Affair (24 page)

He picked up the sheet of paper and looked more closely at the drawing. His brows drew together in a dark line above the rims of his spectacles. “There is something familiar about this picture.”

Excitement rushed through Charlotte. “What do you mean? Have you seen such a design somewhere else?”

“Perhaps. A long time ago.” Baxter glanced up from the drawing. His eyes met hers. “I shall have to do some research in my library.”

“You have seen something similar in one of your books?” Ariel asked quickly.

“Possibly.” He eyed the picture again. “I cannot be certain, but if memory serves, it is a very ancient thing.”

“Ancient.” Charlotte shuddered. “Why in heaven’s name would Mrs. Heskett have copied an old design in her sketchbook and why would someone want to steal it?”

“You’re assuming that whoever took the sketchbook did so because of this drawing,” Baxter said.

“The villain must have been after that picture. It was the only one that was different and unusual.”

“Hmm.” Baxter folded the sheet of paper. “It has been my experience as a chemist that the easiest way to go about finding solutions to problems is to begin by eliminating obvious loose ends.”

Mrs. Witty sighed. “Seems to me that all ye’ve got at this point are loose ends, sir.”

“One or two can be snipped off,” he said. “With luck,
the situation will become clearer once I have taken care of them.”

“You refer to the matter of Miss Post’s visit,” Charlotte said. “What do you intend to do?”

“Assure myself that there is no connection between her and Drusilla Heskett’s murder,” Baxter said. “The way to eliminate that possibility is to discover whether or not my half brother sent her to you in an act of deliberate mischief.”

“Hamilton?” Ariel’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “You cannot mean to suggest that Lord Esherton sent Miss Post to tell that outlandish tale to Charlotte?”

“He thinks Hamilton may have done it as a sort of practical joke,” Charlotte explained hastily. “I have told St. Ives that is highly unlikely.”

“Unlikely? It’s impossible,” Ariel declared. “His lordship is a gentleman. He would never stoop to such a nasty trick.”

Baxter raised his brows. “I see Hamilton has managed to make an excellent impression on this household.”

Ariel gestured toward the large vase of pink roses. “He sent those magnificent flowers this morning. His taste, as you can see, is very refined. He is not the sort to play a vicious practical joke.”

Baxter gave the roses a disgusted look. “It doesn’t take exquisite sensibilities or a noble character to conclude that it is appropriate to send roses to a lady the morning after a ball.”

“An interesting observation,” Charlotte said dryly. “One could certainly expect any gentleman, even one unaccustomed to the ways of Society, to know enough to send flowers to a lady following a particularly memorable evening.” She paused deliberately. “Or even after a memorable
morning
, for that matter.”

Baxter shot her a disconcerted glance. Charlotte could have sworn that a hint of ruddy color appeared high on his cheekbones. She favored him with her brightest smile.

Ariel was distraught. “Mr. St. Ives, surely you do not believe that your own brother conspired with Miss Post?”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “As I said, I intend to learn the truth of the matter. Once we know how Miss Post is involved in all of this, we shall have some notion of how to proceed.”

Charlotte stepped quickly around the edge of the desk. “I wish to be present when you speak with your brother.”

“Not bloody likely,” Baxter said.

She gave him another smile, this one not quite so bright. “Let me put it this way, St. Ives. A bargain is a bargain. Either you take me with you when you confront Lord Esherton or I shall be forced to conclude that you wish us to pursue this investigation independently of each other. Our
partnership
will be at an end.”

He regarded her with a thoughtful expression that did nothing to mask the banked flames in his eyes. “Blackmail is it now, Miss Arkendale? The range of your talents never ceases to amaze me.”

The accusation hurt. She tried valiantly to conceal the pain behind a coolly amused look. “In my business, Mr. St. Ives, one learns to use whatever tools happen to be at hand in order to complete the task.”

“I see.” He inclined his head and turned to walk toward the door. “Well, I trust you enjoyed the tool that you used so very effectively less than an hour ago in my laboratory, Miss Arkendale. I assure you, that particular length of iron has never been so well heated in such a small, warm crucible.”

For an instant Charlotte could not believe she had
heard right. And then outrage poured through her. “Of all the damnable nerve.” She snatched up the nearest hefty object, a vase of pansies.

Ariel gave a small cry of alarm. “Wait, those are some of
my
flowers.”

Her protest came too late. Charlotte had already hurled the vase. It struck the door, which Baxter had somehow managed to close very neatly behind himself as he stepped out into the hall.

A
half hour after midnight, Baxter sat in the shadowed depths of the carriage and studied the front door of The Green Table from the opposite side of the street.

A light fog cloaked the scene. Carriages came and went, depositing raucous gentlemen in various stages of inebriation at the foot of the steps. Baxter saw Hamilton, Norris, and several laughing companions erupt from one vehicle. They bounded toward the entrance of the establishment.

“Well?” Charlotte demanded. “Did you see your brother go inside?”

“Yes. He has managed to avoid me all afternoon and evening, but I’ve finally cornered him.” Baxter eased the curtain across the window and sat back in the seat. “I believe I recognize the premises. This house was once a popular brothel known as The Cloister.”

“I recall hearing of The Cloister.” There was sharp disapproval in Charlotte’s tone. “Some of the so-called gentlemen I researched at the beginning of my career were rumored to favor the place. What would you know of it, sir?”

Baxter hoped that the darkness concealed his quick,
amused grin. “I assure you, I am aware of it by reputation only.”

“I see.” Charlotte cleared her throat. “I do not believe that I have come across any reference to The Cloister for at least two years.”

“It was closed some time ago. There has obviously been a change in management.”

“Yes. It may be a rather raffish gaming hell now, but that is certainly a step up from a brothel, if you ask me.”

Baxter smiled. In the deep darkness of the unlit cab he could barely make out Charlotte’s face. The hood of her cloak shrouded her features.

He still was not quite certain how he had allowed himself to be convinced to bring her along tonight. Blackmail threats aside, she had a way of achieving her own ends, he thought. A strong, formidable woman, indeed. Perhaps that was one of the reasons on the growing list of why he was so attracted to her. She was definitely not the sort to succumb to a fit of the vapors or burst into tears whenever she wanted her own way. She stood toe-to-toe and insisted upon what she viewed as her rights.

As difficult as Charlotte was proving to be, there was something to be said for a strong-minded female, Baxter decided. With Charlotte, a man did not have to waste a great deal of unnecessary time and energy catering to a lot of damned delicate feminine sensibilities.

She had not complained of the fact that he had made love to her on a laboratory workbench, for example. He suspected that many women would have taken deep offense. He had to admit that the setting had lacked something in terms of romantic ambience.

On the other hand, she was the one who had labeled the passionate interlude an experiment, Baxter reminded himself. He supposed he should have been relieved that
she had not placed too much importance on the event, but for some reason he could not stop brooding about it.

With each passing day, Charlotte was becoming increasingly adept at disrupting his calm, orderly existence.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Go into The Green Table and drag Hamilton out here to the carriage, where I can speak to him in private.” Baxter removed his eyeglasses and placed them in the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Why are you taking off your spectacles?”

“Because I would prefer that no one take any notice of me. Those who know me are accustomed to seeing me in eyeglasses. I wish to keep this matter a private one between Hamilton and myself.”

“I understand,” Charlotte said gently. “It is a family thing, is it not?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“But how will you be able to find Hamilton in the crowd without your eyeglasses?”

“A friend of mine, the Earl of Masters, is something of an inventor. He designed an interesting watch for me.” He pushed open a window curtain far enough to allow a shaft of weak moonlight to enter the carriage. Then he removed his pocket watch and snapped it open. He held the watch close to his eyes as though trying to make out the time the way a man did in a shadowed room. He gazed at Charlotte through the glass watch cover, which was, in fact, a single lens.

“How very clever,” Charlotte said. “A sort of quizzing glass.”

“Masters is a clever man. He designed some of my chemical apparatus for me.” Baxter closed the watch and put it back into his pocket. He reached for the door handle.
“Don’t suppose it’s worth one more attempt to talk you out of being present when I question Hamilton?”

“Save your breath, sir. I was the one who actually spoke to Miss Post, after all. If Hamilton is guilty of this mischief, which I doubt, I have some questions of my own for him.”

“I feared as much.” Baxter got out of the carriage. He turned back as a thought struck him. “I have a question of my own concerning Miss Post’s visit to you.”

“What is it?”

“What with one thing and another, I overlooked one very odd piece of this business.”

“Yes?”

“Why was it that you did not believe Miss Post’s tale? What made you think that she was not my cast-off paramour?”

Charlotte gave a ladylike snort. “Don’t be ridiculous, Baxter. You would never abandon some poor woman who was pregnant with your child. Such a callous action would be completely out of character for you. Whoever sent Miss Post to me with that wild tale obviously did not know you well.”

Baxter studied the line of her firm, straight nose, which was just barely visible beneath the hood of her cloak. “I think it far more likely,” he said softly, “that whoever commissioned Miss Post to act her role did not know
you
well, Charlotte.”

He closed the carriage door before she could respond.

He glanced back once as he went down the street toward The Green Table. She would be safe, he thought. The coachman from Severedges’s would keep an eye on her.

In spite of the unpleasant scene that lay ahead, he found himself smiling a little as he walked through the
light, swirling fog. Most ladies would have believed Juliana Post’s outrageous story. It was an all too common tale. Women alone in the world very often fell prey to the cruel seductions of men who had few qualms about abandoning them once the liaisons became inconvenient.

In the course of her extremely unusual career, Charlotte had become better acquainted than most of her sex with the dark side of masculine nature. Her view of men was pragmatic to the point of cynicism. It would have been quite natural for her to have believed the worst that Miss Post had to tell her. Yet she had not given a moment’s credence to the lie.

Baxter savored that thought as he approached the steps of The Green Table. For some reason that he did not want to examine, it was of vital importance to know that Charlotte had believed in him when faced with such damning evidence. Surely she had some spark of genuine affection for him that went beyond a mere desire for passionate experimentation.

A carriage rumbled to a halt in front of the gaming hell just as Baxter reached the steps. Loud laughter and coarse jokes sounded from the cab. The vehicle’s door slammed open and five young, drunken dandies spilled out onto the pavement. One of them lost his balance on the wet ground and wound up planted on his rear. His friends found his predicament hilarious.

Baxter stood back in the shadows and waited as the newcomers righted themselves and paid the coachman. When they turned to stagger up the steps, he fell in behind them. They never noticed as he went through the door in their wake.

The dim, firelit interior of The Green Table was thronged. Without his spectacles, the scene had an unfocused quality that seemed remarkably appropriate. Baxter
did not need his eyeglasses to conclude that there was little chance of anyone observing him in the crowd. It was still early by Town standards, but the men who filled the overheated room were already sunk deep in heavy play at the green baize-covered tables. No one paid him any attention.

A roaring fire on the large hearth threw a hellish red glow over the scene. The air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and smoke.

Baxter found a secluded corner protected by a large, well-endowed stone figure of a nude female. He removed his pocket watch and held it up as though to get a closer look at the face. He studied the crowd through the single lens. The faces of the hell’s patrons sharpened abruptly.

There was no sign of Hamilton or Norris.

Frowning, Baxter started to close the watch. Movement on the stairs at the rear of the large room made him hesitate. He raised the lens again and took a quick look.

Several young men, including Hamilton and Norris, were on their way to one of the upper floors. Baxter wondered if there were private dining parlors above or if the new owner of the premises had elected to continue offering the services of a brothel in a more discreet fashion.

Then he recalled something Hamilton had said about the management providing a special meeting place for the members of his exclusive club.

Baxter shut the watch case and dropped it into his pocket. He did not need the single eyeglass to make his way across the room.