Page 53 of Affair

“Rubbish.” She scrambled off the sofa and shook out her skirts. “You seek to make excuses. I expected better of you, sir.”

He swung around to confront her. “I am not making excuses. I am attempting to be practical.”

“Indeed.” She drew herself up proudly. “And what of your precious reputation, Mr. St. Ives?”

“It so happens that this charade of an engagement we have concocted provides us with the perfect cover for an affair.”

Charlotte seethed. “This charade, as you call it, was created by you and is designed to last only as long as it takes us to find the villain who murdered Drusilla Heskett.”

“There is no reason it cannot continue after we have achieved our primary goal.”

“The usual engagement lasts a year, at best.”

“I would not presume to estimate the lengths of your previous liaisons, but mine, on average, have lasted about two months or less.”

“That is no great recommendation, sir.”

“It’s the bloody truth. Well?” He narrowed his gaze. “What is your answer? Are you interested in having an affair with me or not?”

She was trembling, not from passion this time, but from outrage. She lifted her chin. “Surely you do not expect an immediate response? I shall give you my decision after I have had an opportunity to study the matter more closely.”

“Bloody hell.” Baxter swept out a hand to indicate the sofa. “After what just took place, you tell me that you must give the matter further study?”

She smiled coolly. “As I often advise my clients, one must not make important personal decisions in the heat of passion.”

His jaw tightened. Without a word, he started toward her, his booted feet soundless on the carpet.

Charlotte braced herself. Pushing Baxter to the edge of his self-control was a risk, albeit not a physical one. She knew deep in her bones that he would never hurt her. But there was a strong element of unpredictability in this situation.

Before she could discover what he intended, one of the floorboards in the hallway outside the study gave out a groan. She froze.

Baxter halted, too. He glanced at the door and then frowned at Charlotte. “One of your staff?”

“No.” She whirled around to stare at the closed door of the study. “I told you, my housekeeper is gone for the entire night. It cannot be Ariel. We would have heard your aunt’s carriage arrive.”

Footsteps thudded in the corridor. Charlotte realized that someone was running down the hall toward the door at the rear of the small town house.

“Bloody hell.” Baxter launched himself forward. “Stay here.” He yanked open the door and raced out into the front hall.

Charlotte picked up a heavy silver candlestick in one hand, grabbed her skirts with the other, and ran after him.

Darkness greeted her. Someone had extinguished the wall sconce that she had lit earlier. The only light was that which spilled from the study.

Footsteps echoed from the back of the house. Two sets. Baxter’s and the intruder’s.

She plunged into the inky depths of the hallway.

A cold draft told her that the back door was open. She could see the dim glow of moonlight at the end of the corridor. The intruder was already outside. He had fled into the garden.

She came to a halt in the doorway, straining to see into the shadows. There was no sign of anyone slinking through the bushes.

“Baxter? Where are you?”

There was no response.

Panic welled in Charlotte. The housebreaker had no doubt been armed. She had heard no pistol shots but many footpads preferred the silence of the blade. Visions of Baxter wounded, perhaps dying in the vicinity of the rose bushes, impelled her forward into the night.

“Baxter. Oh, my God, where are you? Speak to me, Baxter.”

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