by Amanda Quick
“There ain’t anyone under the bed. This is bloody strange, if you ask me. Maybe we’re dealing with another magician.”
“Don’t be a fool. Look inside the wardrobe.”
Baxter got the secret panel at the back of the wardrobe closed. He collapsed on the bottom of the heavy wooden closet in what he hoped was a realistic faint.
The wardrobe doors slammed open.
“One of ’em’s in here.” The voice was thick with relief. “He’s wearing spectacles. Must be St. Ives. No sign of the other one, though.”
“Then we bloody well don’t tell the magician that there was a second cove with him,” the other man said decisively. “It’ll be our necks, if he finds out one got away.”
“Agreed. But where did the other one go?”
“Must have got out before the trap closed. Don’t matter none. St. Ives is the important one. And from the looks of things he’ll be sound asleep for a good long while.”
Rough hands reached for Baxter. He forced himself to remain limp and unresponsive as he was dragged from the wardrobe.
His eyes were already closed in order to add credence to his role, so he decided that he might as well say a prayer. Let Hamilton get to Charlotte before the magician’s men do.
Nineteen
An hour later Baxter lay on a cold stone floor and listened to the voices of the two guards.
“St. Ives don’t look so bloody dangerous. Waste of time foolin’ about with that damned incense, if ye ask me. Would have been a lot simpler to just use a pistol.”
“You heard what the magician said.” There was a defensive note in the second voice. “St. Ives is trickier than he appears.”
“Far as I’m concerned, you and Virgil got the easy one. The Arkendale female nearly scratched me eyes out, she did. Brained poor Long Hank with that reticule of hers. He’s still got a headache. Got a tongue like a fishwife on her, too.”
So much for his faint hope that Hamilton would get to Charlotte before Morgan Judd’s men did, Baxter thought.
“We must have used a mite too much of the incense on St. Ives,” the second man said uneasily. “Still sound asleep.”
“Good thing you didn’t accidentally kill him with that damned vapor. The magician wouldn’t have been pleased. He wants to handle that part of the business himself.”
There was a short silence. The second man lowered his voice. “Does it strike ye that the man’s becoming bloody odd?”
“Who? St. Ives? From what I’ve heard, he’s always been a bit odd.”
“Not St. Ives, ye fool, the magician.”
The first man cackled softly. “I’ll wager that he’s always been odd, too. But he pays well.” Boots sounded on the stone as he made for the door. “I’m going down to the kitchens to get something to eat. Give that damned bell pull a yank when St. Ives opens his eyes.”
“The magician said I was to signal him first. Ye know what he’s like if we don’t do exactly what he tells us.”
“Bloody magician and his bloody signal device.”
“Bring back a slice of that ham pie for me.” The man who had been left to guard Baxter raised his voice. “And some ale. From the looks of this cove, I’m going to be here awhile.”
There was a muffled response, footsteps receded down a stone hall, and then silence fell.
Baxter considered the situation. It was not unlike a laboratory experiment. A mix of volatile substances had been brought together in a crucible and set over a fire. But in this case he was not the detached observer who stood back and made notes. He was one of the chemicals in the mixture.
They had searched his clothing before bundling him into the carriage. One of the men had taken his knife. He was relieved to discover that he still had his eyeglasses. He could feel the wire frames curved around his ears. He had feared losing them once or twice during the hectic hourlong carriage ride.
Fortunately he’d had the cab of the darkened vehicle to himself during the journey. His captors, apparently certain that their bound and drugged victim would not cause any problems, had elected to share the driver’s box and a pint of gin.
Baxter had occupied himself with the task of slicing through his bindings. He had been obliged to break the lens of his watch case in order to create a sharp edge. But the makeshift knife had proven effective. The men who had carried him up the staircase a few minutes ago had not noticed that only some shreds of fiber held the rope in place around his wrists.
He remained quiet a moment longer, mulling over possibilities, contingencies, and probabilities.
As in the case of any good experiment, chemical or alchemical, it all came down to fire. And as in any interesting experiment, there was always the risk of an explosion.
Baxter stirred, groaned, and opened his eyes.
A short, squat, heavily built man, who had been lounging on a stool several feet away, surged to his feet. A large pistol was stuck into his belt. He gave Baxter a relieved, gap-toothed grin.
“Here now. Decided to wake up, did ye?” The guard came to stand over him. “About time. The magician’s been waitin’ for ye. Said I was to send him the signal when ye opened yer eyes. Reckon I’d better get to it.”
“A moment, if you please.” Baxter smashed his booted foot into the guard’s leg.
The heavy man muttered a choked yelp, staggered back, and clawed at the pistol in his belt. “Ye stupid cove. That won’t do ye any good.”
Baxter snapped the remaining threads of rope around his wrists and rolled up off the floor in a single motion.
The guard’s eyes widened at the sight of Baxter’s untied hands. He reeled to the side but his injured leg gave way. Baxter was on him in an instant. He slammed a fist into the guard’s jaw.
The pistol clattered on the floor. Baxter scooped it up, cocked it, and got to his feet. He aimed the weapon at the man’s broad midsection.
“I’m not accounted a good shot, but this is a very large target.”
The guard blinked several times and looked quite baffled. “The magician said ye’d be right muddleheaded and slow when the effects of the incense wore off.”
“The magician was wrong,” Baxter said softly. “Now, tell me about the bloody signal device.”
Charlotte tugged desperately on the length of rope that tethered her wrists to the post of the vast crimson bed. She had been struggling with the knot ever since the kidnappers had left her alone in the chamber.
She had some range of movement because of the extension of the rope, but the knot itself was still tight. If she sat straight up, she could raise her hands as high as the velvet fringe of the hangings but that was as far as she could go.
The bed was massive. Its four heavily carved posts were adorned with images of strange, mythical creatures. Snakes, dragons, and phoenixes were so finely wrought that they appeared to writhe in the wood.
She surveyed the stone chamber and concluded that the bed suited the room. A thick crimson and black carpet covered the stone floor. The mantelpiece was fashioned of black granite. Heavy scarlet drapes trimmed with black silk fringe hung from the windows and pooled on the floor.
Everything in the chamber was trimmed in hues of blood red and black. Charlotte recalled Juliana’s choice of hues for her fortune-telling parlor. Black and red were obviously the magician’s colors.
She glanced at the bedside table. It held only a single candle. One of the ruffians who had abducted her had snatched her reticule after she had used it to give his companion a sharp blow to the skull. She did not know what had become of it or the small pistol inside.
She eyed the taper that stood in a black iron stand and wondered how long it would take for the dainty flame to burn through the thick rope that bound her. It was the sort of scientific question that Baxter could no doubt have answered immediately.
The door opened.
Charlotte turned her head quickly, hoping against hope that Baxter would magically appear. From the snippets of conversation that she had overheard
during the wild carriage ride to this strange mansion, she had concluded that he had also been kidnapped.
Her stomach clenched when she saw the man in the doorway.
He was not wearing a black domino, nor were his features concealed by the shadows that had masked him the first time she had seen him five years ago. But the searing cold that seemed to emanate from him was unmistakable. She wondered that she had not recognized it instantly the night of the masquerade ball.
She was face-to-face with the monster in the hall.
She saw at once that his true nature was hidden behind a face of extraordinary masculine beauty. Black hair curled over a broad forehead. A fine, straight nose and arrogant cheekbones lent an air of aristocratic breeding. He was dressed in the first stare of fashion. His snow-white cravat was intricately tied. His coat, trousers, and boots were expensively tailored and fitted his tall, lean form to perfection. He wore the garments with an elegant ease, as if he had been born for such style.
He was well camouflaged, Charlotte thought. One had to look closely to see the icy, reptilian intelligence that glittered in his dark eyes.
She sat very still on the crimson quilt and took a steadying breath. Her pulse pounded in her veins. Panic would resolve nothing, she thought. One had to confront evil or all was lost.
She raised her chin a fraction higher and straightened her shoulders. “Morgan Judd, I presume?”
“So we are properly introduced at last, my little avenging angel.” The shattered-glass voice conveyed icy amusement with remarkable clarity. Morgan inclined his head in a gesture of mocking grace. “I have looked forward to this meeting for some time.”
“Where is Baxter?”
“My staff will signal me when St. Ives awakens.” Morgan produced a pistol from the pocket of his pleated trousers. He held it rather carelessly in one hand as he walked across the crimson and black carpet to the brandy table. “I fear he got a rather heavy dose of the incense. My men are not skilled in its use.”
“Dear God.” Another layer of fear unfolded inside Charlotte. What if Baxter never awakened? She could not forget how near Juliana had come to death.
A small frown marred Morgan’s brow. “I really must experiment a bit more with the mixture. It is still much too unpredictable.”
She would not think about all the terrible possibilities, Charlotte told herself. She would concentrate on the matter at hand. Baxter would be all right. He had to be all right.
She schooled her voice to a tone that dripped with scorn. “I hardly think you need to brandish your pistol, Mr. Judd.” She indicated her tethered wrists. “Or do you gain some sort of pleasure from waving it about?”
“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale.” Morgan poured a measure of brandy and turned to her with a faint smile. “It is not because of you that I prefer to keep my pistol at the ready.”
Comprehension dawned. “You fear St. Ives so much, then?”
A flicker of annoyance lit the reptilian eyes. “I do not fear him, but I have learned the hard way to take precautions. He is a deceptive man. Much more dangerous than he appears.”
“I quite agree.” Charlotte fixed him with what she hoped was a commanding stare. “Why have you brought us here?”
Morgan sipped his brandy. “I would have thought it obvious to a woman of your admirable intellect. I am weaving a destiny for myself, and for some inexplicable reason, you and St. Ives are apparently fated to appear in the pattern. I tried to work you both out of the design, but when that failed, I concluded I must reweave that portion.”
There was a movement in the doorway.
“Still working on your grand destiny, Judd?” Baxter asked dryly.
Morgan smiled slowly. “St. Ives.”
“Baxter.” Charlotte’s heart leaped at the sight of him.
He was there, looking just as he had when he left the ballroom several hours earlier. Just as Baxter was supposed to look, she thought. A little out of fashion, slightly rumpled, and much too staid for a man of thirty-two. But the disguise he had adopted was no more effective than Morgan Judd’s. She could see the true nature of both men quite clearly.
Baxter walked into the chamber with a pistol in his hand. His greatcoat was draped over one arm as if he had just returned from a ride in the park. But the firelight glinted on the lenses of his spectacles and his eyes burned with ruthless promise.
Morgan aimed his pistol at Charlotte as he set down his brandy glass. “My staff has failed me, I see. Really, it is so bloody difficult to get reliable help. I was supposed to receive a signal when you awakened, St. Ives.”
“Don’t blame your staff,” Baxter said. “I cut the bell pull on my way here. In fact, I located the closet where all of the signal bell pulls connect and severed the lot. None of your people will hear a thing if you try to use the mechanism. An ingenious design, by the bye. But quite useless now. Amazing how one small weakness can destroy the most clever scheme.”
Morgan’s jaw hardened but he merely shrugged. “Do not be so certain of yourself, St. Ives. I survived Italy and I shall triumph tonight.” He motioned slightly with his hand. “Put the pistol down, or I will blow your lady’s brains across the wall. We both know the damn thing won’t do you any good from that distance. You were never a decent shot.”
“Quite true.” Baxter set his pistol on a nearby table. Then he looked at Charlotte. “Are you all right, my dear?”
His voice was as calm and emotionless as ever but his eyes blazed hotter than the flames of the pit. Charlotte had to swallow twice before she could answer.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m unhurt. What about you, Baxter?”
“Perfectly fit, as you see.” He turned his attention back to Morgan. “What the devil is this all about?”
Morgan sighed. “Your interference in my affairs was a nuisance at first but then I began to view it as a most intriguing challenge. One can hardly ignore the workings of one’s own destiny, after all.”
“Indeed.” Carrying his coat over his arm, Baxter walked slowly across the carpet to the nearest window. He stood gazing out into the night with a thoughtful expression. “Interesting subject, destiny. The ancient philosophers believed that one’s character is the key to one’s fate.”
“Indeed,” Morgan murmured. “I am in complete agreement.”
Charlotte watched him with tense anticipation. Although he kept the pistol aimed in her general direction, his attention was entirely upon Baxter.
Baxter turned his head at that moment and glanced at her over his shoulder. His face was unreadable but there was an intensity in his gaze that riveted her. He was trying to convey some message. She sensed that he wished her to do something.
But what could he expect from her? she wondered. There was little she could do in her present circumstances.
Except talk.
Of course. If Baxter had a plan, and she was certain he would not have entered this chamber without one, then he no doubt wished her to distract Morgan Judd while he implemented his scheme.
“Why have you gone to the trouble to bring us here tonight, Mr. Judd?” she demanded in her sharpest tones.
Morgan looked briefly at her. “It is not often that one has the opportunity to engage in conversation with people who can appreciate one’s abilities.”
“Rubbish. Surely you are not so vain that you felt you must drag us here merely to boast.”
“You misjudge him, my dear,” Baxter said. “Morgan’s vanity knows no bounds. But that is not why he kidnapped us, is it, Morgan?”
“As pleasant as it is to be among those who have the intellect to grasp the greatness of my plans,” Morgan said, “I must confess, there was another reason why I went to the trouble of bringing you here tonight.”
“We got too close, too quickly, did we not?” Baxter’s smile was fleeting. “You want to know how we managed the trick.”
“Very succinctly put, St. Ives. I thought that getting rid of the Heskett woman would most likely be the end of it. But
as one can never be positive about such things, I set someone to watch her house. I knew from my man’s description that it was you who searched the premises that night. And when I learned that you had become intimately involved with Miss Arkendale, I realized that she must have been the woman who accompanied you.”
Baxter nodded. “Your man told you that we had taken something from Drusilla Heskett’s house.”
“A book of some sort, he said. He told me that the lady was the one who had carried it away and that she appeared to be very much in command of the situation.” Morgan made a rasping sound that was no doubt meant to be a laugh. “I could not believe he had got it right but I decided to search her house in any case.”
“You took the sketchbook,” Charlotte accused.
“When I saw that there was nothing incriminating in it, I again dared to hope that that would be the end of things.” Morgan shook his head. “But the two of you continued your alliance.”
“Which you tried to destroy first by sending Juliana Post to Charlotte with a pack of lies and then by giving her the note warning her that I could not be trusted.”
Morgan shrugged. “Obviously neither attempt shook her trust in you. I must congratulate you, St. Ives. I would never have guessed that you could summon up the degree of charm that it requires to induce such touching loyalty in a woman. Who would have thought you the romantic sort?”
Baxter ignored him. “Why in God’s name did you find it necessary to murder Drusilla Heskett?”
“I’m afraid that Mrs. Heskett was quite indiscriminate in her choice of paramours. She formed a very short liaison with a man in whom I had been obliged to place a certain amount of trust. I do try to avoid telling anyone my most closely kept secrets, but sometimes it cannot be helped. One cannot do everything for oneself, after all. One needs one’s man-of-affairs.”
Charlotte was astonished. “Mrs. Heskett had a liaison with your man-of-affairs?”