Page 7 of Affair

“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.”

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