Page 88 of Affair

“Charlotte?” Baxter came to a halt and stood looking down at her. “Good God, what is it? Did I tread on your toes?”

She shook off the gloomy mood with an act of will. “No, of course not.” She managed a smile. “I thought we did rather well, sir. We did not disgrace ourselves by sinking to the bottom out here among the pretty yachts.”

His hand clenched fiercely around hers. “No, we did not. We managed to stay afloat.”

“That bodes well, don’t you think?” She heard the illconcealed hope in her own voice. And then she caught sight of Ariel’s blond head, unmistakable with its garland of delicate sea fronds. “Baxter, Norris has just gone over to Ariel to claim his dance. You had best be on your way.”

“Yes.” Baxter turned abruptly and hauled her quickly to a shadowed corner near the terrace. “Wait here. I shall not be long.”

“Be careful.”

He did not respond. He surreptitiously removed his pocket watch, glanced briefly through the glass cover to orient himself, and then turned and walked out onto the darkened terrace.

Charlotte watched him go, amazed at how easily he appeared to vanish into the night. She knew that he was headed toward the conservatory at the rear of the great house but she lost sight of the black domino before he had got as far as the stone steps. One moment she was aware of the outline of the black cape against the hedge and the next she could not see it.

A liveried servant appeared with a tray of glasses. Charlotte took some lemonade and then turned to watch Ariel and her new partner. Norris was dressed as an ancient Roman. He looked quite dashing in his toga but she noticed that he did not seem to be conversing with his usual enthusiasm.

The minutes ticked past. Charlotte grew restless. She should have accompanied Baxter, she thought. She should not have allowed him to convince her to stay down there.

She silently counted the seconds as she listened to the music and watched the dancers. Her uneasiness increased. She could only hope that Baxter had been able to locate Norris’s bedchamber quickly and that it would not take long to conduct the search.

She was attempting to follow Ariel and Norris as they swung into a long, whirling turn when a sudden whisper of night air from the terrace stirred the flounces of her forest green gown.

Startled, she turned quickly and saw a familiar figure in a black domino standing in the shadows on the other side of the open French doors. In the darkness, it was difficult to see him clearly. The hood of his black cape was pulled down low over his masked face. The edges of the cape were closed, concealing his hands. The folds swirled around his black boots.

“Baxter,” Charlotte whispered.

She ought to be vastly relieved by the sight of him, she thought as she hurried through the French doors. He had obviously accomplished his goal quite quickly. She could not explain why little frissons of ice were jangling her nerves. Perhaps it was because the night air seemed several degrees colder than it had a few minutes ago. She was only steps away from the man in the black domino when she realized that something was wrong. She had made a mistake. It was not Baxter who stood there.

The figure in the cape and mask was too tall, too lean, too elegant. He lacked Baxter’s powerful shoulders and aura of solid strength. Intuitively, she sensed that this stranger was not someone she wished to meet.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” She came to an awkward halt. “I thought you were an acquaintance.”

The man said nothing. Beneath the edge of the half mask, full, sensual lips curved. The folds of the dark cape parted to reveal a single red rose gripped in a black-gloved hand. Silently he held out the blood-red blossom.

Charlotte took a step back. She glanced at the rose and then at the masked face beneath the hood. “I fear you have confused me with someone else, sir.”

“No.” The voice was a raw rasp of sound that lacked any trace of warmth. “There is no mistake.”

She shivered. There was something in the ragged words that called up old terrors. Impossible, she thought. She had never heard this voice. No one could forget such an unnatural sound.

She struggled to suppress her wholly irrational reaction. The poor man had no doubt suffered an injury to his vocal cords, she told herself. Perhaps he had been born with a deformity of the throat or mouth.

She managed a weak smile. “I do not believe that we have met, sir. Please excuse me, I must go back inside. Someone is waiting for me.” She turned to flee.

No, she was not running from him, she thought, irritated. She was merely chilled and anxious to return to the warmth of the ballroom.

“In all your researches into the lives of men, have you ever given consideration to the subject of destiny?”

Charlotte stumbled and nearly fell. She caught herself on the terrace wall.

No, it could not be the monster. The voice was not the same.

She would never forget that other voice. It had been a dark, oily thing that had slithered through the night. This voice was harsh and broken.

She turned slowly to confront the figure. She must not allow her imagination to run riot. Logic and reason, not old fears, were the tools needed to deal with this.

“I beg your pardon. What did you say?” she asked with a calm she did not feel.

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