by Amanda Quick
“Dru had a head on her shoulders.” Lennox executed a nimble move that narrowly avoided the other dancers. “Understood that marriage didn’t have to interfere with a spot of fun now and again.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte caught a flash of lavender silk out of the corner of her eye. She gave Lennox a smile of relief and tried to think of how best to pursue her inquiries.
The problem was that Lennox gave every appearance of being exactly what her earlier investigations had indicated, good-natured and financially stable. She could not envision him as a murderer. Yet Drusilla had specifically mentioned his name in her last note.
“I see your fiancé headed toward the gardens with Lady Esherton,” Lennox announced as he swung Charlotte into another galloping turn. “Don’t envy him. The old man left St. Ives in a devil of a fix when he put him in charge of the family purse strings.”
Charlotte recalled what Baxter had said about managing his half brother’s income as well as his own. She had assumed the situation existed simply because Baxter was good at finances. “You mean the old earl actually stipulated in his will that Mr. St. Ives was to control the fortune?”
“It’s no great secret that old Esherton made Baxter his executor until Hamilton is five-and-twenty. Sound thinking on Esherton’s part, if you ask me. Anyone can see that young Hamilton needs some time to settle. Takes after his father, he does. The old earl was a neck-or-nothing rakehell in his youth.” Lennox paused. “Come to think of it, he didn’t change much over the years. He was a rakehell until the day he died.”
“I see.”
“But he wasn’t foolish when it came to the fortune,” Lennox continued. “By the time he inherited it, he was nearly thirty and he managed the estates nicely, indeed. Baxter’s got his father’s head for that sort of thing and the old man knew it. But it does put St. Ives into an uncomfortable spot. Bound to be a lot of resentment in a situation such as that.”
“Indeed.”
Lennox’s expression grew unexpectedly troubled. “Hamilton ain’t the only young man who’s runnin’ a bit wild these days. Seems as if the whole lot of the young bloods are feeling their oats. Don’t mind telling you that my own son, Norris, has given me a few shudders of late. He and Hamilton are friends, doncha know.”
“I suppose they’re both into the usual bloody-minded occupations of young males,” Charlotte said carefully. “Driving too fast, drinking too much, risking their necks in silly dares?”
“Wish that were the whole of it,” Lennox said. “Mind you, I’m all in favor of a young man sowing his wild oats early in life. The devil knows, I got into my share of trouble when I was that age. Nearly got myself killed in a duel over a little high-flyer of an opera dancer on one occasion. Went a few rounds with a bruiser named Bull Keeley. Smuggled a bit of French brandy. That sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“Just the old-fashioned, innocent pleasures of youth.” Lennox sent them whirling into another turn. “But these days becoming a man seems to be a riskier business than it was when I was a lad.”
“What do you mean?”
“The gaming hells are more dangerous for one thing,” Lennox said very seriously. “Friend of Norris’s lost his estates in a place called The Green Table the other night. Young Crossmore went home and put a bullet in his head.”
“How terrible.”
“Warned Norris that if he didn’t watch his step, I’d send him on an extended tour of the Continent.”
“Has your threat worked?”
“Norris knows I won’t tolerate any nonsense. Unfortunately for young Hamilton, his father ain’t around to pull in the reins. Left the job to St. Ives along with the responsibility for the fortune.”
With a final flourish, the music stopped. Charlotte was panting. She gave Lennox another curtsy and a bright smile. “Thank you, my lord, I needed the exercise.”
“Builds stamina,” he assured her as he led her off the floor. “Can I fetch you a glass of lemonade or champagne?”
“No, thank you, I believe I’ll go find Lady Trengloss.”
“Ah, yes, the lovely Rosalind. Charming woman.” Lennox looked briefly wistful. “Imagine she misses her sister.”
“Mr. St. Ives’s mother?”
“Yes. Emma died four years ago. In their younger days, she and Rosalind kept things lively in Society. Never a dull moment. Emma was always the wilder of the two, though. Her affair with Esherton lasted until the day she died. I tell you, it’s damned hard to believe that St. Ives is the offspring of that pair.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Young Baxter’s temperament is the complete opposite of his parents’. Oh, he takes after Esherton in some ways. No mistaking those eyes, of course. And he got his mother’s dark hair. But he lacks Emma’s sense of humor and dash and he didn’t get even a modicum of the St. Ives style, sad to say.”
“The St. Ives style?”
“You know what they say about the men of the St. Ives line. They do everything with style. Hamilton’s living up to the family heritage but, I vow, Baxter looks as if he makes his livin’ as someone’s man-of-affairs.”
“Looks can be deceiving, sir. Please excuse me.”
“Of course, of course. Enjoyed the dance.”
Charlotte turned and walked toward the French doors, which stood open to admit the evening air into the overheated ballroom.
Outside she found the wide terrace lit with colorful lanterns. Here and there couples murmured and laughed discreetly in the shadows. Beyond lay the night-darkened expanse of the gardens.
There was no sign of Baxter in the immediate vicinity but Charlotte was almost certain that he had not come back into the ballroom.
There was just enough moonlight to make out the looming shapes of clipped hedges and thickly clustered bushes. Baxter was out there somewhere. He had no taste for Society. It would be just like him to retreat to the solitude of the gardens until it was time to leave.
She went down the stone steps and started along the path that wound into the heart of the gardens. Her soft kid slippers made no sound on the old bricks. The night was crisp. She folded her arms and hugged herself a little to ward off the chill. She would not be able to stay out there long without her cloak.
A woman’s low, anxious voice brought Charlotte to a halt. There was another couple on the far side of the high hedge on her left. She was about to continue on her way when she heard Baxter’s characteristically brusque response.
“I do not know what the devil you expect me to do about the matter, madam. Hamilton is two-and-twenty.” Baxter hesitated briefly before adding very dryly, “And he is the Earl of Esherton, after all.”
“He is still a boy in so many ways.” The woman’s words were laced with desperation. “And so like his father. You must do something, Baxter. Ever since his lordship died, Hamilton has grown increasingly headstrong. I thought it was a stage that would pass when he recovered from his grief. But lately he and his closest friend, Norris—”
“Lennox’s heir?”
“Yes. The two of them have taken up with new associates and I fear the worst. They no longer go off to their old clubs in the evenings. Hamilton tells me they prefer a new one they have discovered. A place called The Green Table.”
“A lot of young men prefer the clubs that cater to them, rather than to the men of their fathers’ generation.”
“Yes, but I believe that this place is nothing more than a gaming hell.”
“Calm yourself, Maryann. Hamilton cannot lose the Esherton fortune in a night of deep play. I have control of the funds for another three years, if you will recall.”
“I never thought I’d live to thank God for his lordship’s foresight in that matter, but I must admit it is a good thing that Hamilton does not yet have access to his fortune. Nevertheless, there are so many risks awaiting a young man of his temperament.”
“Such as?”
“I do not know.” Maryann’s voice rose. “That is the worst of it, Baxter. I do not
know the extent of the risks he takes. One hears things, dreadful things about the activities that take place in some of those hells.”
“You are overwrought, Maryann.”
“I am not overwrought, I am terrified. There are stories involving depravity and debauchery among the young bloods of the ton these days that would alarm any mother. I have heard tales of people who deliberately partake of too much opium in order to induce dreamlike trances, for example.”
“A few poets may choose to amuse themselves in that fashion, perhaps, but I believe it’s a fairly limited number.”
“Who knows what is really going on at Hamilton’s new club? I tell you, my son is not himself these days. He will not listen to me. You must speak to him.”
“What makes you think he will listen to me?”
“You are my only hope, Baxter. Your father charged you with the responsibility of guiding Hamilton until he has gained maturity. Do not deny it. We all heard his lordship’s dying instructions.”
“It is astonishing, is it not?” Baxter said in an oddly reflective tone of voice. “Even from beyond the grave, my father is still capable of creating turmoil in all our lives. I wonder if he is enjoying himself as he watches the little dramas he continues to stage.”
“Do not speak of his lordship with such disrespect. Baxter, I am depending upon you. You must stop Hamilton before he gets into serious trouble.”
Charlotte heard what sounded like a muffled sob. There was a rush of silk skirts and the soft thud of slippers on the grass. She stepped hastily back into the shadows as Maryann emerged from behind the far end of the hedge. Charlotte watched the other woman walk swiftly back toward the lantern-lit terrace.
There was a short pause and then Baxter spoke from the opposite end of the hedge. “Did you hear enough or do you want me to summarize the pertinent details of the conversation for you?”
“Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte whirled around.
For a moment she could not make him out in the darkness. Then she saw him detach himself from the deep shadows of the high hedge and walk toward her. When he moved through a swath of weak moonlight she caught a glimpse of his harsh, unyielding expression.
“One of these days you really must start calling me by my given name, Charlotte.”
“My apologies, sir. I did not mean to eavesdrop.”
“But you do it so well.”
“I could not help but overhear the last of your conversation with Lady Esherton.”
“Do not concern yourself.” He came to a halt in front of her. “We are partners, are we not?”
“Well, yes, but that does not give me the right to intrude on your private family business.”
“Intrude all you wish. Society has been entertained by my family’s business for years. Have you finished your interrogation of poor Lennox?”
Charlotte sighed. “I think I have got all the information I am going to get this evening. I did learn that he had an invitation to visit Mrs. Heskett the night she died but he received a note telling him that she was ill and would not be able to receive him.”
“Hmm. I doubt he would have admitted that much if he was guilty.”
“True. I cannot envision him as a killer.”
“I agree. If you are satisfied, let’s be on our way.” Baxter took her arm and started back toward the big house. “I have had enough of the social whirl. If I indulge in any more of this sort of excitement, I am likely to expire from boredom.”
“I understand, but Ariel is enjoying herself so much. I hate to ask her to leave. It’s only midnight.”
“True, and for the ton the evening has just begun. Don’t worry about your sister. I have a plan. We shall pack her off with my aunt, who will keep her out until dawn.”
Charlotte glanced at him. “Do you think Lady Trengloss will mind?”
“Not in the least. Between announcing our engagement and introducing Ariel to the Polite World, she is enjoying herself immensely.” He drew Charlotte up the terrace steps and back into the brilliantly lit ballroom. “Give me a moment to locate Rosalind and make the arrangements.”
“I shall find Ariel and tell her that she is free to go with your aunt. She is no doubt out on the dance floor again. I vow, she has spent the entire evening there.” Charlotte stood on tiptoe to search the crowd.
“I see her,” Baxter said.
“Oh, yes, there she is.” Charlotte smiled at the sight of Ariel moving elegantly to the notes of a waltz. “Dancing with that very handsome young man who is wearing the impossibly complicated cravat. I wonder who he is.”
“His name is Hamilton,” Baxter said dryly. “The Earl of Esherton. My half brother.”
Half an hour later, the carriage shuddered to a halt in front of the Arkendale town house. Baxter roused himself from the moody thoughts that had overtaken him during the short journey. He looked at Charlotte, who was seated on the opposite cushion, and wondered what had possessed him to suggest that they end the evening so soon.
True, he’d had no wish to remain at the ball, especially after the unpleasant discussion with Maryann, but he certainly did not want to bid Charlotte good night.
Now they were at her house. The evening was concluded and there was no more time for conversation or anything else.
He had done a fine job of wasting the past half hour, he thought. For a man who prided himself on his powers of logic and intellect, he could be a bloody idiot at times.
Charlotte glanced out the window. “It would seem we have arrived, Mr. St. Ives.”
Baxter heard the coachman descend from the carriage box. “Bloody hell.”
Charlotte raised her brows but she offered no comment. He wondered exactly what it was that she was thinking. At times such as this, he was acutely aware of his poor understanding of the opposite sex. The only thing he knew for certain was that he did not want to say good night.
“Uh, Charlotte …”
The carriage door opened. Baxter could not think of an excuse to delay the inevitable.
With a soft rustle of her skirts, Charlotte descended from the carriage. Baxter followed reluctantly. He took her arm to guide her up the steps to her front door.
Fool. Bloody damn idiot. A whole half hour wasted. He could have passed the time in the carriage with Charlotte in his arms. Instead he had spent it contemplating morose thoughts of the past and the present. It was Maryann’s fault. She had ruined his mood and his evening. Typical.
Charlotte took her key out of her beaded reticule. “Would you care to come in for a brandy, Mr. St. Ives?”
Baxter, fixated on his own gloomy thoughts, was certain that he had not heard correctly. He realized that she was watching him with a quizzical expression.
“A brandy?” He took the key from her hand and opened the door with fingers that had suddenly become clumsy.
“I realize it is late but we have a great deal to discuss.” She stepped briskly into the darkened hall and turned to face him. “What with the rush of preparations to enter Society, I have not yet had an opportunity to show you the small picture I discovered in Mrs. Heskett’s sketchbook.”
She wanted to discuss business with him.
“Is something wrong, Mr. St. Ives?”
He realized he was still standing on her front steps. “Whatever gave you that notion?”
“Oh, dear, I’ve outraged your sense of propriety, haven’t I?” She gave him an apologetic look. “I assure you that you need have no qualms about your reputation. Absolutely no one except your coachman will know if you come in for a few minutes. Mrs. Witty has gone to visit her cousin for the night. She will not be home until tomorrow.”
“I see.”
She gave him a laughing smile. “And we are supposed to be engaged, if you will recall. In short, Mr. St. Ives, your virtue is quite safe with me.”
She was laughing at him.
“I believe I could use a brandy. A large one.” He stalked into the tiled hall and closed the front door very deliberately.
There was enough moonlight pouring in through the windows that surrounded the door for Baxter to see Charlotte slip out of her evening cloak. She hung it on a wall hook.
He watched as she reached up to light a wall sconce. He could not take his eyes off the curves of her breasts as they rose gently in response to her movements. A moment later light flared warmly, spilling across her smooth skin. With alchemical magic the lamp revealed the fire buried in her dark hair and transmuted her yellow satin gown to gold. When she turned to look at him, her eyes were fathomless jewels.
“Shall we go into my study, Mr. St. Ives? I will show you Mrs. Heskett’s little picture.”
“By all means,” Baxter heard himself say.
A great longing gripped him as he watched her walk toward the darkened room. The graceful sway of her hips beneath the golden skirts heated the blood in his veins.
“The brandy is on the table near the window,” Charlotte called from inside the study. Light flared again as she lit another lamp inside the small room.
The glow from the doorway of the study beckoned Baxter with the compelling power of a sorcerer’s spell. He hesitated a moment longer.
Entering the study was probably not a sound notion.
Definitely not a sensible, logical act.
“Bloody hell.” He yanked savagely at the knot of his cravat and crossed the hall to enter the dream world that lay on the other side of the study door.
“What did you say?” Charlotte asked as he entered the room.
“Nothing of any importance.” He went to light the fire. Then he straightened and headed for the brandy table.
Charlotte walked around behind her desk and bent down to open a bottom drawer. “I tore the page that contained the little picture out of the sketchbook. As far as I can tell, none of the other watercolor drawings in the book have anything to do with the small sketch and they were very distracting.”
“Indeed.” Baxter eyed Charlotte’s nicely rounded bottom as she stooped to fumble in the low drawer. “Very distracting.”
“Every time I tried to discuss the picture with Ariel, her attention kept straying to the nude figures. And Mrs. Witty was no better.”
