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this day I have no notion of where the money originates. I recommend that if you take this post, you follow my example. Sometimes it’s best not to know all of the facts.”
    Baxter slowly replaced his eyeglasses. “Fascinating. I expect some distant relative died and left an inheritance that has made up for the one that Winterbourne frittered away.”
    “I do not believe that to be the case,” Marcle said slowly. “I succumbed to curiosity a couple of years ago and made some discreet inquiries. There was no such wealthy Arkendale relative. I fear the source of her funds is simply one more peculiar mystery surrounding Miss Arkendale.”
    It was no mystery at all if Rosalind was correct in her conclusions, Baxter thought. The lady was a blackmailer.
    A distinct tapping sound brought his thoughts back to the present. He glanced at Charlotte, who had come to a halt near the fireplace. She was drumming her fingers on the marble mantel.
    “I do not see how Marcle could possibly have imagined you to be qualified for this post,” she said.
    Baxter had had enough of arguing the point. “It is not as if there are a great many men about who can meet your absurd requirements, Miss Arkendale.”
    She glowered. “But surely Mr. Marcle can find me a gentleman who is more suited to the position than yourself.”
    “Have you forgotten? Marcle is halfway to Devon. Would you mind telling me precisely what it is about me that is so unsuitable?”
    “Other than your lack of skill with a pistol?” she asked much too sweetly.
    “Yes, other than that failing.”
    “You force me to be rude, sir. The problem is your appearance.”
    “What the devil is wrong with my appearance? No one could be more unprepossessing than myself.”
    Charlotte scowled. “Do not feed me that Banbury tale. You most certainly are not a potato pudding. Just the opposite, in fact.”
    He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You must know very well, sir, that your spectacles are a poor disguise.”
    “Disguise?” He wondered if he had got the wrong address and the wrong Charlotte Arkendale. Perhaps he had got the wrong town. “What in the name of the devil do you believe me to be concealing?”
    “Surely you are not suffering from the illusion that those spectacles mask your true nature.”
    “My true nature?” Baxter lost his grip on his patience. “Bloody hell, just what am I, if not innocuous and unprepossessing?”
    She spread her hands wide. “You have the look of a man of strong passions who has mastered his temperament with even stronger powers of self-control.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Her eyes narrowed with grim determination. “Such a man cannot hope to go about unnoticed. You are bound to attract attention when you conduct business on my behalf. I cannot have that in my man-of-affairs. I require someone who can disappear into a crowd. Someone whose face no one recalls very clearly. Don’t you understand, sir? You give the appearance of being rather, well, to be quite blunt,
dangerous.
”
    Baxter was bereft of words.
    Charlotte clasped her hands behind her back and resumed her pacing. “It is quite obvious you will never be able to pass for a dull, ordinary man-of-affairs. Therefore, you must see that you would not do at all for my purposes.”
    Baxter realized his mouth was hanging open. He managed to get it closed. He had been called many things, bastard, ill-mannered, and a great bore being among the more common epithets. But no one had ever labeled him a man of strong passions. No one had ever claimed that he looked dangerous.
    He was a man of science. He prided himself on his detached, unemotional approach to problems, people, and situations. It was a trait he had honed to perfection years ago when he discovered that, as the bastard son of the Earl of Esherton and the notorious Emma, Lady Sultenham, he would be forever excluded from his rightful heritage.
    He had been a subject of speculation and gossip sincethe day he was