Affair

by Amanda Quick

  She gripped his shoulders. Her lips parted of their own accord.

  He tore his mouth free for a moment, raised his head slightly, and stared down at her with an intensity that should have terrified her. The lamplight glittered on the gold frames of his eyeglasses. Fire burned in his amber eyes.

  The eyes of an alchemist, she thought.

  With an abrupt, impatient movement, Baxter jerked off his spectacles and tossed them onto the opposite seat. “Bloody hell. What have you done to me?”

  She shook her head, unable to look away. She realized she was clinging to his shoulders as though afraid she might fall into a bottomless sea if she let go of him. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “Bloody hell.” He lowered his mouth to hers once more.

  She felt his hand slip inside the hood of her cloak to cup the nape of her neck. His fingers were strong and warm. The intimacy of the caress sent another wave of excitement through her.

  He shifted his hold on her so that she was draped across his thighs. He cradled her in the curve of one arm and bent his head to kiss her throat. He pushed aside the folds of her cloak.

  Charlotte heard her own soft gasp as Baxter’s hand closed over her breast. She could feel the heat of his palm straight through the thin wool of her gown. But she could not bring herself to pull away. A stunning sense of urgency infused her entire body. She tugged at the lapels of his greatcoat.

  “Mr. St. Ives—”

  His hand moved slowly down over the curve of her breast and tightened on her hip. He squeezed carefully.

  “Dear heaven,” she whispered, shaken.

  The solid, heavy length of his manhood pressed against her thigh. She closed her eyes as she sank beneath another wave of sensation. She felt as if she had slipped into a delicious trance. Perhaps this was how it felt to undergo a session of mesmerism.

  She put her hands inside Baxter’s coat, desperate for the feel of him. She was enthralled by what she found. Through the fabric of his linen shirt she could distinguish the sleek, powerful muscles of his chest. The heat and scent of him were intoxicating. She wanted more, so much more.

  He gathered up her tumbled skirts and the flowing folds of the cloak. He lifted them above her knees. Charlotte shivered again when he touched the inside of her thigh. He stroked her bare skin above her neatly tied garter. A shock went through her.

  The carriage slowed to a halt.

  Charlotte froze. Reality returned in a rush.

  “Bloody hell.” Baxter straightened quickly. He leaned across Charlotte and snatched his spectacles off the cushion. Then he moved a carriage curtain aside. “We have arrived at your house. How the devil did we get here so quickly? I had several things I wished to say to you tonight.”

  “And I had much to discuss with you.” Charlotte struggled to collect herself. She felt awkward and off balance. She also felt flushed and breathless and filled with a strange sense of anticipation. “We did not even begin to discuss the events of the evening.”

  “No, we did not.” He watched her with grim, narrowed eyes as she scooted back to the opposite seat and composed herself. “I shall call upon you tomorrow.”

  His curt manner had the effect of lowering her spirits. The man had just been kissing her with great passion, she thought, and now he was speaking to her as if she had offended him. Then it struck her that he was no doubt deeply shaken by the emotions that had briefly overcome both of them.

  In truth, she was just as disturbed by the tumultuous embrace. But as Baxter’s employer, it was her responsibility to take charge of the situation. Baxter was no doubt castigating himself quite savagely for having succumbed to the more passionate elements of his nature.

  She leaned forward to touch his hand in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion. “Do not concern yourself, sir. You are in no way to blame for what just occurred. That sort of intense emotion is often precipitated by excitement and danger. Our encounter with that dreadful man outside Mrs. Heskett’s house was the cause of our heightened emotions.”

  Baxter gazed at her very steadily. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, of course. It is the only explanation. The threat of violence can open a floodgate of intense passions.”

  “You have had a great deal of experience with this type of thing?”

  “Well, no, not exactly,” she admitted. “But I have read enough Byron to know that what happened to us just now was not unusual. When one faces danger, all of one’s senses are aroused and … and stimulated.”

  “Good God. You are basing your conclusions on the work of a bloody poet?”

  She was a little hurt by his obvious disdain. “Byron writes very convincingly of the darker passions. He appears to have a sound comprehension of their effects. I feel that one can learn a great deal from his work and the work of the other romantic poets.”

  “That would be laughable were it not so ludicrous.”

  “I am attempting to give you a logical explanation for an event that has clearly troubled you, Mr. St. Ives.”

  He glanced down at her hand, where it rested on his. When he looked up there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Thank you, Miss Arkendale, but I believe I will survive the experience without having to resort to your odd logic The day I seek explanations and illumination from a damned poet will be the day that I commit myself to Bedlam.”

  She hastily removed her hand from his thigh. Baxter was in a foul mood. There was no point attempting to soothe him tonight.

  “Very well, sir,” she said, determined to sound cheerful and unruffled. “I’m sure that by morning we shall both have forgotten all about the entire affair.”

  He said nothing for the space of several seconds. A couple of thuds outside announced that the coachman had jumped down from the box.

  “That remains to be seen,” Baxter said finally.

  Charlotte drew a steadying breath. “Tomorrow when you call, we shall compare our observations of Mrs. Heskett’s house.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will have had a chance to look through her watercolor sketchbook. Perhaps I shall discover something useful in it.”

  “I doubt that.” Baxter leaned forward and caught her chin on the edge of his hand. “Listen to me and listen well. I shall see you safely inside your house tonight. You will make certain that every window is locked and the doors securely bolted before you retire to bed.”

  She blinked. “Of course, Mr. St. Ives. I always check the locks before I retire. It is a very old habit, I assure you. But I doubt that there is any cause for particular alarm tonight. That villain who accosted us was in no condition to have followed this carriage through the fog.”

  “You may be correct, but you will do exactly as I tell you, nevertheless. Is that clear?”

  Charlotte sensed intuitively that it would not be a sound notion to allow Baxter to gain the upper hand in their association. She must stay in command. “I appreciate your concern, but I am your employer. While I am willing to listen to your advice, you must comprehend that I form my own opinions and make my own decisions.”

  “You will do more than listen to my advice, Charlotte,” Baxter said with an infuriating calm. “You will heed it.”

  The carriage door opened at that moment. Very much aware of the coachman standing politely in the shadows, Charlotte contented herself with a raised brow. “You proved yourself an excellent assistant tonight, sir, but there are no doubt other qualified persons available who could replace you. If you wish to retain your post, you will do well to exhibit at least a modicum of deference to your employer.”

  Amusement glittered briefly in his eyes. “Are you threatening to dismiss me, Charlotte? After all we have been through tonight? I am crushed.”

  His silent laughter was so infuriating that she did not trust herself to respond in front of the coachman. Without a word, Charlotte collected her skirts and prepared to descend from the carriage.

  The coachman handed her down with grave politeness. In the wea
k glow of the carriage lamps she could not be certain of the expression on his carefully blank features but Charlotte could have sworn that she saw a flicker of amused sympathy on his face.

  Baxter followed her out of the carriage, took her arm, and walked her up the front steps to her door. He took the key from her hand and inserted it into the lock.

  “Good night, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte stepped into the hall and turned to face him. She summoned the sort of cool, authoritative smile that was proper for an employer to bestow upon a person in her service who had done a good night’s work. “I must tell you again how very pleased I am with the dramatic demonstration of your professional skills that I witnessed this evening.”

  “Thank you.” Baxter planted a broad hand on the door frame and regarded her with a considering expression. “There is just one thing.”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “Perhaps you should consider calling me by my given name. I see no point in attempting to maintain a great deal of formality between us under the circumstances.”

  She stared at him, speechless.

  Apparently satisfied with her reaction, he reached out and gently pulled the door closed in her face.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later Baxter was still seething as he strode through the door of his library. He could not believe his stunning loss of self-control.

  “Bloody hell.”

  He crossed the room to the small table near the fireplace and picked up the crystal decanter that sat there. He was the master of his own emotions, he told himself savagely. He was a man of science. He had worshiped at the altar of logic and reason and control all of his life.

  He splashed brandy into a glass. He could not even remember when he had learned to keep all of his feelings under a strict rein. It was something he had always understood, something he had always known how to do. Even in the midst of his brief sexual liaisons he never allowed passion to overwhelm common sense. He had seen firsthand the damage that could result.

  He took a deep swallow of the potent brandy and savored the fire.

  To make matters worse, Charlotte had had the unmitigated nerve to inform him that the explanation for his behavior could be found in Byron’s overheated, melodramatic poetry.

  It was enough to make a man lock himself in the sanctuary of his laboratory and never emerge.

  He threw himself down into his favorite reading chair and contemplated the flames on the hearth. They reminded him of Charlotte. Both produced extremely volatile chemical reactions of the sort that could burn an unwary man.

  He closed his eyes but the threat of the fire did not vanish. In his mind he saw again the flames that glowed red in Charlotte’s lantern-lit hair. He wanted to sink his fingers deep into their dangerous warmth. His hand tightened violently around the brandy glass.

  He had not been the only one who had lost control in the carriage, he reminded himself. Charlotte’s response to him had been unmistakable. If the coachman had not halted the vehicle, the evening would have had a different ending.

  He had a vivid image of Charlotte’s soft thighs wrapped around his waist, her small nails pressed deep into his back.

  He took another swallow of brandy, aware that he could still taste Charlotte. His head was filled with her scent. His palm remembered the shape of one exquisitely rigid nipple.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Logic and sound reasoning would do him little good this evening. He knew he would not be able to banish the memory of Charlotte in his arms. It was too riveting, too compelling.

  But the next time he saw her, he would be in command of himself. He would not allow his self-control to slip again.

  He glanced at his glass and saw that he had already emptied it. He made to set it down on the table beside the chair. A folded and sealed sheet of foolscap was in the way. He recognized it immediately. It was a note that had been delivered earlier, shortly before he had left the house to meet Charlotte.

  It was from his father’s widow, Maryann, Lady Esherton. It was the third message she had sent this week.

  “Bloody hell.” With a sense of resignation, Baxter picked up the letter and broke the seal.

  The message was almost identical to the other two notes Maryann had dispatched to him during the past few days. It was very short and to the point.

  Dear Baxter:

  I wish to speak with you. The matter is most urgent. I request that you call upon me at your earliest convenience.

  Yours very truly,

  Lady E.

  Baxter crumpled the note and tossed it onto the fire just as he had the earlier notes from Maryann. Her notion of a crisis did not equate with his own. Maryann’s gravest problems tended to revolve around money, specifically the Esherton fortune. Baxter’s father had left him in charge of the inheritance until Maryann’s son, Hamilton, reached the age of twenty-five. Maryann was not pleased with the arrangement. Nor was Hamilton, for that matter.

  Baxter had a few more years of the thankless task to endure before he could dump the entire responsibility into his half brother’s lap.

  Impatiently, he pushed aside his old problems and considered the new set he had acquired. He propped his elbows on the leather arms of the chair, steepled his fingers, and gazed into the fire.

  Whatever else could be said about the night’s events, one thing was clear. There was danger afoot and Charlotte was in the midst of it.

  In the black and crimson chamber the coals on the brazier burned low. The rich, spicy vapors of the incense had opened his senses. His mind was attuned to the forces of the metaphysical plane. He was ready.

  “Read the cards, my love,” he whispered.

  The fortune-teller turned over the first card. “The golden griffin.”

  “A man.”

  “Always.” The fortune-teller looked at him across the low table. “Beware. The griffin would stand in your way.”

  “Will he be able to alter my plans?”

  She turned over another card, hesitated. “The phoenix.” She reached for the next card, placed it faceup. “The red ring.”

  “Well?”

  “No. The golden griffin may prove difficult but ultimately you will prevail.”

  He smiled. “Yes. Now tell me about the woman.”

  The fortune-teller turned over another card. “The lady with the crystal eyes. She searches.”

  “But she will not find.”

  The fortune-teller shook her head. “No. She will not find what she seeks.”

  “She’s only a woman, after all. She will not be a problem.”

  And neither would the fortune-teller be a problem when this was finished, he thought. He would dispose of her when the time came. She was useful at the moment, however, and it was a simple matter to hold her in thrall with the bonds of her own passions.

  What do you make of this curious design, Ariel?” Charlotte pushed Drusilla Heskett’s watercolor sketchbook across her desk. “You are more conversant with current fashion than I. Have you ever seen anything similar?”

  Ariel paused in the act of pouring another cup of tea. She glanced at the sketchbook, which was open to a page near the middle. Her eyes widened as she gazed at the picture of a nude statue that decorated the left side of the paper.

  “Uh, no,” Ariel said dryly. “I do not believe that I have ever encountered anything similar to that particular design.”

  Charlotte gave her a reproving glare. “Not the picture of the statue. The little drawing in the corner. It appears to be a circle with a triangle inside. And there are little tiny figures around the edges and in the center of the triangle.”

  “Yes, I see.” Ariel shook her head. “It bears no resemblance to any of the fashionable motifs I have seen in La Belle Assemblée or Ackermann’s Repository of the Arts. Perhaps one of the other ladies’ magazines contains such a design.”

  “Perhaps it is Egyptian or Roman.”

  “I do not believe so.” With the tip of one finger, Ari
el traced the poorly drawn pattern. “Heaven knows there are any number of decorative designs that have been copied from Egyptian and Roman antiquities. Every modiste and decorator in London uses them. And since ancient Zamar has come into fashion we have seen a great many dolphins and shells. But this design is not familiar to me. Why is it of interest?”

  “For some reason Drusilla Heskett saw fit to copy it onto this page in her watercolor sketchbook. A sketchbook she appears to have devoted entirely to pictures of nude statues.”

  Ariel glanced up with an inquiring look. “But this is not a watercolor picture. It is a drawing made with pen and ink.”

  “Yes. And it is completely unlike all of the other scenes in the sketchbook.”

  “Indeed.” Ariel smiled faintly. “I wonder if Mrs. Heskett is typical of the sort of client you hope to attract from the fashionable circles. She appears to have had a lively interest in the male figure.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose her tastes are no longer very important. What bothers me is that I cannot help but wonder why she chose to add this extremely strange design to her book.”

  “What is that reddish brown stain on the binding?” Ariel asked. “Spilled watercolor paint?”

  “Perhaps.” Charlotte touched the stain with her fingertips. “But what if it is dried blood?”

  “Dear heaven.”

  “What if Mrs. Heskett lived long enough after she was shot to shove this sketchbook under the wardrobe?” Charlotte whispered.

  “You will likely never know for certain.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Charlotte nibbled on her lower lip, thinking of the possibilities.

  Ariel picked up her teacup and regarded Charlotte over the rim. “You have many questions to answer, but I have some of my own.”

  “Such as?”

  “What, exactly, happened last night when you went out to search Drusilla Heskett’s house?”

  Charlotte sat back in her chair. “I gave you the entire tale last night. Mr. St. Ives and I discovered the sketchbook and then were accosted by a housebreaker as we left the house. That is all there was to it.”