Page 61 of Affair

Charlotte turned. “Yes?”

“You did not believe my little charade this morning, did you?” Juliana searched her face. “Not even for a moment.”

“No, not even for a moment.”

“May I ask why? Am I so poor an actress?”

“You are a very convincing actress,” Charlotte said gently. “But I know Mr. St. Ives rather well. He is not the sort to abandon his own unborn child.”

Juliana grimaced. “You are surprisingly naive, considering your choice of career. I will give you one more piece of advice, Miss Arkendale. Do not trust a man who can make you feel passion. Such men are dangerous magicians.”

“I am only too well aware of the risks. I see them every day in the course of my profession. Good day, Miss Post.” Charlotte let herself out of the incense-laced room and closed the door very quietly.

She did not take a deep breath until she was outside on the walk in front of Juliana Post’s small house.

Baxter pondered the idiotic impulse that had prompted him to request his half brother to pay a visit this morning. He did not understand why he had succumbed to the urge to hold this unpleasant conference but he knew one thing for certain. It had been a mistake.

“Well, Baxter, I have answered your summons.” Hamilton stalked back and forth across the laboratory.

It was not an easy task. He was obliged to wend a twisting path between the workbenches, the air pump, and the large stand that held the great burning lens that Baxter used when he needed to generate the most intense heat for an experiment.

Hamilton was, as usual, dressed to the nines. His pleated buff-colored trousers, cream-and-rose-striped waistcoat, elaborately tied cravat, and short, double-breasted coat identified him to all and sundry as a man of fashion.

Baxter eyed him thoughtfully. Hamilton’s clothes always fitted him perfectly and he wore them with a natural, seemingly negligent ease. He was tall and lean and graceful in his movements. His tailors loved him. His gloves were perfectly shaped to his long-fingered hands. His neckcloth was always tied in a rakish manner. His boots gleamed.

Hamilton’s attire was never stained with the residue of old chemicals, Baxter thought. His coat was never rumpled. He did not wear spectacles. The old earl, their father, had had the same innate, self-assured elegance and the ability to set the fashion.

Baxter was well aware that he was the one glaring exception to the commonly held view that the St. Ives men did everything with style.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Baxter said.

Hamilton shot him a quick, searching glance. “I trust you will not waste my time. Have you finally decided to loosen the purse strings?”

Baxter lounged back against one of the workbenches and folded his arms. “Are you short of funds? One would never guess from that expensive new carriage you’ve got parked outside.”

“Damnation, that is not the point, as you are very well aware.” Hamilton whirled around, his shoulders rigid with anger. “I am the Earl of Esherton and I have a right to my inheritance. Father intended for me to have that money.”

“In due course.”

Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “I know that you enjoy the temporary power that you wield over my funds.”

“Not particularly,” Baxter said with great depth of feeling. “I would far rather Father had not burdened me with the task of managing your affairs. It is a bloody nuisance, if you want to know the truth.”

“Do not expect me to believe that. We are both well aware that controlling my inheritance gives you a measure of revenge.” Hamilton came to a halt near the table that held Baxter’s balance instrument. He picked up one of the small brass weights and examined it. “Gloat while you can. I already have the title. In a few years I shall have the fortune.”

“Believe it or not, I expect to survive very nicely without your title or your fortune. But that is not important at the moment. Hamilton, I did not ask you here in order to discuss your financial situation.”

“I should have guessed that you had not changed your mind about the handling of my inheritance.” Hamilton dropped the brass weight back into the pan. He started toward the door. “I may as well be on my way, as it appears that we have nothing to say to each other.”

“Your mother is concerned about you.”

“Mymother.”Hamilton came to an abrupt halt. “My mother spoke to you about me?”

“Yes. She sought me out last night at one of the affairs I attended with my … fiancée.”

“There is no reason why Mama would do such a thing,” Hamilton exploded. “I cannot imagine her doing it. She can barely tolerate you. The very sight of you causes her pain.”

“I am aware of that. The fact that she talked to me about her concerns is certainly proof of her anxious state.”

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