by Amanda Quick
“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.
One
London, three years later
“You leave me no option but to be blunt, Mr. St. Ives. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that you are not quite what I had in mind in the way of a man-of-affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”
The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”
“Quite true.”
“I believe your exact description of the ideal candidate for the position was, and I quote, a person who is as bland as a potato pudding.”
Charlotte blinked wide, disconcertingly intelligent, green eyes. “You do not comprehend me properly, sir.”
“I rarely make mistakes, Miss Arkendale. I am nothing if not precise, methodical, and deliberate in my ways. Mistakes are made by those who are impulsive or inclined toward excessive passions. I assure you, I am not of that temperament.”
“I could not agree with you more on the risks of a passionate nature,” she said quickly. “Indeed, that is one of the problems—”
“Allow me to read to you precisely what you wrote in your letter to your recently retired man-of-affairs.”
“There is no need. I am perfectly aware of what I wrote to Mr. Marcle.”
Baxter ignored her. He reached into the inside pocket of his slightly rumpled coat and removed the letter he had s
tored there. He had read the damn thing so many times that he almost had it memorized, but he made a show of glancing down at the flamboyant handwriting.
“‘As you know, Mr. Marcle, I require a man-of-affairs to take your place. He must be a person who presents an ordinary, unassuming appearance. I want a man who can go about his business unnoticed; a gentleman with whom I can meet frequently without attracting undue attention or comment.
“‘In addition to the customary duties of a man-of-affairs, duties which you have fulfilled so very admirably during the past five years, sir, I must ask that the gentleman whom you recommend possess certain other skills.
“‘I shall not trouble you with the details of the situation in which I find myself. Suffice it to say that due to recent events I am in need of a stout, keenly alert individual who can be depended upon to protect my person. In short, I wish to employ a bodyguard as well as a man-of-affairs.
“‘Expense, as always, must be a consideration. Therefore, rather than undertake the cost of engaging two men to fill two posts, I have concluded that it will prove more economical to employ one man who can carry out the responsibilities of both positions—’”
“Yes, yes, I recall my own words quite clearly.” Charlotte interrupted testily. “But that is not the point.”
Baxter doggedly continued:
“‘I therefore request that you send me a respectable gentleman who meets the above requirements and who presents an appearance that is as bland as a potato pudding.’”
“I fail to see why you must repeat aloud everything on the page, Mr. St. Ives.”
Baxter pressed on:
“‘He must be endowed with a high degree of intelligence as I shall require him to make the usual delicate inquiries for me. But in his capacity as a bodyguard, he must also be skilled in the use of a pistol in case events take a nasty turn. Above all, Mr. Marcle, as you well know, he must be discreet.’”
“Enough, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte picked up a small volume bound in red leather and slapped it smartly against the desktop to get his attention.
Baxter glanced up from the letter. “I believe I meet most of your requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
“I am certain that you do meet a few of them.” She favored him with a frosty smile. “Mr. Marcle would never have recommended you to me if that were not the case. Unfortunately, there is one very important qualification that you lack.”
Baxter deliberately refolded the letter and slipped it back inside his coat. “Time is of the essence, according to Marcle.”
“Quite correct.” An anxious expression came and went in her brilliant eyes. “I need someone to fill the post immediately.”
“Then perhaps you should not be too choosy, Miss Arkendale.”
She flushed. “But the thing is, Mr. St. Ives, I wish to employ a man who meets all of my requirements, not just some of them.”
“I must insist that I do meet all of them, Miss Arkendale.” He paused. “Or very nearly all. I am intelligent, alert, and amazingly discreet. I confess that I have little interest in pistols. I find them to be generally inaccurate and unreliable.”
“Ah-ha.” She brightened at that news. “There you are. Another requirement that you do not meet, sir.”
“But I have some skill in chemistry.”
“Chemistry?” She frowned. “What good will that do?”
“One never knows, Miss Arkendale. Occasionally I find it quite useful.”
“I see. Well, that is all very interesting, of course. Unfortunately, I have no need of a chemist.”
“You insisted upon a man who would draw little attention. A staid, unremarkable man-of-affairs.”
“Yes, but—”
“Allow me to tell you that I am often described in those very terms. Bland as a potato pudding in every way.”
Irritation began to simmer in Charlotte’s eyes. She leaped to her feet and stalked around the corner of her desk. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, sir.”
“I cannot imagine why.” Baxter removed his spectacles as she began to pace the small study. “Even my own aunt informs me that I am capable of inducing a state of acute boredom in anyone within a radius of twenty paces in less than ten minutes. Miss Arkendale, I can assure you that I not only look dull, I am dull.”
“Perhaps weak eyesight runs in your family, sir. I recommend that your aunt obtain a pair of eyeglasses such as those that you wear.”
“My aunt would not be seen dead in a pair of spectacles.” Baxter reflected briefly on the outrageously stylish Rosalind, Lady Trengloss, as he polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “She wears hers only when she knows herself to be entirely alone. I doubt that her own maid has seen her in them.”
“Which only confirms my suspicion that she has not taken a close look at you in some time, sir. Perhaps not since you were a babe in arms.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte spun around to face him. “Mr. St. Ives, the matter of eyesight bears very much on the point I am attempting to make here.”
Baxter replaced his spectacles with cautious deliberation. He was definitely losing the thread of the conversation. Not a good sign. He forced himself to study Charlotte with his customary analytical detachment.
She bore little resemblance to most of the ladies of his acquaintance. In truth, the longer he was in her presence, the more Baxter was convinced that she was entirely unique.
To his amazement, he found himself reluctantly fascinated in spite of what he knew about her. She was somewhat older than he had expected. Five-and-twenty, he had learned in passing.
Expressions came and went across her face with the rapidity of a chemical reaction in a flask positioned over an intense flame. Strong brows and long lashes framed her eyes. An assertive nose, high cheekbones, and an eloquent mouth conveyed spirited determination and an indomitable will.
In other words, Baxter thought, this is one bloody-minded female.
Her glossy auburn hair was parted in the center above a high, intelligent forehead. The tresses were drawn up in a neat knot and arranged so that a few corkscrew curls bounced around her temples.
In the midst of a Season that featured a plethora of low-cut bodices and gossamer fabrics designed to reveal a maximum amount of the female form, Charlotte wore a surprisingly modest gown. It was fashioned of yellow muslin, high-waisted and trimmed with long sleeves and a white ruff. A pair of yellow kid slippers peeked out from beneath the severely restrained flounce that decorated the hem. He could not help but notice that she had very pretty feet. Nicely shaped with dainty ankles.
Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Baxter looked away. “Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I seem to have missed your point.”
“You will simply not do as my man-of-affairs.”
“Because I wear spectacles?” He frowned. “I would have thought that they rather enhanced the impression of potato-pudding blandness.”
“Your spectacles are not the problem.” She sounded thoroughly exasperated now.
“I thought you just said they were the problem.”
“Haven’t you been listening? I begin to believe that you are deliberately misunderstanding me, sir. I repeat, you are not qualified for this post.”
“I am perfectly suited to it. May I remind you that your own man-of-affairs has recommended me for this position?”
Charlotte dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Marcle is no longer my man-of-affairs. He is even now on his way to a cottage in Devon.”
“I believe he did say something to the effect that he felt he had earned a long and peaceful retirement. I gained the impression that you were a somewhat demanding employer, Miss Arkendale.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Marcle’s retirement is not the issue. What is of importance here is that you called upon him one last time and gave him instructions to find his replacement. He has selected me to take over his responsibilities.”
“I ma
ke the final decision in this matter and I say that you will not do, sir.”
“I assure you that Marcle thought me eminently qualified for the post. He was pleased to write the letter of recommendation that I showed to you.”
The silver-haired, dapper John Marcle had been in the midst of packing up his household when he had received his last instructions from his soon-to-be former employer. Baxter’s timing had been perfect. Or so he had thought until he tried to persuade the dubious Marcle that he wished to apply for the position.
Rather than relief at the prospect of solving his last “Arkendale problem,” as he termed it, the conscientious Marcle had felt compelled to discourage Baxter from the outset.
“Miss Arkendale is, ah, somewhat unusual,” Marcle said as he toyed with his pen. “Are you quite certain you wish to apply for the post?”
“Quite certain,” Baxter said.
Marcle peered at him from beneath a solid line of thick, white brows. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend precisely why you wish to engage yourself to Miss Arkendale in this capacity.”
“The usual reasons. I’m in need of employment.”
“Yes, yes, I understand. But there must be other positions available.”
Baxter decided to embroider his story a bit. He assumed what he hoped was a confidential air. “We both know how mundane most such posts are. Instructions to solicitors and various agents. Arrangements for the buying and selling of properties. Banking matters. All very uninspiring.”
“After five years as Miss Arkendale’s man-of-affairs, I can assure you that there is much to be said for the routine and the uninspiring.”
“I am eager for something a bit different,” Baxter said earnestly. “This post sounds as if it will be somewhat out of the ordinary. Indeed, I sense that it will offer me a certain challenge.”
“Challenge?” Marcle closed his eyes. “I doubt that you know the meaning of the word yet, sir.”