Affair by Amanda Quick
Hamilton’s attire was never stained with the residue of old chemicals, Baxter thought. His coat was never rumpled. He did not wear spectacles. The old earl, their father, had had the same innate, self-assured elegance and the ability to set the fashion.
Baxter was well aware that he was the one glaring exception to the commonly held view that the St. Ives men did everything with style.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Baxter said.
Hamilton shot him a quick, searching glance. “I trust you will not waste my time. Have you finally decided to loosen the purse strings?”
Baxter lounged back against one of the workbenches and folded his arms. “Are you short of funds? One would never guess from that expensive new carriage you’ve got parked outside.”
“Damnation, that is not the point, as you are very well aware.” Hamilton whirled around, his shoulders rigid with anger. “I am the Earl of Esherton and I have a right to my inheritance. Father intended for me to have that money.”
“In due course.”
Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “I know that you enjoy the temporary power that you wield over my funds.”
“Not particularly,” Baxter said with great depth of feeling. “I would far rather Father had not burdened me with the task of managing your affairs. It is a bloody nuisance, if you want to know the truth.”
“Do not expect me to believe that. We are both well aware that controlling my inheritance gives you a measure of revenge.” Hamilton came to a halt near the table that held Baxter’s balance instrument. He picked up one of the small brass weights and examined it. “Gloat while you can. I already have the title. In a few years I shall have the fortune.”
“Believe it or not, I expect to survive very nicely without your title or your fortune. But that is not important at the moment. Hamilton, I did not ask you here in order to discuss your financial situation.”
“I should have guessed that you had not changed your mind about the handling of my inheritance.” Hamilton dropped the brass weight back into the pan. He started toward the door. “I may as well be on my way, as it appears that we have nothing to say to each other.”
“Your mother is concerned about you.”
“My mother.” Hamilton came to an abrupt halt. “My mother spoke to you about me?”
“Yes. She sought me out last night at one of the affairs I attended with my … fiancée.”
“There is no reason why Mama would do such a thing,” Hamilton exploded. “I cannot imagine her doing it. She can barely tolerate you. The very sight of you causes her pain.”
“I am aware of that. The fact that she talked to me about her concerns is certainly proof of her anxious state.”
Hamilton watched him warily. “What is it that concerns her?”
“Your choice of amusements.”
“That is utter nonsense. She thinks I’m still in leading strings. But I’m a man now. Mother will have to accept that I have a right to enjoy myself with my friends. It’s only natural that I spend more time at my club.”
“About this club you have recently joined,” Baxter said slowly. “What is the name of it?”
“Why do you care?”
“Merely curious.”
Hamilton hesitated and then shrugged. “It’s called The Green Table. But if you are thinking of applying for membership, I suggest you reconsider.” He smiled thinly. “I do not believe that you would find it suitable to a man of your advanced years and unexciting temperament.”
“I see. Do not concern yourself. I spend little enough time at my own club. I have no interest in joining a new one.”
“I am relieved to hear it. I cannot imagine the two of us hanging about the same club. It would be damned awkward.”
“No doubt.”
“It’s not as if we share the same interests.”
“No.”
Hamilton eyed him suspiciously. “You have no compelling curiosity about the nature of events on the metaphysical plane.”
“You are quite correct in that assumption.”
“And I cannot think you would want to discuss the latest works of the Romantic poets.”
“The subject is not high on my list of dinner table conversation topics,” Baxter admitted.
“And you certainly would not care to experiment with various methods of establishing the truth about the philosophy of the supernatural.”
“Even lower on my list of favored topics than romantical poetry,” Baxter agreed cheerfully. “Are those the sorts of discussions with which you amuse yourself at The Green Table?”
“For the most part.”
“I understood it was a gaming hell, not a philosophical salon.”
“My friends and I have created a club within a club. The management of The Green Table caters to our preferences in a separate portion of the establishment.”
“I see. I believe I shall stick to my laboratory.”
“Yes, that would be best. You would not enjoy yourself at The Green Table.” Hamilton gazed at an array of glass tubes arranged on a nearby stand. “Father spent a lot of time here in your laboratory.”
“He had a great interest in science. My experiments intrigued him.”
“He always said you were quite brilliant.” Hamilton’s mouth twisted. “Called you a bloody hero because of some task you performed during the war.”
Baxter was surprised by that information. “He exaggerated.”
“I was sure he had. You’re hardly the heroic sort.”
“True. Being heroic requires a great deal of energy and strong emotion. Much too wearying for a person of my temperament.”
Hamilton hesitated. “When I was fourteen, Father made me study that book you wrote under a pseudonym, Conversations on Chemistry.”
“I’m sure you found it deadly dull.”
“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. But I followed one of the recipes for making a mild acid and somehow managed to spill the stuff all over my copy of the book.” Hamilton smiled. “It quite ruined the pages.”
“I see. Hamilton, I am aware that we have little in common but we do share a mutual interest in your inheritance.”
Alarm lit Hamilton’s eyes. “Now, see here, Baxter, if you think to steal my fortune—”
“There is no need to become agitated, I have no intention of helping myself to your money.” Baxter walked to the windowsill and looked at the three sweet pea pots. There was still no sign of any green shoots. “But it has occurred to me that, as the money I now manage for you will one day be yours, you might have some interest in learning how to invest it.”
“Explain yourself.”
Baxter met his eyes. “I could show you how to deal with bankers and men of business. I would be happy to teach you the various ways of investing your income. How to employ the people you will require to manage your estates. That kind of thing.”
“I want nothing from you except the money that is rightfully mine. I am not a child who requires a tutor in finances. There is nothing I can learn from you. Not one damned thing. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
Hamilton turned back toward the door with an angry, disgusted motion. “I have wasted enough time here today. I have better things to do.”
The door opened just as he reached for the knob. Lambert loomed. He gazed impassively at Baxter. “A somewhat impetuous visitor to see you, sir.”
“Baxter.” Charlotte rushed into the laboratory without waiting for Lambert to finish announcing her. “I must tell you what has just happened. I have had the most amazing … Ooomph.” She broke off in breathless confusion as she barely avoided a collision with Hamilton. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not see you there.”
“I do not believe that you and my half brother were introduced last night,” Baxter said. “We left the ball somewhat early, if you will recall.”
Charlotte glanced at Baxter. A hint of pink tinged her cheeks but he could not decide if the color was the result of her present state of hig
“Yes, we did leave early,” she murmured politely.
“Allow me to present the Earl of Esherton,” Baxter said. “Hamilton, this is my fiancée, Miss Charlotte Arkendale.”
Charlotte smiled warmly at Hamilton. “Your lordship.”
Baxter watched her sink into an elegant curtsy.
“Miss Arkendale.” Hamilton’s scowl vanished as he took her hand. An unmistakable eagerness lit his eyes. “Lady Trengloss introduced me to your lovely sister last night. I had the very great honor of dancing with her. She is a most charming lady.”
“In that we are agreed, my lord,” Charlotte said.
Baxter cleared his throat. “You have not congratulated me on my engagement, Hamilton.”
Hamilton’s jaw clenched mutinously but the demands of civility prevailed. “My apologies. My felicitations to you both. If you will pardon me, I must be on my way.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said.
Hamilton nodded and hurried through the door.
Charlotte waited until they were alone. Then she favored Baxter with a bright, approving smile.
“So, you decided to take your brother in hand, after all.” She removed her straw bonnet. “Lady Esherton will be greatly relieved, I’m sure.”
“Not bloody likely. Hamilton does not want any advice from me.” Baxter frowned at the clock. “Where the devil have you been, Charlotte? I sent a message around to your house an hour and a half ago. I got a note back from your sister informing me that you were out.”
“It is a long story.” She turned slowly on her heel, examining the laboratory with an expression of great interest. “So this is where you perform your chemical experiments.”
“Yes.” He watched her walk to the windowsill.
“What have you got in these three pots?”
“Sweet pea seeds. I’m conducting an experiment to test the efficacy of adding certain minerals to soil that has been worn out from too many plantings.”
Charlotte touched the earth in one pot with the tip of her finger. “The seeds have not sprouted.”
“No,” he said. “They may never sprout. That is the way of many such experiments. What is this tale that you wish to tell me?”
“It is the most amazing thing.” She turned, shimmering with renewed excitement. “I may as well start at the beginning. This morning I had a visit from a lady who claimed to be pregnant with your child.”
“What?”
“Brace yourself, Baxter. It only gets more interesting.”
Ten
“You followed that woman back to her house?” Baxter was stunned. “Confronted her in her own hall? I don’t believe this. What a crazed, idiotic, featherbrained thing to do.”
“On the contrary. It was the logical thing to do under the circumstances,” Charlotte said soothingly. “I had to discover what Miss Post was about. Surely you can understand that.”
“Bloody hell.” Beneath his anger, Baxter sensed the raw, wrenching fear. He made a futile attempt to contain the volatile mix of emotions. He knew he was not reacting in an entirely rational manner, but he could not stop himself. “How did you dare to take such a risk? Have you gone mad?”
Charlotte looked honestly baffled by his outrage. “There was no risk. I merely spoke to her.”
“You should have talked to me before you undertook such a dangerous scheme.” He swept out a hand. “I’m supposed to be your partner. And your bodyguard, devil take it.” And your lover, something inside him wanted to add in a loud, clear voice. I’m supposed to be your lover, dammit.
“But there was no time to send a message around to you, sir. I had to act swiftly or I would have lost sight of Miss Post’s carriage.”
“Unbelievable. You went after her in a flower cart driven by some stranger who could well have proven to be the most dangerous sort of villain.”
“I’m quite certain that he was only a boy from the country. I suspect that very few villains drive through London in flower carts.”
“You went straight into the house of the woman who had just attempted to feed you a fantastic lie. Have you no common sense at all?” Baxter scowled as he passed the balance stationed on the end of one of the workbenches. Good God, he was moving about the laboratory. He was pacing. He never paced.
The knowledge only served to darken his seething mood. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to continue prowling up and down the aisles between workbenches. He knew that if he paused even briefly he might succumb to the urge to seize the nearest glass retort and hurl it against the wall.
Charlotte had no business taking such risks. She would surely drive him mad before this was over. Her independent, unpredictable nature was a serious threat to his hard-won serenity. He was a chemist, not a poet. He could not deal with such surges of strong emotion.
Last night he had convinced himself that he had found a way to handle the tide of restless desire that Charlotte elicited in him. He had established to his own satisfaction that he was in command of himself and of the situation. He had concluded that it was safe to have an affair.
He had reasoned that the liaison would allow the unstable fires of passion to burn themselves out in a natural, controlled manner. The principle was not unlike his practice of using a carefully monitored flame to heat the contents of a flask full of volatile chemicals. So long as one was cautious and careful, no dangerous explosion would result.
In the end the contents of the flask would turn to ashes.
He had endured too much during the past twenty-four hours, he thought. He had assumed from her response to him that Charlotte would be amenable to his suggestion of an affair. But rather than give him a straightforward answer to his simple question, she had told him that she would consider the matter.
Consider the matter. Of all the bloody nerve. She had left him to twist in the wind while she dithered.
Then had come that nasty business with the housebreaker.
Now he was faced with this morning’s crazed escapade.
And he was seething. He never seethed. Seething, like pacing, was a sign of a lack of self-mastery. It was a signal that emotion, rather than reason, ruled one’s brain.
It was too much for a serious-minded, methodical, logical sort. If he had not been a modern man of science he would no doubt have been tempted to believe that some malign supernatural force had entered his life with the intention of wreaking havoc.
The knowledge that Charlotte had this sort of power over him stirred the hair on the nape of his neck and sent a chill down his spine.
“I resent the implication that I have no common sense, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte’s voice was drained of much of her earlier enthusiasm. The placating note was gone, too. She was starting to sound annoyed. “I am a mature adult, after all. I have operated my own business quite successfully for several years. I am no fool.”
“I did not say that you were a fool.” Damn. One wrong turn after another, Baxter thought glumly. In another moment the entire experiment would be ruined before it had even been properly begun and he would have no one to blame but himself.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” Charlotte said crisply. “I would like to point out that this morning’s events occurred because Miss Post heard the rumor that we were engaged to be married.”
He paused near the large burning lens stand. “What has that to do with this?”
She gave him a very direct look. “It was your idea to announce this fraudulent engagement of ours and it was the engagement that brought Miss Post to my door with her wild tale. Therefore, I do not see how you can blame me for what transpired. To be perfectly blunt, it was all your fault.”
Baxter began to feel hunted. He seized on the one thing that for some irrational reason irritated him the most. “Our engagement is not fraudulent.”
“Indeed. What would you term it?”
He searched for words. “It is a stratagem.”
“Well, I can bloody well tell the difference,” he said. “Or have you forgotten already that our engagement is designed to allow us to move in Society for the purposes of discovering a killer?”
She turned the straw bonnet absently in her hands, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “And a very clever ruse it has proven to be. Only consider. We have got our first real clue thanks to your little stratagem, as you call it.”
“What clue?”
“Don’t you see?” Her eyes sparkled with renewed excitement. “When I confronted her, Miss Post as much as admitted that someone had employed her to visit me in the guise of your pregnant paramour. She would not tell me who had done so, but it was evident that her task was to destroy my faith in you.”
“Obviously.” Baxter got a sinking sensation in his stomach. Any number of gently bred women would have believed Miss Post’s outlandish story.
“Someone went to great pains to end our so-called engagement,” Charlotte continued. “We must ask ourselves why anyone would go to such lengths.”
Baxter shoved his fingers through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
“It would appear that someone does not want the two of us to form a close association.”
“Calm yourself, Charlotte. I doubt very much that this episode with Miss Post has anything to do with our attempt to discover a murderer.”
“What do you mean?”
He exhaled slowly. “I suspect that you were merely the victim of someone’s notion of a malicious practical joke.”
Charlotte stared at him. “But who would play such a hoax?”
“The first person who comes to mind is my bloody-minded half brother.”
“Hamilton? That’s ridiculous.”
“A few days ago, I would have agreed with you. There is no great affection between Hamilton and myself, but I had not realized until this morning that he might be …” Baxter hesitated, still dubious of his own observations and conclusions. “Envious of me.”
“Envious?”
Baxter recalled the bitter expression he had seen in Hamilton’s eyes when he had described his willful destruction of his copy of Conversations on Chemistry. “I know it makes no sense, but I got the impression today that he harbors a personal grudge against me.”