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of Baxter’s spectacles to the truth that blazed there.
    He claimed to have an interest in chemistry but in her opinion, he was no modern man of science. The man had the eyes of an alchemist, one of those legendary seekers obsessed with the search for the mystical secrets of the Philosopher’s Stone. She could easily envision him hunched over a fiery crucible, concocting experiments that would enable him to transmute lead into gold.
    Intense intelligence, unrelenting determination, anda will of iron burned in the amber depths of his eyes. The same qualities were etched into his blunt, strong face. She had sensed something else in him, too, something that she could not quite define. A hint of melancholia perhaps. Which, now that she considered it, was not unexpected.
    There was a long artistic tradition of depicting that dark, wistful emotion with the emblems of alchemy. Those who engaged in an endless quest for nature’s arcane secrets were no doubt doomed to experience episodes of despair and disappointment.
    Baxter St. Ives was far and away the most interesting man she had ever met, Charlotte admitted to herself. But the same qualities that made him intriguing could also make a man dangerous. At the very least, they made him less than pliable.
    She required a man-of-affairs who would take instructions without argument, not one who would demand constant explanations and justifications. She did not think that Baxter would be easily ordered about. At best, he was likely to prove difficult.
    “Perhaps now that Mr. St. Ives has a new post, he will be able to afford a new tailor.” Ariel chuckled as she carried her plate back to the table. “His coat certainly did not fit him very well and his waistcoat was quite plain. Did you notice that he was wearing breeches instead of trousers?”
    “I noticed.”
    She would have been blind had she failed to observe the manner in which the snug breeches had revealed the sleekly muscled outline of his thighs, she thought. She summoned up the memory of Baxter as he sat across from her attired in a rumpled blue coat, unpleated linen shirt, and the conservative breeches and unpolished boots. She frowned slightly. “His clothes were of excellent quality.”
    “Yes, but sadly unfashionable, even for a gentleman in his position.” Ariel took a bite of sausage. “And his neckcloth was tied in a very mundane manner. I fear our Mr. St. Ives has no sense of style at all.”
    “One does not look for style in a man-of-affairs.”
    “Precisely.” Ariel winked. “Which only goes to prove that he is just what he appears to be, a gentleman badly in need of a position. Probably a second son from the country. You know how that is.”
    Charlotte fiddled with her coffee cup. “I suppose so.” It was common knowledge that many second and third sons of the country gentry who were not in line for the family farm were obliged to make their livings as men-of-affairs.
    “Cheer up,” Ariel said. “I’m quite sure stodgy old Marcle would not have sent St. Ives to you unless he was suitably qualified.”
    Charlotte watched as her sister attacked the eggs and sausages on her plate. Her own appetite was normally quite sharp in the mornings but today she was barely able to contemplate the cup of coffee in front of her.
    “I don’t know, Ariel. I just don’t know.”
    “Really, Charlotte, this mood of gloom is quite unlike you. You are usually so much more enthusiastic in the mornings.”
    “I did not sleep well last night.”
    That was not the half of it, Charlotte thought. In truth she had barely slept at all. She had tossed and turned for hours, caught in the grip of a deeply troubling sense of unease. Ariel was right, her mood was indeed dark this morning.
    “Have you told Mr. St. Ives precisely why you are in need of a bodyguard?” Ariel asked.
    “Not yet. I instructed him to return this afternoon so that I could explain the exact nature of his duties.”
    Ariel’s eyes widened. “You mean