the scars are unsightly. Give me a moment to put out the light.” He made to step back from her.

“There is no need.” Slowly, deliberately, she peeled the linen shirt off his shoulders and dropped it on the carpet. She could see the pale, rough patches of ruined skin scattered across his right shoulder. She closed her eyes against the pain she knew he must have experienced.

“Charlotte—”

“You cannot possibly think that the sight of your injuries would offend me. The only thing that matters is that your wounds have healed.”

Very gently she touched one of the acid marks on his shoulder. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed it. Baxter shuddered. She moved her lips up along his throat to his mouth.

“Charlotte.” His arms tightened fiercely around her.

For a moment there was nothing detached or remote about the embrace. She sensed the banked fires that burned within him. There was a raw, aching sensuality in his kiss that threatened to overwhelm her.

She gave herself up to the conflagration with an exultant rush of excitement.

He fitted his hands to her waist, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her breast.

She gasped when she felt his teeth on her nipple. “Baxter.” She clutched at him with a strange sense of desperation.

He carried her toward the sofa. A moment later the room spun on its axis. And then Charlotte felt the cushions beneath her. The skirts of her gown fluttered around her thighs.

Before she could reorient herself, Baxter came down on top of her. He was heavy. Thrillingly so. The weight of his body crushed her deep into the velvet sofa. She could feel the fabric of his breeches against her bare skin above her gartered stockings.

And she could also feel the thickened weight of his aroused manhood. She sucked in her breath.

He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “I want you.”

She stared into the glowing crucible of his gaze and was lost in the spell of desire that swirled around them.

Surely it was impossible for any man, even one with a will as strong as Baxter’s, to look at a woman with such raging need and still remain a dispassionate experimenter.

She threaded her fingers through his hair and did not bother to conceal her sense of wonder. “I have never known any emotion that was as strong as this.”

“I’m glad.” He kissed her deeply, hungrily.

She felt his hand glide down her leg and slide beneath the skirts of her gown. He curved his fingers around her calf.

She sank her nails into the rigid muscles of his back and shoulders.

He groaned. His hand moved up the inside of her thigh and then he was pressing against the damp, throbbing place between her legs. He dipped one finger into her, pushing gently to force his way past the small, tight muscles.

She shivered in reaction to the exotic invasion. “Please.” She twisted restlessly, seeking something more. “Do not stop.”

He withdrew his finger very slowly and then eased it back into her. At the same time his thumb moved higher, skimming lightly over the firm little nub at the top of her sex.

“Baxter.” She could not think. She was awash in sensation. She clung to him, silently demanding an end to the exquisite torment yet unable to pull away. “Baxter.”

He bent his head to her breast. His finger moved inside her. Instead of pushing deeper into the passage, he pressed upward. Again and again he repeated the caress.

A great tension built within her. She had never known such a coiling, restless, clenching need. She knew intuitively that the sensation could not continue to build. There had to be some release from the ever-mounting pressure.

She clutched at Baxter’s shoulders.

There had to be a release.

She would surely shatter if something did not give. This relentless, driving force could not go on forever.

Without warning she came undone in a series of deep, convulsive shudders.

“Baxter.”

She heard her own scream echo in the study as she fell from an impossibly high cliff.

Baxter held her while she floated down through a liquid atmosphere in which he was the only solid object. She knew a dazed sense of wonder that robbed her of speech.

Gradually she once more became aware of the crackle of flames on the hearth and the feel of the sofa cushions beneath her back.

Baxter’s weight still rested along the length of her body. When she finally opened her eyes she found him gazing down at her with glittering intensity.

“That was amazing,” she whispered. “Quite wonderful.”

He smiled and kissed her brow. “Yes, it was.”

She touched his jaw. “But you did not experience the same sensation.”

“Not this time.” He straightened, carefully extricating himself from her tumbled skirts. “But there will be other times.” He paused to touch the edge of her mouth with one blunt finger. “At least I hope that will be the case.”

“Baxter, wait. Where are you going?”

“We must talk.”

He got to his feet and walked across the room to where his shirt lay on the floor. The firelight flared on the acid scars that marked his back and shoulders. So much pain, Charlotte thought. Thank God the acid had not struck his eyes. He would surely have been blinded.

She watched as he picked up his shirt and shrugged into it with quick, practiced movements. Leaving it unfastened, he went to the desk, found his spectacles, and shoved them onto his nose.

Without a word he crossed to the hearth to stand in front of the fire. He stood gazing down into the flames.

Alarmed by the change in his mood, Charlotte sat up slowly. She fumbled with the bodice of her gown. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He took a poker from the stand and leaned down to stir the flames. “But I would have an understanding between us before we go any farther down this road.”

She stared at him. His dark hair was tousled from where she had raked her fingers through it. The glow of the flames cast fierce shadows on the blunt planes and sharp angles of his forbidding features. She knew again the disturbing sense of wariness that she had felt the first day she met him.

“What sort of understanding?” she asked carefully.

“Will you have an affair with me, Charlotte?” The quiet words were spoken without inflection. Baxter’s voice was stripped of all emotion.

“An affair?” She suddenly felt so clumsy that she could barely finish fastening the tapes of her gown. “With you?”

“It would seem that we are attracted to each other.”

“Yes, but—” She broke off, not certain what to say. After all, she reminded herself, she had been considering just such a possibility.

“In my experience this sort of emotion is not unlike an illusion,” Baxter said. “It seems real for a time and then it fades.”

“I see.” She could not deny his claim. Passion alone was not to be trusted. She knew that better than most. She had established a career on the foundation of that simple principle. Only true love could add some element of safety and certainty to the dangerous brew. “You believe that the fires that warm us now will soon burn themselves out.”

“From my observation of such matters, boredom and ennui eventually turn the hottest flames to ashes.”

“Has that been the fate of your past liaisons?”

“I’m a chemist, not a poet.” Baxter clasped his hands behind his back. “Over time the distinction becomes more pronounced.”

“I do not understand.”

“To put it more plainly, women tend to find me somewhat dull once the initial physical attraction has passed.”

“Women find you dull?” That was too much. Anger flared in Charlotte, temporarily swamping the unhappiness that had been welling up inside her. “How dare you, sir. Do not try to fob me off with that sort of nonsense. If you have no great interest in a long-term connection, then at least have the decency to say so. Do not expect me to believe that your previous affairs have all ended because you bored your paramours to death.”

He glanced at her, startled. “I assure you, it is the simple truth.”

“Rubbish.” She scrambled off the sofa and shook out her skirts. “You seek to make excuses. I expected better of you, sir.”

He swung around to confront her. “I am not making excuses. I am attempting to be practical.”

“Indeed.” She drew herself up proudly. “And what of your precious reputation, Mr. St. Ives?”

“It so happens that this charade of an engagement we have concocted provides us with the perfect cover for an affair.”

Charlotte seethed. “This charade, as you call it, was created by you and is designed to last only as long as it takes us to find the villain who murdered Drusilla Heskett.”

“There is no reason it cannot continue after we have achieved our primary goal.”

“The usual engagement lasts a year, at best.”

“I would not presume to estimate the lengths of your previous liaisons, but mine, on average, have lasted about two months or less.”

“That is no great recommendation, sir.”

“It’s the bloody truth. Well?” He narrowed his gaze. “What is your answer? Are you interested in having an affair with me or not?”

She was trembling, not from passion this time, but from outrage. She lifted her chin. “Surely you do not expect an immediate response? I shall give you my decision after I have had an opportunity to study the matter more closely.”

“Bloody hell.” Baxter swept out a hand to indicate the sofa. “After what just took place, you tell me that you must give the matter further study?”

She smiled coolly. “As I often advise my clients, one must not make important personal decisions in the heat of passion.”

His jaw tightened. Without a word, he started toward her, his booted feet soundless on the carpet.

Charlotte braced herself. Pushing Baxter to the edge of his self-control was a risk, albeit not a physical one. She knew deep in her bones that he would never hurt her. But there was a strong element of unpredictability in this situation.

Before she could discover what he intended, one of the floorboards in the hallway outside the study gave out a groan. She froze.

Baxter halted, too. He glanced at the door and then frowned at Charlotte. “One of your staff?”

“No.” She whirled around to stare at the closed door of the study. “I told you, my housekeeper is gone for the entire night. It cannot be Ariel. We would have heard your aunt’s carriage arrive.”

Footsteps thudded in the corridor. Charlotte realized that someone was running down the hall toward the door at the rear of the small town house.

“Bloody hell.” Baxter launched himself forward. “Stay here.” He yanked open the door and raced out into the front hall.

Charlotte picked up a heavy silver candlestick in one hand, grabbed her skirts with the other, and ran after him.

Darkness greeted her. Someone had extinguished the wall sconce that she had lit earlier. The only light was that which spilled from the study.

Footsteps echoed from the back of the house. Two sets. Baxter’s and the intruder’s.

She plunged into the inky depths of the hallway.

A cold draft told her that the back door was open. She could see the dim glow of moonlight at the end of the corridor. The intruder was already outside. He had fled into the garden.

She came to a halt in the doorway, straining to see into the shadows. There was no sign of anyone slinking through the bushes.

“Baxter? Where are you?”

There was no response.

Panic welled in Charlotte. The housebreaker had no doubt been armed. She had heard no pistol shots but many footpads preferred the silence of the blade. Visions of Baxter wounded, perhaps dying in the vicinity of the rose bushes, impelled her forward into the night.

“Baxter. Oh, my God, where are you? Speak to me, Baxter.”

“I thought I told you to wait inside.” Baxter materialized out of the intense darkness. One moment he was not there and the next he was standing directly in front of her. Moonlight glanced off the side of his face and glimmered on his spectacles.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He took her arm and steered her back toward the house. “But I failed to catch him. He disappeared into the alley behind the garden. He knew his way around. Must have studied the house and planned his escape route before he undertook this night’s work. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.”

“Thank God you did not catch him. He might have had a knife or a pistol.”

“Kind of you to be concerned about my health.”

“There is no call for sarcasm.”

“Sorry.” He urged her back through the doorway. “I occasionally resort to sarcasm when I have had too much excitement in one evening.”

Charlotte chose to ignore that remark. Baxter had had a near brush with a villain. He had every right to be in a foul temper.

“Good heavens,” she whispered as he closed the door. “Something has just occurred to me. We heard no sound in the hall or on the stairs earlier. That means that the intruder must have been in the house when we arrived home.”

“Very likely.”

“What a ghastly notion.” Charlotte shuddered. “To think that he was there, listening, all the while you and I were … were …” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

“I suspect he was upstairs when we interrupted his plans.” Baxter lit a wall sconce. “He no doubt decided to wait until he was certain that we were well occupied before he fled.”

“Do you suppose he overheard us?”

Baxter lifted one shoulder in a disinterested movement. “Possibly.” He bent to examine the lock on the door. “But I suspect he was far more interested in making good his escape than he was in playing the voyeur.”

“I wonder if he managed to make off with anything.” She frowned at Baxter, who was fiddling with the door. “What are you doing?”

“Attempting to determine precisely how he got inside. The front door was locked when we returned so he must have entered the house through this entrance.” Baxter straightened, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But this lock has not been damaged and there are no broken windows. It would appear that our man knew what he was about.”

“How dreadful. A professional member of the criminal class was right here in my house.” Charlotte rubbed her hands over her chilled arms. “I must have a look around to see what is missing. I do hope that he did not steal the silver tea service or the ormolu clock.”

“I’ll walk through the house with you.” Baxter strode toward the stairs. “I caught only a glimpse of his coat in the darkness but he did not appear to be carrying anything heavy enough to slow him down. With any luck we shall discover that your possessions are still here.”

“Baxter?”

He glanced impatiently back over his shoulder, his whole attention clearly riveted on the matter at hand. “What is it?”

“Thank you.” Charlotte smiled tremulously. “It was very brave of you to chase that villain off tonight.”

“All in a day’s work, Miss Arkendale.”

• • •

The incense burned low in the black and crimson room. His senses were open. It was time.

“Read the cards, my love.”

The fortune-teller placed the first card on the table. “The golden griffin.”

“He is persistent.”

She turned over the next card. “The lady with the crystal eyes.”

“A nuisance.”

The fortune-teller plucked another card from the deck. “The silver ring.” She looked up. “The griffin and the lady have formed an alliance.”

“It must be severed. I shall deal with it.” He leaned forward. “What of the phoenix?”

The fortune-teller hesitated. Then she placed another card faceup on the table. “The phoenix will triumph.”

“Yes.” He was satisfied.

When the fortune-teller shivered with longing, he pushed her down onto the carpet. He knew the golden griffin’s weaknesses well. And one of them was the lady with the crystal eyes, the woman who now belonged to the griffin.

There could be no more satisfactory way to destroy a man of honor than to savage one whom such a man felt honor bound to protect.

A housebreaker?” Ariel paused in the act of helping herself to the scrambled eggs and turned to look at Charlotte in amazement. “I do not believe it. You say he was right here in the house when you returned home with Mr. St. Ives?”

“Yes.” Charlotte busied herself with her napkin while she mentally reviewed the portions of the tale that she did not intend to relate. There was no need to tell Ariel exactly what she and Baxter had been doing prior to the intruder’s untimely interruption. “Mr. St. Ives and I went into the study to discuss the results of the evening’s inquiries and we heard someone in the hall. You know how that floorboard near the kitchen creaks whenever it is trod upon.”

“Yes, I know. What happened? Was anything taken?”

“No, thank heavens. Mr. St. Ives pursued the villain and chased him off through the garden.”

Ariel tipped her head to one side. “St. Ives gave chase?”

“Yes. He is extraordinarily brave and quite fleet of foot. But the intruder had a head start and disappeared into the night.”

“Fleet of foot?” Ariel looked briefly intrigued by that observation. “I would not have thought of Mr. St. Ives as fleet of foot. Oh, well, do go on. Tell me the rest.”

“There is not much else to tell. Mr. St. Ives and I walked through the entire house after the villain fled. We checked the silver and other things that a thief might have wanted to carry off but nothing seemed to be missing. Mr. St. Ives feels that we interrupted the intruder before he could complete his work.”

“Thank God.” Ariel sat down with a bemused expression. “This is absolutely amazing. Some footpad must have noticed that the house was empty last night and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“That’s how it appears.”

“How fortunate that you were not alone when you heard the villain in the hall.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not tell me about this the instant I walked through the door?” Ariel asked.

“As no harm had been done, I concluded that there was no point in waiting up in order to tell you the story.” And no reason to mention that after Baxter had left, she had lain awake for hours listening to every creak and groan of the house, Charlotte thought.

When she had not been aware of every sound, she had kept herself occupied with thoughts of Baxter. His mood had changed after the business with the intruder. His steely self-mastery had reasserted itself. There had been no further discussion of an affair.

She did not know whether to be vastly relieved or gravely disappointed.

“It was quite late when Lady Trengloss brought me home in her carriage,” Ariel admitted. “I do not believe that I have ever stayed up until dawn before in my life. Her ladyship tells me that during the Season most of the ton is up until sunrise.”

Charlotte spread gooseberry jam on her toast. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

A glowing warmth bloomed in Ariel’s cheeks. “I had a wonderful evening. It was as if I stepped into another world.”

“It is a world Mother greatly enjoyed.” Charlotte felt a pang of the familiar wistfulness that she always got when she recalled the old memories of the time before Winterbourne. “Do you remember how much Mama loved the Season?”

“She looked so very beautiful when she went out in the evenings.” Ariel’s eyes softened. “And Father was so handsome. I remember how I loved to stand at the window and watch them drive off together in the carriage. I imagined that they were a prince and a princess in a fairy tale.”

A short silence descended on the morning room. Charlotte shook off the past. She sensed Ariel doing the same. There was no point reminding each other of how the fairy tale had ended.

“I noticed that you danced with the Earl of Esherton at the Hiltson ball,” Charlotte said.

Ariel blushed. “I danced with him again later in the evening at the Todd soiree. He is an excellent dancer. And his conversation is most interesting.”

“He is a fine-looking man.”

“Yes, he is. And a perfect gentleman. I only wish I could have danced every waltz with him. But that would have caused gossip, of course.”

“Of course.”

“He went off to his club around three so I did not see him after that.”

The happy excitement in Ariel’s eyes worried Charlotte for some reason. She was not certain what to say. She did not even know if she ought to say anything. Her sister was a sensible young woman, far more levelheaded than most her age. This experience of the Season was precisely what she had wished for Ariel. Surely there was no harm in encouraging her to enjoy herself. The adventure would end all too soon.

It occurred to Charlotte that she could give herself the same advice. A pleasant warmth suffused her whole body as memories of the passionate embrace returned. The prospect of an affair with Baxter compelled her imagination.

And then she recalled how cool and remote he had been when he had asked her to become his paramour, how he had deliberately seduced her on the sofa while holding himself in check.

She had been the subject of an experiment last night, Charlotte reminded herself. She did not care for the feeling.

Mrs. Witty stuck her head into the morning room. “A lady to see you, Miss Charlotte. Says she’s here on urgent business.”

“A client?” Charlotte glanced at the clock and frowned. “It’s only eleven. I do not have any appointments until this afternoon.”

“Could be this particular client is a bit more desperate than most.” Mrs. Witty raised her brows. “She appears to be in immediate need of a husband, if you take my meaning.”

Charlotte was startled. “Do you mean she’s increasing?”

“Pregnant as a ewe in spring,” Mrs. Witty said cheerfully. “If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t be wastin’ any time making inquiries into the background of any man who’d made an offer. I’d take him up on it before he could change his mind.”

Ariel looked up. “I could interview her if you like, Charlotte.”

Mrs. Witty looked at Charlotte. “She specifically asked for you, Miss Charlotte. Said she couldn’t talk to anyone else.”

“Show her into the study, Mrs. Witty.” Charlotte rose from the table. “Tell her that I shall join her presently.”

“Yes, Miss Charlotte.” Mrs. Witty started to withdraw.

“One more thing,” Charlotte said quickly. “I have a favor to ask of you, Mrs. Witty. We know that Mrs. Heskett’s staff was out of the house on the night of the murder but I wonder if it might be worth a chat with her housekeeper. She may be able to tell us something of her employer’s plans for that evening. Do you think you could locate her?”

Mrs. Witty nodded. “I’ll have a go at it.”

“I shall be in here if you need me, Charlotte.” Ariel went back to the sideboard to refill her plate. “Lady Trengloss says that I am to fortify myself for tonight’s round of social affairs. She claims that the Season requires a lady to have stamina.”

“Lady Trengloss is no doubt an authority on the subject.”

Charlotte went out the door and down the hall. She paused in front of the mirror to make certain that she presented a professional, competent appearance and then she walked into the study.

The lady seated in front of the desk appeared to be about Charlotte’s age. She was quite pretty, with light brown hair and soft features.

She was also quite pregnant. A blue pelisse was stretched taut over a high, rounded belly.

“Miss Arkendale?” The woman looked at Charlotte with anxious eyes much reddened from recent tears.

“Yes.” Charlotte gave the woman a reassuring smile as she gently closed the study door. “I’m afraid that my housekeeper did not supply me with your name.”

“Because I did not give it to her.” The woman dabbed at her eyes with a damp handkerchief “My name is Juliana Post. And I am here because I heard rumors that you were engaged to Mr. Baxter St. Ives. Is it true?”

Charlotte halted midway across the study. “Why, yes. Why do you ask?”

Juliana began to sob into her handkerchief. “Because I was his last paramour. It is his babe I carry. His bastard. Baxter has left me a ruined woman, Miss Arkendale. I thought you should know what sort of man he is.”

Dumbfounded, Charlotte stared at Juliana’s bent head. “What on earth are you saying?”

“He promised me marriage, Miss Arkendale.” Juliana rose to her feet. “He said we would be wed. That is how he convinced me to submit to his embraces. But when he learned that I was pregnant, he cast me off. I have no family. I do not know what will become of me.”

“If this is an attempt to obtain money from me—”

“No, no, it is not.” Sobbing, Juliana rushed toward the door.

“Miss Post, wait, I have some questions to ask you.”

“I cannot bear to talk about it.” Juliana paused in the doorway and looked back at Charlotte with bitter eyes. “I came here today because I felt it was my duty to warn you that St. Ives is a bastard not only by birth, but by temperament. I am lost, Miss Arkendale. But it is not too late to save yourself. Take care or you will meet the same bad end.”