Affair

by Amanda Quick

  Baxter closed A True History of the Secrets of the Fire and glanced at the tall clock. It was five-thirty in the morning. After taking Charlotte home, he had been unable to sleep. Driven by a need for answers, he had spent what had been left of the night there in the library. He was in his shirtsleeves. The coat and cravat he had worn that evening lay draped across a nearby chair.

  Wearily he removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Foreboding sat on his shoulder, a great dark bird of prey. He could sense the gathering danger. A plan of action was required. He would have to formulate one as quickly as possible. The most important goal was to protect Charlotte while the matter got sorted out. But first he needed some sleep.

  A thump and a loud voice out in the front hall interrupted his thoughts.

  “Get out of me way, you clumsy oaf. Ye cannot stop me. Move, damn yer bloody hide.”

  Baxter sighed. The new housekeeper had a mouth on her that would have done justice to a dock laborer. On the positive side, at least she was an early riser. The last one had often slept through breakfast.

  Another thud sounded from the hall.

  “I ain’t hanging about another moment. I’d have left yesterday if me sister had been able to give me a bed for the night.”

  “If you would perhaps give it another fortnight, Mrs. Pearson.” Lambert’s pleading tones were muffled by the wall. “It is so difficult to find staff. And Mr. St. Ives does pay well, you know.”

  “I don’t care how much that madman is willing to pay his staff. All those strange goings-on in that laboratory of his. And right in the middle of the day, too. A lady shrieking as if she was bein’ fiendishly tortured. I won’t tolerate that sort of thing. Get away from the door, ye doddering old fool.”

  There was another short murmur of protest from Lambert, a loud exclamation, and a very final-sounding thump. The front door slammed with sufficient force to shake the wall.

  Silence fell.

  A soft knock on the library door a moment later made Baxter close his eyes in bleak anticipation.

  “What is it, Lambert?” He turned slowly to face the door.

  Lambert hovered anxiously in the opening. Apparently he had been roused from his bed and had not had time to finish dressing. His sparse gray hair stood straight out from his head. His jacket was unbuttoned and he was wearing only one shoe. He managed to clear his throat with great dignity.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, the new housekeeper just gave notice.”

  “Bloody hell. There have been no untimely explosions, no flashes of light, no electricity experiments. What went wrong this time?”

  “Among other things, Mrs. Pearson was apparently overset by the, uh, incident in the laboratory yesterday.”

  “What incident? I was not performing any experiments yesterday.” Baxter broke off abruptly as he recalled just what he had been doing in the laboratory. Fiendishly torturing a lady. He felt a curious sensation of heat in his face. Good God. He was turning red.

  “The lady’s scream,” he muttered.

  “Aye, sir.” Lambert shifted awkwardly. “The lady’s scream.”

  Baxter scowled. “I was merely demonstrating the most effective technique for the operation of the blowpipe. My fiancée is interested in scientific matters. She became quite enthusiastic when she witnessed the lively fire that was produced.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Lambert looked wistful. “It must be rather pleasant to be able to operate one’s blowpipe effectively. My own has been giving me trouble for some years now.”

  “Yes, well, why are you standing about, Lambert? Get yourself some breakfast and then take yourself off to the agencies as soon as they open for business. We must find ourselves a new housekeeper.”

  “Aye, sir.” Lambert bowed his head. “Shall I prepare some eggs and toast for you, Mr. St. Ives?”

  “Not necessary.” Baxter idly massaged the back of his neck. “I’m going to sleep for a few hours. I had a long night.”

  “Very well.”

  “Oh, one more thing.” Baxter went around behind his desk and opened a drawer. He removed a sheet of foolscap, picked up a quill, and scrawled quickly. “Please have this message carried to Esherton’s house as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, sir.” Lambert frowned as if a thought had struck him. “Speaking of messages, sir, did you see the one I left in the salver on the hall table? It arrived last evening while you were out.”

  “No, I did not get it.”

  “From your aunt, I believe.” Lambert hobbled across the hall to the table and plucked a folded note from the silver tray. He carried it slowly into the library.

  Baxter glanced at the note from Rosalind while he waited for the ink on his own message to dry.

  Dear Baxter:

  Is there any news? I am most anxious to hear from you. Surely you have uncovered some information by now.

  Sincerely,

  Lady T.

  P.S. Lady G. is already inquiring as to the wedding date. I have put her off for a while but I cannot do so forever. You know what an inveterate gossip she is. Perhaps we should simply announce a day sometime in the distant future? Next Christmas?

  As if he did not have enough problems, Baxter thought. On top of everything else, Rosalind wanted to set a fictitious wedding date to crown his fictitious engagement to Charlotte.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” Lambert appeared even more dithery than usual. “I shall, of course, attend to the matter of acquiring a new housekeeper and I shall see that the message is sent. But this is the day of my regular appointment with Dr. Flatt. If you do not mind, sir, I would very much like to keep it. My joints are quite sore this morning.”

  “Of course, of course. Do not miss your appointment.” A thought occurred to Baxter. “Does Dr. Flatt utilize any herbs or incense in his therapies?”

  “No, sir. He uses the power of the gaze and certain movements of the hands to focus the animal magnetism. Works wonders, he does.”

  “I see.” Baxter yawned as he folded the note for Esherton. “I vow, I do not know what I would do without you, Lambert.”

  “I try to give satisfaction, sir.” Lambert took the note, turned, and moved slowly, painfully down the hall toward the kitchens.

  Baxter eyed the staircase through the open doorway. His bedchamber seemed very far away at the moment. The sofa was closer and much more convenient.

  He closed the door of the library and walked back across the room to set his eyeglasses down on the table that held the brandy decanter. Then he sprawled on the cushions.

  For a moment he gazed at the ceiling. Above all, Charlotte had to be kept safe.

  Sleep claimed him.

  The heavy dark wings of the cloak swirled around the monster in the hall. She was relieved that she could not see his face in the shadows. A part of her did not want to know anything more than she already did about the creature. It was as though some innate sense of decency deep within her resisted the necessity to look upon evil and see its face in human form.

  But her intellect warned her that evil that could not be identified and named was all the more dangerous in its anonymity. She steadied the unloaded pistol in her hand.

  “Leave this house at once,” she whispered.

  The monster’s beautiful laugh sent ripples of dread through the darkness. The small waves moved out beyond the past, out into the future where he knew that the pistol was not loaded.

  “Do you believe in destiny, my little avenging angel?” the monster asked pleasantly.

  The door of the bedchamber flew open.

  “Charlotte. Charlotte, wake up.”

  Charlotte opened her eyes. She saw Ariel rushing toward the bed. The skirts of her nightgown and a hastily donned wrapper whipped about her bare feet.

  “Ariel?”

  “You cried out. You must have been dreaming. A nightmare, I collect. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte struggled to a sitting position against the pillows. Her heart still p
ounded in her chest. Her skin was damp. “Yes, I’m all right. A bad dream. Nothing more.”

  “Brought on by this business of investigating Drusilla Heskett’s death, no doubt.” Ariel paused to light the taper in the stand beside the bed. The flame illuminated her worried face. “Was it one of the old dreams? The sort you had after the night Winterbourne was murdered?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte drew her knees up under the quilt and wrapped her arms around them. “It was one of those. I have not been troubled by them in a long while. I thought they had disappeared forever.”

  Ariel sank down on the edge of the bed. “What precisely did you do with Mr. St. Ives this evening? You came home so late. I did not see you after you left the Hatrich soiree. Where did you go?”

  “It is a long story. I will tell you the whole of it in the morning. Suffice it to say that Baxter attempted to locate Hamilton at his club but we were not able to speak to him.”

  “I see.”

  Charlotte hesitated. “Has Hamilton ever spoken to you about mesmerism?”

  “Animal magnetism, do you mean?” Ariel’s fine brows drew together in a slight frown. “He mentioned it when we went out onto the terrace at the Clydes’ ball. I believe he has an interest in the subject. He seemed to know a great deal about it. He claimed that its potential has been overlooked by most modern scientists such as, ah …”

  “Such as his brother?”

  “Well, yes.” Ariel sighed. “He seemed rather scornful of Mr. St. Ives’s interest in chemistry.”

  “I see.” Charlotte pushed back the quilt and got out of bed. She went to stand at the window. “Baxter and I learned tonight that Hamilton and his friends are experimenting with mesmerism at their club.”

  “What of it? Many people form clubs and societies in order to investigate scientific matters that interest them.”

  “Yes, I know.” Charlotte touched the cold window glass with her fingertips. She did not know how to explain the strange fear and the unwilling fascination she had experienced earlier that night while observing the activities of The Green Table club. What she had seen had not been good. It had agitated her imagination to the point of bringing on the old nightmares. “But I fear Hamilton’s club may be somewhat unusual.”

  “Charlotte, I do not mind telling you that I am becoming more and more concerned about this situation.”

  “So am I.” It was a relief to say it aloud. Charlotte turned. “Baxter and I feel there may be a link between The Green Table and Drusilla Heskett’s death.”

  “No.” Ariel got to her feet. “You cannot mean to imply that Hamilton had anything to do with Mrs. Heskett’s murder. I will not believe it.”

  “I’m not implying anything of the kind. But perhaps someone else in his club had a hand in it.”

  “But the club members are all friends of his. Surely none of them would be involved in murder.”

  “Does Hamilton know all of the club members well? There are several of them, you know. I counted a half dozen, at least, this evening. Perhaps one or two are not particularly close cronies of Hamilton’s.”

  “Perhaps.” Ariel nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I could no doubt determine if that is true. Would it help, do you think, if I asked him about his friends?”

  Charlotte hesitated. “No. Let St. Ives handle it. They are brothers, after all.”

  “Yes, but I fear there is very little affection between them.”

  “Baxter was charged with responsibility for Hamilton. He will fulfill his obligations.”

  “You sound very certain of that.”

  Charlotte smiled wearily. “I am.”

  Ariel watched her closely. “When I said a moment ago that I was becoming increasingly concerned about this matter, I was not referring only to the Heskett murder.”

  “What did you mean, then?”

  “Do not mistake me. I do worry about the investigation, but there is something else that alarms me just as much, if not more.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Are you falling in love with Mr. St. Ives?”

  The question stole Charlotte’s breath. Several seconds ticked past before she recovered from the impact.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said softly.

  “I feared as much,” Ariel whispered. “It seems that you had the right of it after all when you said that he was dangerous.”

  Time moved with the thick, oozing quality of honey leaking from a broken pot. Baxter could see the flask of acid arcing toward him through the fiery shadows. He tried to get out of its path, but it was impossible to swim quickly through the flowing amber. All he could do was turn away and raise his arm to shield his eyes.

  The flask struck his shoulder. The acid ate quickly through the thin linen of his shirt. And then it was on his skin, burning with the flames of hell itself.

  He managed to reach the window. Below, the sea waited for him. He leaped into the darkness.

  Explosions roared through the laboratory, turning it into an inferno. An instant before the cold seas closed over his head, he heard Morgan’s voice.

  “Do you believe in destiny, St. Ives?”

  And then there was only the crashing of the sea against the rocks.

  Baxter came fully awake in an instant, his pulse pounding in his veins. He felt the dampness on his back and for a horrifying instant he thought it was the acid.

  He levered himself up, off the sofa, clawing at his shirt. And then he realized that it was his own sweat that had plastered the linen to his skin. He sank back down onto the cushions and rested his elbows on his knees.

  He leaned forward, exhausted, and took several deep, shuddering breaths. He sought the center of himself, searching for the sense of control he needed.

  The crashing waves still echoed in his head.

  “Bloody hell, St. Ives. Get a grip on yourself.” Baxter exhaled slowly, deliberately, willing himself into the calm, detached state that served him so well.

  The loud smashing noise sounded again. Not the nightmarish memory of seawater against rocks. A fist against the front door.

  Baxter rose slowly to his feet, shoved his hands through his hair, and straightened his shirt. Anger coursed through him. He had not had the dream for a long while. He had hoped it had disappeared into the void forever.

  “Open this door.”

  Hamilton.

  Baxter remembered that Lambert had left the house to run various errands. He crossed the library, went out into the hall, and opened the front door.

  Hamilton stood on the front step. His jaw was rigid. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits. He lifted his expensively gloved hand and revealed the crumpled sheet of foolscap that he held. “What is the meaning of this outrageous message?”

  “I wanted to get your attention.”

  “How dare you threaten to cut off my quarterly allowance if I do not dance attendance on you?” Hamilton slapped his stylish riding crop against his boot as he stalked into the hall. He snatched off his high-crowned hat and tossed it onto the table. “You have no right to restrict my income. Father told you to handle my investments until I turned twenty-five. He did not tell you to steal my inheritance.”

  “Calm yourself. I have no intention of depriving you of your fortune.” Baxter waved a hand toward the library. “I simply need some information from you and I need it rather quickly. Sit down. The sooner we have this conversation, the sooner you will be on your way.”

  Hamilton threw him a suspicious glare and then he strode into the library and flung himself down onto a chair.

  “Well?” he asked. “What is it you must know?”

  “First, I should show you something that I discovered in a book.” Baxter went to the desk and picked up the small volume he had left lying there. He turned to the picture of the alchemical key. “Have you ever seen this drawing or its like?”

  Hamilton glanced impatiently at the picture. He opened his mouth, obviously intending to dismis
s it out of hand. But his eyes widened in shock. “Where the devil did you get this?”

  “So you do recognize it.” Baxter closed the book. He leaned back against the edge of the desk and studied Hamilton’s angry face. “Something to do with your club, I presume?”

  Hamilton tightened his fist around the riding crop. “What do you know of my club?”

  “I am aware that you conduct experiments with animal magnetism. Mesmerism, some call it. And that you use ancient alchemical references and a drugging incense to set the stage, so to speak.”

  Hamilton leaped to his feet. “How did you discover all this?”

  Baxter shrugged. “I have my sources.”

  “You have no right to spy on me. I have told you that what I choose to do in my club is none of your affair.”

  “It may surprise you to know that I agree with you.”

  “Then why the devil are we having this conversation?”

  Baxter turned the book in his hands. “Because a picture very similar to the one I just showed you appeared in a watercolor sketchbook belonging to Drusilla Heskett.”

  Hamilton looked baffled. “Are you speaking of the Mrs. Heskett who was murdered recently?”

  “Yes. I will be blunt, Hamilton. It’s possible that there is some connection between one of the members of your club and Drusilla Heskett’s death.”

  “You cannot possibly know such a thing,” Hamilton exploded. “How dare you make accusations of that sort?”

  “I’m not making accusations. I’m attempting to alert you to the possibility that there may be a connection here. That’s all.”

  “I have had enough of this outrage.” Hamilton started for the door. “I will not tolerate your interference in my affairs. I may not possess my rightful fortune, but I am the Earl of Esherton, by God. I do not bow to the whims of a bastard.”

  Baxter held himself motionless. With the skills he had honed over a lifetime, he concealed even the smallest flicker of a reaction. “There is one other small matter, my lord.”