To Beguile a Beast

Page 16

“The man never gives up,” Lord Hasselthorpe said with contempt. “I predict we’ll dismiss it with hardly any debate. What do you say, Your Grace?”
Lister contemplated the glass of brandy he held in his hand. They were in Hasselthorpe’s study, a pleasant enough room, even if it was done in purple and pink. Hasselthorpe was a sober man with a cool head on his shoulders and the ambition of obtaining the prime minister’s seat—perhaps very soon—but he had a nitwit for a wife. She’d probably done the decorating.
Lister looked at his host. “Wheaton’s bill is pure nonsense, of course. Think what a pension for every idiot who’s ever served in His Majesty’s army would cost this government. But there may be some popular support for the thing.”
“Come, sir, you don’t truly believe it might pass?” Blanchard looked aghast.
“Pass, no,” Lister said. “But there may be a fight. Have you read the pamphlets circulating on the street?”
“The rhetoric of pamphleteers is hardly sophisticated,” Hasselthorpe scoffed.
“No, but they do sway the coffeehouse regulars.” Lister frowned. “And recent events in the Colonies during the war with the French have brought the fate of the common soldier to the forefront of people’s minds. Atrocities such as the massacre at Spinner’s Falls make some wonder if our soldiers are paid enough.”
Hasselthorpe leaned slightly forward. “My brother was killed at Spinner’s Falls. The idea of the massacre being used as some bully point in a pamphleteer’s spouting makes me sick, sir.”
Lister shrugged. “I agree. I merely point out the opposition we will face to defeating this bill.”
Blanchard made his chair creak again as he went into a long ramble about drunken soldiers and thieves, but Lister was distracted. Henderson had cracked the door to the room and poked his head in.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Lister said, interrupting whatever Blanchard was babbling about.
He barely waited for the other gentlemen’s nods before rising and going to the door. “What?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, for disturbing you,” Henderson whispered nervously, “but I have news about a certain lady’s flight.”
Lister glanced over his shoulder. Hasselthorpe’s and Blanchard’s heads were together, and in any case, it was doubtful they could hear him. He turned back to his secretary. “Yes?”
“She and the children were sighted in Edinburgh, Your Grace, not much more than a week ago.”
Edinburgh? Interesting. He wasn’t aware that Helen knew anyone in Scotland. Had she found someplace in Edinburgh to stay, or was she traveling on from there?
He focused once more on Henderson. “Good. Send a dozen more men. I want them to scour Edinburgh, find out if she’s still there, and if she isn’t, where the hell she went.”
Henderson bowed. “Very well, Your Grace.”
And Lister allowed himself a very small smile. The distance between the hunter and the prey had narrowed. Soon, very soon, he’d hold Helen’s sweet neck between his hands.
Chapter Seven
One evening as Truth Teller guarded the monster, the young man did not come at the expected hour. The sun lowered and set, the shadows lengthened in the yew knot garden, and the swallows stopped fluttering and found perches in their cage. When Truth Teller peered at the monster, he saw something pale behind the bars. Curious, he walked closer, and to his astonishment saw that the monster had disappeared. In its place lay a nude woman, her long black hair spread around her like a cloak.
At that moment, the beautiful young man ran panting into the castle courtyard, crying, “Go! Go now!”
Truth Teller obediently turned to leave, but his master called behind him, “Have you seen aught to frighten you today?”
Truth Teller paused but did not turn around. “No.…”
—from TRUTH TELLER
She was avoiding him. By midmorning, when a tray of tea and biscuits were delivered to his study by one of the new maids instead of his maddening housekeeper, Alistair was sure of it. Had he repulsed her with that kiss? Frightened her with his clear intent? Well, to hell with it. This was his castle, dammit; she was the one who’d insisted on disturbing his peace. She couldn’t hide from him now. Besides, he reasoned as he ran down the tower stairs, it was past time to inquire about the morning mail.
When he entered the kitchen, he saw Mrs. Halifax huddled with the cook over a steaming pot on the hearth, and she didn’t see him at first. Near the hall door he’d just entered, the boy and girl played with the puppy. No other servants were in sight.
“Are you come for luncheon?” Jamie asked, clutching the wiggling puppy to his chest. “We’re to feed Puddles a bowl of milk soon.”
“Mind you take him out afterward,” Alistair muttered. He started for the hearth. “And do think of another name for the pup.”
“Yes, sir,” Abigail called behind him.
Mrs. Halifax looked up as he neared, and her eyes widened as if startled by the sight of him. “Can I get you something, Sir Alistair?”
There was wariness in her gaze. Or maybe she was simply appalled that she’d let such a disgusting beast near her, a mocking voice taunted.
The thought made him frown as he said, “I came for my mail.”
The cook muttered something and bent over her pot. Mrs. Halifax glided to a nearby table, where a small bundle of letters lay. “I’m sorry. I should’ve had them sent up.” She held out the bundle.
He took it, his fingers brushing briefly against hers and then frowned down as he shuffled the letters. A reply from Etienne wasn’t there, of course—it was much too soon—but he’d hoped it would be nonetheless. Alistair had been brooding over the Spinner’s Falls traitor since Vale’s letter. Or perhaps it was Mrs. Halifax’s advent and the knowledge of all he’d lost along with his face in that terrible massacre.
“Were you expecting a letter?” Mrs. Halifax interrupted his dark thoughts.
He shrugged and tucked the letters in a pocket. “A missive from a colleague in another country. Nothing terribly important.”
“You correspond with gentlemen abroad?” She tilted her head as if intrigued.
He nodded. “I exchange findings and ideas with other naturalists in France, Norway, Italy, Russia, and the American Colonies. I have a friend exploring the wilds of China right now and another somewhere in deepest Africa.”
“How wonderful! And you must travel as well to visit these friends and explore yourself.”
He stared at her. Was she mocking him? “I never leave the castle.”
She stilled. “Truly? I know you like the castle, but surely you must travel sometimes. What of your work?”
“I haven’t traveled since returning from the Colonies.” He could no longer meet those wide blue eyes, and he glanced away, watching the children play with the puppy by the door. “You know what I look like. You know why I stay here.”
“But…” Her brows knit before she took a step toward him, forcing him to meet her solemn gaze once more. “I know it must be hard to go out. I know people must stare. It must be awful. But to shut yourself up here forever… you don’t deserve such a punishment.”
“Deserve?” He felt his mouth twist. “The men who died in the Colonies didn’t deserve their deaths. My fate has nothing to do with whether or not I deserve it. It’s simply fact: I am scarred. I frighten little children and the sensitive. Therefore, I stay in this castle.”
“How can you bear to live the rest of your life thus?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think of the rest of my life. This is simply my fate.”
“The past can’t be changed. I understand that,” she said. “But can’t one accept the past and still continue to hope?”
“Hope?” He stared at her. She argued her case too intensely for it not to be personal in some way—but in what way he wasn’t certain. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
She leaned toward him, her blue eyes serious. “Don’t you think about the future? Plan for happy times? Strive to better your life?”
He shook his head. Her philosophy was entirely foreign to his way of thinking. “What point in planning for a future when my past will never change? I am not unhappy.”
“But are you happy?”
He turned to the door. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.” He felt her small hand at his arm. He swiveled to look at her again, so bright, so pretty. “How can you live your life without happiness, or even the hope of happiness?”
“Now I know you mock me,” he growled, and wrest his arm free.
He strode from the kitchen, deaf to her protest. He knew she didn’t have it in her to be so cruel, but her very honesty was in some ways more harsh than mocking laughter. How could he think of a future when he had none, when he’d given up all faith of one nearly seven years ago? Even the thought of resurrecting that optimism filled him with a kind of horror. No, better to flee the kitchen and his too-perceptive housekeeper than to face his own weakness.
HELEN WAS OUT front sweeping the step that afternoon when a rumbling made her look up. A great carriage and four was coming down the drive, and the sight was so strange—as she’d already become used to the castle’s isolation—that all she could do was stand there and gape for a moment. Then fear slammed her heart into her ribs. Dear God, had Lister found them?
By rights, Meg or Nellie should be sweeping the step, but the maids were busy turning over the first-floor sitting room. So she’d gone after the step herself following luncheon, maddened by the sight of the weeds growing between the cracks. Which left her standing in a rumpled apron armed only with a broom. She didn’t even have time to try and hide the children.
The carriage rolled majestically to a stop and a bewigged footman jumped down to set the step and open the door. A very tall lady emerged, bowing her head to clear the carriage roof. Helen nearly dropped to the ground in relief. The lady wore an elegant cream dress with a striped underskirt and a lace cap topped by a straw hat. Behind her was a shorter, plump lady, all in lavender and yellow with a great frilly cap and bonnet framing her jolly red face. The tall lady straightened and frowned at Helen through a pair of formidable and rather odd spectacles. They were large, entirely round, and had thick black frames with an X between the eye pieces.
“Who,” the woman said, “are you?”
Helen curtsied, rather well she thought, considering she was holding a broom. “I’m Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s new housekeeper.”
The tall lady raised her eyebrows skeptically and turned to her companion. “Did you hear that, Phoebe? Chit says she’s Alistair’s housekeeper. Does it seem likely to you that he’s hired a housekeeper?”
The shorter, plump lady shook out her skirts and smiled at Helen. “Since she said she’s the housekeeper, Sophie, and since she was sweeping the step as we arrived, I think we must assume that Alistair has indeed obtained a housekeeper.”
“Hmm,” was all the tall lady said to that. “You might as well show us in, girl. I doubt Alistair has a decent room, but we’re staying nonetheless.”
Helen felt her face warm. It’d been quite a while since she’d last been called a girl, but the lady didn’t seem to mean anything by it.
“I’m sure I can find something,” she said, not sure at all. If she set the maids to cleaning two of the spare rooms right away, they might be ready by nightfall. Might.
“Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves,” the shorter lady murmured.
“Should we?” wondered her companion.
“Yes.” Was the firm reply.