Page 11 of Affair

“In truth, Mr. St. Ives is not more than an inch above my own height.”

“You are very tall for a woman.”And graceful and willowy and very, very lovely, Charlotte thought with a rush of sisterly pride. Perhaps it was more in the nature of maternal pride. After all, she reminded herself, she had been responsible for Ariel since the death of their mother.

And Ariel had turned out wonderfully well, Charlotte decided. She was a beautiful young lady of nineteen. Fair haired, blue eyed, and blessed with classical features and, yes, striking stature, she was the living image of their mother.

Charlotte had had many regrets and doubts in the course of the past few years. She had been all too well aware that she could never make up for what had been lost. Ariel had been only eleven when their tall, handsome, affectionate father had died. She had been barely thirteen when they had lost their beautiful, vivacious mother. Then Winterbourne had destroyed the inheritance that would have allowed Ariel freedom of choice in so many things, including marriage.

One of Charlotte’s greatest regrets was that she had been unable to give her sister a Season. With her looks and poise and the education she had received first from their beautiful bluestocking mother and that Charlotte had continued, Ariel would have been a smashing success. What’s more, she thought, her sister would have thoroughly enjoyed the opera and the theater and the excitement of the balls and soirees. She had inherited their parents’ love of art and entertainment. She should have had a chance to meet the people who should have been her social equals. She should have had an opportunity to dance the waltz with a handsome young man.

So many things that should have been Ariel’s had been lost.

Charlotte pulled herself back to the problem at hand. She forced herself to do what she always did when thoughts of the past threatened to lower her spirits. She concentrated on the future. And right now that future included Baxter St. Ives.

“I wish I could feel as certain about Mr. St. Ives as you do.” Charlotte propped her elbow on the morning room table and rested her chin on the heel of one hand.

“He is a perfect man-of-affairs,” Ariel declared.

Charlotte sighed. It was now quite clear that she was the only one in the household who sensed that there was a great deal more to Baxter St. Ives than met the eye. Yesterday Ariel and Mrs. Witty, the housekeeper, had both pronounced themselves well satisfied with Marcle’s replacement. The two were so convinced of their impressions that Charlotte had almost begun to doubt her own instinctive wariness.

Almost, but not quite. She had had a great deal of experience assessing gentlemen, after all, and her intuition in such matters rarely failed her. She could not dismiss it out of hand.

But she was baffled by the fact that the others could not see past the lenses of Baxter’s spectacles to the truth that blazed there.

He claimed to have an interest in chemistry but in her opinion, he was no modern man of science. The man had the eyes of an alchemist, one of those legendary seekers obsessed with the search for the mystical secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone. She could easily envision him hunched over a fiery crucible, concocting experiments that would enable him to transmute lead into gold.

Intense intelligence, unrelenting determination, and a will of iron burned in the amber depths of his eyes. The same qualities were etched into his blunt, strong face. She had sensed something else in him, too, something that she could not quite define. A hint of melancholia perhaps. Which, now that she considered it, was not unexpected.

There was a long artistic tradition of depicting that dark, wistful emotion with the emblems of alchemy. Those who engaged in an endless quest for nature’s arcane secrets were no doubt doomed to experience episodes of despair and disappointment.

Baxter St. Ives was far and away the most interesting man she had ever met, Charlotte admitted to herself. But the same qualities that made him intriguing could also make a man dangerous. At the very least, they made him less than pliable.

She required a man-of-affairs who would take instructions without argument, not one who would demand constant explanations and justifications. She did not think that Baxter would be easily ordered about. At best, he was likely to prove difficult.

“Perhaps now that Mr. St. Ives has a new post, he will be able to afford a new tailor.” Ariel chuckled as she carried her plate back to the table. “His coat certainly did not fit him very well and his waistcoat was quite plain. Did you notice that he was wearing breeches instead of trousers?”

“I noticed.”

She would have been blind had she failed to observe the manner in which the snug breeches had revealed the sleekly muscled outline of his thighs, she thought. She summoned up the memory of Baxter as he sat across from her attired in a rumpled blue coat, unpleated linen shirt, and the conservative breeches and unpolished boots. She frowned slightly. “His clothes were of excellent quality.”

“Yes, but sadly unfashionable, even for a gentleman in his position.” Ariel took a bite of sausage. “And his neckcloth was tied in a very mundane manner. I fear our Mr. St. Ives has no sense of style at all.”

“One does not look for style in a man-of-affairs.”

“Precisely.” Ariel winked. “Which only goes to prove that he is just what he appears to be, a gentleman badly in need of a position. Probably a second son from the country. You know how that is.”

Charlotte fiddled with her coffee cup. “I suppose so.” It was common knowledge that many second and third sons of the country gentry who were not in line for the family farm were obliged to make their livings as men-of-affairs.

“Cheer up,” Ariel said. “I’m quite sure stodgy old Marcle would not have sent St. Ives to you unless he was suitably qualified.”

Charlotte watched as her sister attacked the eggs and sausages on her plate. Her own appetite was normally quite sharp in the mornings but today she was barely able to contemplate the cup of coffee in front of her.

“I don’t know, Ariel. I just don’t know.”

“Really, Charlotte, this mood of gloom is quite unlike you. You are usually so much more enthusiastic in the mornings.”

“I did not sleep well last night.”

That was not the half of it, Charlotte thought. In truth she had barely slept at all. She had tossed and turned for hours, caught in the grip of a deeply troubling sense of unease. Ariel was right, her mood was indeed dark this morning.

---