Affair (3 page)

London, three years later

“You leave me no option but to be blunt, Mr. St. Ives. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that you are not quite what I had in mind in the way of a man-of-affairs.” Charlotte Arkendale clasped her hands together on top of the wide mahogany desk and regarded Baxter with a critical eye. “I am sorry for the waste of your time.”

The interview was not going well. Baxter adjusted the gold-framed eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose and silently vowed that he would not give in to the impulse to grind his back teeth.

“Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I was under the impression that you wished to employ a person who appeared completely innocuous and uninteresting.”

“Quite true.”

“I believe your exact description of the ideal candidate
for the position was, and I quote,
a person who is as bland as a potato pudding.
”

Charlotte blinked wide, disconcertingly intelligent, green eyes. “You do not comprehend me properly, sir.”

“I rarely make mistakes, Miss Arkendale. I am nothing if not precise, methodical, and deliberate in my ways. Mistakes are made by those who are impulsive or inclined toward excessive passions. I assure you, I am not of that temperament.”

“I could not agree with you more on the risks of a passionate nature,” she said quickly. “Indeed, that is one of the problems—”

“Allow me to read to you precisely what you wrote in your letter to your recently retired man-of-affairs.”

“There is no need. I am perfectly aware of what I wrote to Mr. Marcle.”

Baxter ignored her. He reached into the inside pocket of his slightly rumpled coat and removed the letter he had stored there. He had read the damn thing so many times that he almost had it memorized, but he made a show of glancing down at the flamboyant handwriting.

“Yes, yes, I recall my own words quite clearly,” Charlotte interrupted testily. “But that is not the point.”

Baxter doggedly continued:

“I fail to see why you must repeat aloud everything on the page, Mr. St. Ives.”

Baxter pressed on:

“Enough, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte picked up a small volume bound in red leather and slapped it smartly against the desktop to get his attention.

Baxter glanced up from the letter. “I believe I meet most of your requirements, Miss Arkendale.”

“I am certain that you do meet a few of them.” She favored him with a frosty smile. “Mr. Marcle would never have recommended you to me if that were not the case. Unfortunately, there is one very important qualification that you lack.”

Baxter deliberately refolded the letter and slipped it back inside his coat. “Time is of the essence, according to Marcle.”

“Quite correct.” An anxious expression came and went in her brilliant eyes. “I need someone to fill the post immediately.”

“Then perhaps you should not be too choosy, Miss Arkendale.”

She flushed. “But the thing is, Mr. St. Ives, I wish to employ a man who meets
all
of my requirements, not just some of them.”

“I must insist that I do meet all of them, Miss Arkendale.” He paused. “Or very nearly all. I am intelligent, alert, and amazingly discreet. I confess that I have little interest in pistols. I find them to be generally inaccurate and unreliable.”

“Ah-ha.” She brightened at that news. “There you are. Another requirement that you do not meet, sir.”

“But I have some skill in chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” She frowned. “What good will that do?”

“One never knows, Miss Arkendale. Occasionally I find it quite useful.”

“I see. Well, that is all very interesting, of course. Unfortunately, I have no need of a chemist.”

“You insisted upon a man who would draw little attention. A staid, unremarkable man-of-affairs.”

“Yes, but—”

“Allow me to tell you that I am often described in those very terms. Bland as a potato pudding in every way.”

Irritation began to simmer in Charlotte’s eyes. She leaped to her feet and stalked around the corner of her desk. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, sir.”

“I cannot imagine why.” Baxter removed his spectacles as she began to pace the small study. “Even my own aunt informs me that I am capable of inducing a state of acute boredom in anyone within a radius of twenty paces in less than ten minutes. Miss Arkendale, I can assure you that I not only look dull, I am dull.”

“Perhaps weak eyesight runs in your family, sir. I recommend that your aunt obtain a pair of eyeglasses such as those that you wear.”

“My aunt would not be seen dead in a pair of spectacles.” Baxter reflected briefly on the outrageously stylish Rosalind, Lady Trengloss, as he polished the lenses of his eyeglasses. “She wears hers only when she knows herself to be entirely alone. I doubt that her own maid has seen her in them.”

“Which only confirms my suspicion that she has not taken a close look at you in some time, sir. Perhaps not since you were a babe in arms.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Charlotte spun around to face him. “Mr. St. Ives, the matter of eyesight bears very much on the point I am attempting to make here.”

Baxter replaced his spectacles with cautious deliberation.

He was definitely losing the thread of the conversation. Not a good sign. He forced himself to study Charlotte with his customary analytical detachment.

She bore little resemblance to most of the ladies of his acquaintance. In truth, the longer he was in her presence, the more Baxter was convinced that she was entirely unique.

To his amazement, he found himself reluctantly fascinated in spite of what he knew about her. She was somewhat older than he had expected. Five-and-twenty, he had learned in passing.

Expressions came and went across her face with the rapidity of a chemical reaction in a flask positioned over an intense flame. Strong brows and long lashes framed her eyes. An assertive nose, high cheekbones, and an eloquent mouth conveyed spirited determination and an indomitable will.

In other words
, Baxter thought,
this is one bloody-minded female
.

Her glossy auburn hair was parted in the center above a high, intelligent forehead. The tresses were drawn up in a neat knot and arranged so that a few corkscrew curls bounced around her temples.

In the midst of a Season that featured a plethora of low-cut bodices and gossamer fabrics designed to reveal a maximum amount of the female form, Charlotte wore a surprisingly modest gown. It was fashioned of yellow muslin, high-waisted and trimmed with long sleeves and a white ruff. A pair of yellow kid slippers peeked out from beneath the severely restrained flounce that decorated the hem. He could not help but notice that she had very pretty feet. Nicely shaped with dainty ankles.

Appalled at the direction of his thoughts, Baxter
looked away. “Forgive me, Miss Arkendale, but I seem to have missed your point.”

“You will simply not do as my man-of-affairs.”

“Because I wear spectacles?” He frowned. “I would have thought that they rather enhanced the impression of potato-pudding blandness.”

“Your spectacles are not the problem.” She sounded thoroughly exasperated now.

“I thought you just said they were the problem.”

“Haven’t you been listening? I begin to believe that you are deliberately misunderstanding me, sir. I repeat, you are not qualified for this post.”

“I am perfectly suited to it. May I remind you that your own man-of-affairs has recommended me for this position?”

Charlotte dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Marcle is no longer my man-of-affairs. He is even now on his way to a cottage in Devon.”

“I believe he did say something to the effect that he felt he had earned a long and peaceful retirement. I gained the impression that you were a somewhat demanding employer, Miss Arkendale.”

She stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Marcle’s retirement is not the issue. What is of importance here is that you called upon him one last time and gave him instructions to find his replacement. He has selected me to take over his responsibilities.”

“I make the final decision in this matter and I say that you will not do, sir.”

“I assure you that Marcle thought me eminently qualified for the post. He was pleased to write the letter of recommendation that I showed to you.”

The silver-haired, dapper John Marcle had been in
the midst of packing up his household when he had received his last instructions from his soon-to-be former employer. Baxter’s timing had been perfect. Or so he had thought until he tried to persuade the dubious Marcle that he wished to apply for the position.

Rather than relief at the prospect of solving his last “Arkendale problem,” as he termed it, the conscientious Marcle had felt compelled to discourage Baxter from the outset.

“Miss Arkendale is, ah, somewhat unusual,” Marcle said as he toyed with his pen. “Are you quite certain you wish to apply for the post?”

“Quite certain,” Baxter said.

Marcle peered at him from beneath a solid line of thick, white brows. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend precisely why you wish to engage yourself to Miss Arkendale in this capacity.”

“The usual reasons. I’m in need of employment.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. But there must be other positions available.”

Baxter decided to embroider his story a bit. He assumed what he hoped was a confidential air. “We both know how mundane most such posts are. Instructions to solicitors and various agents. Arrangements for the buying and selling of properties. Banking matters. All very uninspiring.”

“After five years as Miss Arkendale’s man-of-affairs, I can assure you that there is much to be said for the routine and the uninspiring.”

“I am eager for something a bit different,” Baxter said earnestly. “This post sounds as if it will be somewhat out of the ordinary. Indeed, I sense that it will offer me a certain challenge.”

“Challenge?” Marcle closed his eyes. “I doubt that you know the meaning of the word yet, sir.”

“I have been told that I am in a rut. It has been suggested that I add an element of excitement to my life, sir. I am hoping that this post will afford me the opportunity to do that.”

Marcle’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “You say you seek excitement?”

“Indeed, sir. A man of my nature gets very little of that commodity in the normal course of events.” Baxter hoped he was not overdoing it. “I have always lived a quiet life.”

And what was more, he much preferred his peaceful existence, he thought glumly. This damnable mission that his aunt had begged him to undertake was an unwelcome interruption in his placid routine.

The only reason he had allowed himself to be talked into it was because he knew Rosalind well. She had a flair for the dramatic—her greatest regret was that she had never gone on the stage—but she was not given to foolish fancies and feverish imaginings.

Rosalind was genuinely concerned about the circumstances surrounding the murder of her friend, Drusilla Heskett. The authorities had declared that the woman had been shot by a housebreaker. Rosalind suspected that the killer was none other than Charlotte Arkendale.

Baxter had agreed to look into the situation on his aunt’s behalf.

A discreet inquiry had turned up the information that the mysterious Miss Arkendale happened to be in need of a new man-of-affairs. Baxter had seized the opportunity to apply for the post.

He reasoned that if he could talk his way into the position he would be ideally situated to conduct his investigation.
With any luck he would resolve the matter in short order and be able to return to the calm refuge of his laboratory.

Marcle exhaled heavily. “It’s true that working for Miss Arkendale can sometimes produce an element of excitement, but I am not altogether certain it is the type of adventure you would enjoy, Mr. St. Ives.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“Believe me, sir, if it’s excitement you crave, you would do better to take yourself off to a gaming hell.”

“I don’t enjoy games of chance.”

Marcle grimaced. “I assure you, a lively hell would be infinitely less maddening than embroiling yourself in Miss Arkendale’s affairs.”

Baxter had not considered the possibility that Charlotte Arkendale was a candidate for Bedlam. “You believe her to be mad?”

“How many ladies of your acquaintance require a man-of-affairs who can also undertake the duties of a bodyguard, sir?”

An excellent question, Baxter thought ruefully. The entire matter sounded more bizarre by the moment. “Nevertheless, I wish to apply for the post. It is obvious why she needs a new man-of-affairs. You are retiring, after all, and she must replace you. But perhaps you would be good enough to explain why Miss Arkendale is in need of a bodyguard?”