Page 120 of Affair

Baxter had occupied himself with the task of slicing through his bindings. He had been obliged to break the lens of his watch case in order to create a sharp edge. But the makeshift knife had proven effective. The men who had carried him up the staircase a few minutes ago had not noticed that only some shreds of fiber held the rope in place around his wrists.

He remained quiet a moment longer, mulling over possibilities, contingencies, and probabilities.

As in the case of any good experiment, chemical or alchemical, it all came down to fire. And as in any interesting experiment, there was always the risk of an explosion.

Baxter stirred, groaned, and opened his eyes.

A short, squat, heavily built man, who had been lounging on a stool several feet away, surged to his feet. A large pistol was stuck into his belt. He gave Baxter a relieved, gap-toothed grin.

“Here now. Decided to wake up, did ye?” The guard came to stand over him. “About time. The magician’s been waitin’ for ye. Said I was to send him the signal when ye opened yer eyes. Reckon I’d better get to it.”

“A moment, if you please.” Baxter smashed his booted foot into the guard’s leg.

The heavy man muttered a choked yelp, staggered back, and clawed at the pistol in his belt. “Ye stupid cove. That won’t do ye any good.”

Baxter snapped the remaining threads of rope around his wrists and rolled up off the floor in a single motion.

The guard’s eyes widened at the sight of Baxter’s untied hands. He reeled to the side but his injured leg gave way. Baxter was on him in an instant. He slammed a fist into the guard’s jaw.

The pistol clattered on the floor. Baxter scooped it up, cocked it, and got to his feet. He aimed the weapon at the man’s broad midsection.

“I’m not accounted a good shot, but this is a very large target.”

The guard blinked several times and looked quite baffled. “The magician said ye’d be right muddleheaded and slow when the effects of the incense wore off.”

“The magician was wrong,” Baxter said softly. “Now, tell me about the bloody signal device.”

Charlotte tugged desperately on the length of rope that tethered her wrists to the post of the vast crimson bed. She had been struggling with the knot ever since the kidnappers had left her alone in the chamber.

She had some range of movement because of the extension of the rope, but the knot itself was still tight. If she sat straight up, she could raise her hands as high as the velvet fringe of the hangings but that was as far as she could go.

The bed was massive. Its four heavily carved posts were adorned with images of strange, mythical creatures. Snakes, dragons, and phoenixes were so finely wrought that they appeared to writhe in the wood.

She surveyed the stone chamber and concluded that the bed suited the room. A thick crimson and black carpet covered the stone floor. The mantelpiece was fashioned of black granite. Heavy scarlet drapes trimmed with black silk fringe hung from the windows and pooled on the floor.

Everything in the chamber was trimmed in hues of blood red and black. Charlotte recalled Juliana’s choice of hues for her fortune-telling parlor. Black and red were obviously the magician’s colors.

She glanced at the bedside table. It held only a single candle. One of the ruffians who had abducted her had snatched her reticule after she had used it to give his companion a sharp blow to the skull. She did not know what had become of it or the small pistol inside.

She eyed the taper that stood in a black iron stand and wondered how long it would take for the dainty flame to burn through the thick rope that bound her. It was the sort of scientific question that Baxter could no doubt have answered immediately.

The door opened.

Charlotte turned her head quickly, hoping against hope that Baxter would magically appear. From the snippets of conversation that she had overheard during the wild carriage ride to this strange mansion, she had concluded that he had also been kidnapped.

Her stomach clenched when she saw the man in the doorway.

He was not wearing a black domino, nor were his features concealed by the shadows that had masked him the first time she had seen him five years ago. But the searing cold that seemed to emanate from him was unmistakable. She wondered that she had not recognized it instantly the night of the masquerade ball.

She was face-to-face with the monster in the hall.

She saw at once that his true nature was hidden behind a face of extraordinary masculine beauty. Black hair curled over a broad forehead. A fine, straight nose and arrogant cheekbones lent an air of aristocratic breeding. He was dressed in the first stare of fashion. His snow-white cravat was intricately tied. His coat, trousers, and boots were expensively tailored and fitted his tall, lean form to perfection. He wore the garments with an elegant ease, as if he had been born for such style.

He was well camouflaged, Charlotte thought. One had to look closely to see the icy, reptilian intelligence that glittered in his dark eyes.

She sat very still on the crimson quilt and took a steadying breath. Her pulse pounded in her veins. Panic would resolve nothing, she thought. One had to confront evil or all was lost.

She raised her chin a fraction higher and straightened her shoulders. “Morgan Judd, I presume?”

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