Affair (2 page)

Winterbourne was incensed. “That money became mine when I married your mother.”

“
Leave this house.
”

“Charlotte, wait, you do not comprehend the situation. That man who just left is not to be trifled with. He has demanded that I repay my gaming debt tonight. I must settle my affairs with him. I do not know what he will do to me if I fail.”

“Leave.”

Winterbourne opened his mouth and then closed it abruptly. He stared helplessly at the pistol and then, with an anguished groan, he hastened toward the staircase.
Clutching the banister rail for support, he went down the steps, then crossed the hall and let himself out.

Charlotte stood very still in the shadows at the top of the stairs until the door closed behind Winterbourne. She took several deep breaths and slowly lowered the pistol.

For a moment the world seemed to waver and shift around her. The sound of carriages rattling past in the street was distant and unreal. The familiar shape of the hall and the staircase took on the quality of an eerie illusion.

Ariel’s door opened at the end of the corridor. “Charlotte? I heard voices. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Charlotte held the empty pistol against her thigh so that her sister would not see it. She turned slowly and summoned a shaky smile. “Yes, I am fine, Ariel. Winterbourne came home drunk, as usual. We argued a bit. But he has left the house now. He will not be back tonight.”

Ariel was very quiet for a moment. “I wish Mama was still here. Sometimes I am very frightened in this house.”

Charlotte felt tears sting her eyes. “Sometimes I am frightened, too, Ariel. But we shall soon be free. In fact, we shall take the stage to Yorkshire tomorrow.”

She hurried toward her sister and put one arm around her. She pushed the pistol deeper into the folds of her nightgown. The cold iron burned against her thigh.

“You have finished selling the silver and what was left of Mama’s jewels?” Ariel asked.

“Yes. I pawned the tea tray yesterday. There is nothing left.”

In the year since their mother’s untimely death in a riding accident, Winterbourne had sold off the best pieces of the Arkendale jewels and most of the larger silver items in order to pay his mounting gaming debts.

But when she had realized what was happening, Charlotte had stealthily hidden a number of small rings, brooches, and a pendant. She had also tucked away bits of the silver tea service. During the past few months she had surreptitiously pawned them.

Winterbourne spent so much of the time in an inebriated state that he did not even realize how many of the household valuables had disappeared. When he did, on occasion, notice that something had gone missing, Charlotte informed him that he, himself, had pawned it while drunk.

Ariel looked up. “Do you think that we shall enjoy Yorkshire?”

“It will be lovely. We shall find a little cottage to rent.”

“But how will we live?” Even at the tender age of fourteen, Ariel displayed an amazingly practical streak. “The money you got for Mama’s things will not last long.”

Charlotte hugged her. “Do not fret. I shall think of a way to make a living for us.”

Ariel frowned. “You will not be obliged to become a governess, will you? You know how terrible things are for ladies in that career. No one pays them very much and they are often treated very shabbily. And I shall likely not be able to stay with you if you go into service in someone else’s house.”

“You may be certain that I shall find some other way to support us,” Charlotte vowed.

Everyone knew that a governess’s lot was not a pleasant one. In addition to the low wages and the humiliating treatment, there were risks from the men of the household who considered the governess fair game.

There had to be another way to support herself and Ariel, Charlotte thought.

But in the morning, everything changed.

Lord Winterbourne was found floating facedown in the Thames, his throat slit. It was assumed that he had been the victim of a footpad.

There was no longer any reason to escape to Yorkshire but there was still a need for Charlotte to invent a career for herself.

She received the news of Winterbourne’s death with vast relief. But she knew that she would never forget the monster with the compellingly beautiful voice that she had encountered in the hall.

“So, in the end you chose to betray me.” Morgan Judd spoke from the doorway of the ancient stone chamber that served as his laboratory. “A pity. You and I have much in common, St. Ives. Together we could have forged an alliance that would have brought us both undreamed of wealth and power. A great waste of a grand destiny. But, then, you don’t believe in destiny, do you?”

Baxter St. Ives clenched his fingers fiercely around the damning notebook that he had just discovered. He turned to face Morgan.

Women considered Judd to be endowed with the countenance of a fallen angel. His black hair curled naturally in the carelessly stylish manner of the Romantic poets. It framed a high, intelligent brow and eyes the impossible blue of glacial ice.

Morgan’s voice could have belonged to Lucifer himself. It was the voice of a man who had sung in the choir
at Oxford, read poetry aloud to enthralled listeners, and charmed high-ranking ladies into bed. It was a rich, dark, compelling voice, a voice shaded with subtle meanings and unspoken promises. It was a voice of power and passion and Morgan used it, as he did everything and everyone, to achieve his own ends.

His bloodlines were as blue as the ice in his eyes. They flowed from one of England’s most noble families. But his elegant, aristocratic mien belied the true circumstances of his birth.

Morgan Judd was a bastard. It was one of the two things that Baxter could say they truly had in common. The other was a fascination with chemistry. It was the latter that had brought about this midnight confrontation.

“Destiny is for romantic poets and writers of novels.” Baxter pushed his gold wire spectacles more firmly in place on his nose. “I’m a man of science. I have no interest in such metaphysical nonsense. But I do know that it is possible for a man to sell his soul to the devil. Why did you do it, Morgan?”

“You speak of the compact that I have made with Napoleon, I presume.” Morgan’s sensual mouth curved faintly in cold amusement.

He took two steps into the shadowy chamber and halted. The folds of his black cloak swirled around the tops of his gleaming boots in a manner that reminded Baxter of the wings of a large bird of prey.

“Yes,” Baxter said. “I refer to your bargain.”

“There is no great mystery about my decision. I do what must be done to fulfill my destiny.”

“You would betray your country to fulfill this mad notion of a grand destiny?”

“I owe nothing to England and neither do you. It is a
land governed by laws and unwritten social rules that combine to prohibit superior men such as you and I from taking our rightful place in the natural order.” Morgan’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. His voice crackled with bitter rage. “It is not too late, Baxter. Join me in this endeavor.”

Baxter held up the notebook. “You want me to help you finish formulating these terrible chemical concoctions so that Napoleon can use them as weapons against your own countrymen? You truly are crazed.”

“I’m not mad, but you are most definitely a fool.” Morgan produced a pistol from the enveloping folds of the black cloak. “And blind in spite of your eyeglasses, if you cannot see that Napoleon is the future.”

Baxter shook his head. “He has tried to grab too much power. It will destroy him.”

“He is a man who comprehends that great destinies are crafted by those who have the will and the intellect to fashion them. What is more, he is a man who believes in progress. He is the only ruler in all of Europe who truly comprehends the potential value of science.”

“I’m aware that he has given large sums of money to those who conduct experiments in chemistry and physics and the like.” Baxter watched the pistol in Morgan’s hand. “But he will use what you are creating here in this laboratory to help him win the war. Englishmen will die cruel deaths if you are successful in producing quantities of lethal vapors. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Morgan laughed. The sound had the low, deep resonance of a great bell rung very softly. “Nothing at all.”

“Have you consigned your own honor as well as your native land to hell?”

“St. Ives, you amaze me. When will you learn that
honor is a sport designed to amuse men who are born on the right side of the blanket?”

“I disagree.” Tucking the notebook under one arm, Baxter removed his spectacles and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief. “Honor is a quality that any man can acquire and shape for himself.” He smiled slightly. “Not unlike your own notion of destiny, when you consider it closely.”

Morgan’s eyes hardened with scorn and a chilling fury. “Honor is for men who inherit power and wealth in the cradle simply because their mothers had the good sense to secure a marriage license before they spread their thighs. It is for men such as our noble fathers who bequeath titles and estates to their legitimate sons and leave their bastards with nothing. It is not for the likes of us.”

“Do you know what your greatest flaw is, Morgan?” Baxter carefully replaced his spectacles. “You allow yourself to become much too impassioned about certain subjects. Strong emotion is not a sound trait in a chemist.”

“Damn you, St. Ives.” Morgan’s hand tightened around the grip of the pistol. “I’ve had enough of your exceedingly dull, excessively boring lectures.
Your
greatest flaw is that you lack the fortitude and the daring nature to alter the course of your own fate.”

Baxter shrugged. “If there is such a thing as destiny, then I expect mine is to be a crashing bore until the day I expire.”

“I fear that day has arrived. You may not believe this, but I regret the necessity of killing you. You are one of the few men in all of Europe who could have appreciated the brilliance of my accomplishments. It is a pity that you will not be alive to watch my destiny unfold.”

“Destiny, indeed. What utter rubbish. I must tell you, this obsession with the metaphysical and the occult
is another poor characteristic in a man of science. It was once merely an amusing pastime for you. When did you start to actually put credence into such nonsense?”

“Fool.” Morgan aimed carefully and cocked the pistol.

Time had run out. There was nothing left to lose. In desperation, Baxter seized the heavy candle stand. He hurled it, together with the flaring taper, toward the nearest cluttered workbench.

The iron stand and its candle crashed into a glass flask, shattering it instantly. The pale green fluid inside splashed out across the workbench and lapped at the still-burning flame.

The spilled liquid ignited with a deadly rush.

“No,” Morgan screamed. “Damn you, St. Ives.”

He pulled the trigger but his attention was on the spreading fire, not his aim. The bullet slammed into the window behind Baxter. One of the small panes exploded.

Baxter ran toward the door, the notebook in his hand.

“How dare you attempt to interfere with my plans?” Morgan scooped a green glass bottle off a nearby shelf and spun around to block Baxter’s path. “You bloody fool. You cannot stop me.”

“The fire is spreading quickly. Run, for God’s sake.”

But Morgan ignored the warning. Features twisted in rage, he dashed the contents of the green bottle straight at Baxter.

Acting on instinct, Baxter covered his eyes with his arm and turned away.

The acid struck his shoulder and back. For a second he felt nothing except a curiously cold sensation. It was as if he had been doused with water. But in the next instant, the chemicals finished eating through his linen shirt and seared his bare skin.

Pain lanced through him, a scorching agony that threatened to destroy his concentration. He forced himself to focus only on the need to escape.

Fire blossomed quickly in the stone chamber. A thick, foul smoke was beginning to form as more flasks shattered and released their contents to the flames.

Morgan lunged for a drawer, opened it, and produced a second pistol. He whirled toward Baxter, squinting to aim the weapon through the growing pall of vapors.

Baxter felt as if his skin were being peeled off in strips. Through a growing haze of smoke and pain he saw that the path to the door was already blocked by towering flames. There would be no escape in that direction.

He lashed out with one booted foot and kicked over the heavy air pump. It toppled against Morgan’s left leg.

“God damn you.” Morgan staggered to the side as the device struck him. He fell to his knees. The pistol clattered on the stones.

Baxter ran for the window. The pieces of his ruined shirt flapped wildly. He gained the wide, stone sill and glanced down.

Below lay a roiling, churning sea. In the thin, silver moonlight he could see the foaming surf as it crashed against the rocks that formed the foundation of the ancient castle.

The pistol thundered.

Baxter flung himself toward the dark waters. A series of fiery explosions echoed in the night as he plummeted downward.

He managed to miss the rocks but the impact tore Morgan Judd’s notebook from his grasp. It vanished forever into the depths.

When he surfaced a moment later amid the pounding waves, Baxter realized that his eyeglasses were also gone.
But he did not need them to see that the laboratory in the castle tower had turned into an inferno. Terrible smoke billowed forth into the night.

No one could live through such a conflagration. Morgan Judd was dead.

Baxter considered the fact that he had brought about the death of the man who had once been his closest friend and colleague.

It was almost enough to make a man believe in the notion of destiny.

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