Affair (13 page)

“I thought I made that clear.” He’d worked hard on the logic of the thing. She was an intelligent female. She should have been able to see the problem and its solution as clearly as he did. “If we are to pursue our inquiries into my aunt’s circle of acquaintances, you cannot continue to pass me off as your man-of-affairs. It won’t work. We need a believable reason to explain our connection.”

“A believable reason,” she repeated numbly.

“Yes.” Baxter was suddenly aware of a driving need to pace back and forth across the study. Annoyed, he forced himself to remain bolted to the floor. Pacing was a clear sign of an unsettled emotional state. His emotions were never unsettled.

“You think this reason is believable?”

“If you can think of a better excuse, I shall be happy to hear it.”

“There must be a more reasonable excuse.” Charlotte drummed her fingers on the desk. “Give me a moment to think.”

“Take your time.” The sensation of restlessness grew stronger. To ease it, Baxter picked up the book that was lying on a nearby table. Absently he glanced at the words inscribed on the leather binding. When he saw Byron’s name he swore softly and put down the volume as if it had become red-hot in his hand.

“We could pretend to have become acquainted through a mutual interest in chemistry,” Charlotte said
slowly. “We shall say that we met at a meeting of one of the scientific societies.”

“That would account for our initial meeting and for an occasional conversation in public but not much more than that.”

“There is another possibility.”

She was certainly eager to find an alternative, he thought grimly. Obviously the notion of an engagement, even a false one, was anathema to her. “Very well, what is that?”

She slanted him a quick, searching glance and then gazed fixedly at a globe positioned near the window. “We could allow your aunt and her circle of acquaintances to assume that you and I had formed a … a romantic attachment.”

“I would have thought that was the essence of my plan.”

“I meant an illicit sort of romantic attachment.” She turned a bright shade of pink and continued to focus steadily on the globe. “That we are involved in a liaison.”

“Bloody hell. You wish people to think that we’re having an
affair
? That’s the most idiotic notion I’ve ever heard.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “It seems a perfectly reasonable notion to me.”

“Not in my case.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” She turned her head quickly and then her flush deepened. “Oh, dear. Surely you do not mean to imply that you are not interested in females in that way? I always knew that Mr. Marcle had no inclinations of that sort but after last night, I, uh, gained the distinct impression that you did. Have inclinations. Of that sort.”

“I most definitely possess inclinations,” Baxter said very evenly. “But I do not take them into Society.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Baxter sighed. This interview was faring much worse than he had envisioned. “I’m not the sort who conducts his affairs in the full view of the Polite World. To put it bluntly, I’m not my father.”

“I see.” But she looked bemused.

“Charlotte, the people who know me, know very well that I would never flaunt a paramour, especially a relatively young woman who has never been married, in Society. It would be completely out of character, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I’m beginning to comprehend the situation. You are, at heart, a gentleman, sir. It is very noble of you to worry about my reputation, but I can assure you that I am not at all concerned with gossip.”

“You’d bloody well better be concerned with gossip if you hope to continue in your career after this matter is finished.” It was a shot in the dark, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

Her eyes widened. “Good heavens. I had not considered that aspect of the thing. Do you really believe that gossip about a romantic liaison between the two of us could hurt my business?”

Baxter saw his opening and bore down ruthlessly. “Society can be very fickle and extremely hypocritical about such things. You must be aware that the ladies of the ton whom you hope to attract as clients are known to demand higher standards of those they employ than they do of themselves.”

“I see what you mean.” Charlotte studied her hands. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Witty, has told me tales of elegant ladies who have any number of affairs but who
would not hesitate to dismiss a maid who got pregnant by the footman.”

“Just so. Such ladies would certainly be reluctant to do business with a woman who has had a highly visible affair with a man in my position.”

“Your position?”

“As I keep reminding you, I’m a bastard.”

“A bastard who appears to be obsessed with not becoming an object of gossip.”

“Perhaps I wish to avoid it because I have lived with it since the day I was born.”

“Yes, of course.” Slowly she sank back down in her chair. “My apologies, sir. I had not considered your feelings in the matter. It must have been difficult for you at times.”

“Let us just say that scandal broth is not my favorite beverage.” He did not like the sympathy he saw in her eyes. He finally gave in to the restlessness that threatened to consume him. He walked deliberately toward the window. “I have had my fill of it for the past thirty-two years.”

“No doubt.”

He braced a hand on the windowsill. “What I told you about myself during our first interview was nothing less than the truth. I am as bland as potato pudding. What is more, I prefer it that way. I have worked hard to achieve a calm, orderly existence that does not require me to go into Society. I have made it a practice to avoid situations that are likely to produce titillation and rumor. I cherish my privacy above all else.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

He looked out into the rain-drenched garden and saw scenes from his own past. “I do not conduct scandalous affairs with dashing widows. I do not allow passion to
create chaos in my life. I do not become involved in liaisons that may oblige me to defend my paramour’s honor at dawn. I do not conduct outrageous rows with my lover in the center of a crowded ballroom while my five-year-old son watches from the balcony.”

“I can well believe that.”

Baxter’s hand tightened on the windowsill. “I do not sire illegitimate children who must answer the taunts of their companions with their fists. I do not produce offspring who, because they are born on the wrong side of the blanket, are forever denied the lands and the heritage that should have been theirs.”

“In short, Mr. St. Ives, you do not conduct your personal affairs in the same manner in which your parents conducted theirs. Is that what you are telling me?”

“Yes.” What in bloody hell had come over him? Baxter wondered. He gave himself a small mental shake to dispatch the old images. He had never intended to say such things to Charlotte. He never discussed his most personal memories with anyone.

“I congratulate you, sir,” Charlotte said very quietly. “And I admire you.”

He turned so swiftly that he caught the globe with his elbow. The world spun away and plummeted toward the floor. Furious with his uncharacteristic clumsiness and all that it implied about his lack of control, he made a quick grab for the globe. He barely caught it before it struck the carpet.

“Damnation.” Feeling a complete idiot, he concentrated on righting the world and setting it back in place on the sill. Then he looked at Charlotte, who was watching him very intently. “For God’s sake, why do you say that you admire me?”

“You are obviously a man of strong will and great
fortitude. You have created your own rules. Although you do not possess the title that should have been yours by right of blood, you do possess honor and courage.”

The sincerity of her words stunned him. To conceal his sense of disorientation, he folded his arms across his chest and propped one shoulder against the wall. He took refuge in cool amusement. “Kind of you to say so.”

“We do have something in common on this score.” Charlotte touched the ornate silver inkstand on her desk. “It is not only illegitimate offspring who must sometimes stand by and watch as their inheritance is stolen. My sister and I lost most of what should have been ours to my mother’s second husband.”

“Winterbourne.”

“Yes.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened. “Whenever I think of all the things that Ariel has missed because of him, of all the things I could never give her, I … well, I’m sure you understand.”

He watched her closely. “So long as we are being completely honest with each other, I should confess that I have a great deal of admiration for you, also.”

She looked up quickly. “You do?”

“I’m aware that there are not many options available to a lady who finds herself cast adrift with a young sister to support. I’m impressed by what you have accomplished.”

She gave him a small, surprised smile. “Thank you, Mr. St. Ives. Coming from you, such a compliment is gratifying, indeed.”

“And given my deep admiration,” he continued deliberately, “I’m certain you can comprehend why I do not intend to allow you to destroy your reputation in this venture.”

The moment of mutual understanding that had
flashed between them vanished with the speed of a magician’s illusion.

Charlotte glared. “You are attempting to manipulate me, sir.”

“I’m trying to convince you with logic and reason. If you are correct in your belief that Drusilla Heskett was murdered by one of her suitors, then that man may well be someone who moves in the Polite World. Correct?”

“Yes, all but one of Mrs. Heskett’s recent suitors were members of the ton,” she said impatiently. “Mr. Charles Dill was the only one who did not move in Society, and as I told you, he died of a heart seizure nearly two weeks before Mrs. Heskett was murdered.”

“Indeed. Then one of those whose suspicions might well be aroused by uncharacteristic behavior on my part could well be her killer.”

Charlotte opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. She grimaced. “You may be correct.”

“Therefore, given my personal inclination to avoid scandal and gossip and your desire not to ruin the chance of future business, we are left with only the one alternative. We shall announce our engagement. It will give us the perfect excuse for going about in Society while we conduct our inquiries.”

A short, tense silence gripped the room.

“We?” Charlotte repeated very politely.

“You are still determined to track down Drusilla Heskett’s killer, are you not?”

“She was a client who may have been killed because I failed to uncover certain crucial information.” Charlotte drew a deep breath. “I owe her some justice.”

“I disagree. You do not owe her anything of the sort. But I realize that I cannot dissuade you from your goal.”

“No, you cannot stop me.”

“As I have explained, I am committed to the same goal because of the promise that I made to my aunt.” Baxter met her eyes. “It seems we must cooperate to achieve our mutual ends.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly in a gesture of mingled resignation and disbelief. “Everything I sensed about you at our first meeting has proven to be true, Mr. St. Ives.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You are, indeed, a very dangerous man.”

E
ngaged? To Charlotte Arkendale?” Rosalind crashed her dainty teacup down into its saucer. “I do not believe it. You cannot have gone and engaged yourself to such a creature. You must be mad.”

“It’s a possibility that I have considered closely,” Baxter admitted.

“Are you joking with me?” Rosalind gave him a reproving frown. “You know very well that I have never entirely comprehended your decidedly odd sense of humor. Tell me precisely what is going on here.”

“I thought I had explained. It’s the logical course of action, assuming you wish me to pursue my inquiries.”

He walked across the drawing room to examine the new chimneypiece that had just been installed above the fireplace. The elaborately carved design was in the new Zamarian style, as was virtually everything else in the chamber. Rosalind had recently redecorated. The Egyptian-style drawing room with its hieroglyph-covered wallpaper, palm trees, strange statues, and artificial columns had been converted into a Zamarian courtyard scene.

It was the latest in a long line of such alterations for
the large town house. Growing up here with his mother and his aunt, Baxter had played in an Etruscan cottage, studied in a Chinese garden, practiced fencing in a Greek temple, and, mercifully, moved out of a Roman sepulchral monument.

From the day he had taken his own lodgings Baxter had established one cardinal rule for his household. No changes in the interior design were made solely for the purpose of accommodating a new fashion.

It occurred to him as he surveyed the gilded chimneypiece that he had always resisted change and the turmoil it brought.

As a child, the major upheavals in his life had always seemed to follow on the heels of some strong, emotional outburst between his parents. The pair had been experts in the fine art of conducting flamboyant lovers’ quarrels and passionate reunions. Indeed, they had thrived on such scenes and had shone particularly well in front of an audience. They had not cared if that audience sometimes consisted of only one small boy.

Baxter had dreaded the inevitable battles, waited anxiously for the reunions, and in between endured the cruelty of his peers.

From his earliest years, he had set out to suppress any trace of his parents’ tumultuous natures that he might have inherited. He had fashioned a life for himself that was designed to be hermetically sealed against strong emotion in the same way that he sealed a bell jar against contaminating vapors.

He told himself that the only excitement that intrigued him was that which took place in his laboratory. But now Charlotte had entered his self-contained, well-ordered world and he feared that he would not be able to resist conducting a few risky experiments.

If he was not very careful things would explode in his face.

“Are you completely convinced that this Miss Arkendale is truly innocent?” Rosalind asked.