Beauty Like the Night Page 4

  “Aahk! Ugghk!” gagged Bentley, his face flooding with red as he clawed impotently at his brother’s fists.

  Cam slammed his brother’s head roughly back against the bookshelf. “So you want to see me lose my infernal self-control, Bentley?” he hissed, hitching the cravat a notch higher. “You touch so much as her gloved hand, and by God, see it you surely shall. I’ll relieve you of your ballocks with my own blade.”

  Abruptly, he let go, and Bentley collapsed onto the jumble of books which were scattered about on the carpet. “And reshelve my bloody poetry collection,” he added, striding toward the door. “I’ll not be cleaning up after you ever again.”

  From behind him, Cam heard Boadicea drop to the floor. She darted forward to precede him from the room, haughtily waving her bright orange tail, as if she were the herald of an invading army.

  Cam strode toward the stables, still shaking with rage. A part of him was all too aware that he could have hurt his brother. Cam was physically powerful, and he too easily forgot it. For many years, he’d had to work side by side with his retainers like the lowliest yeoman farmer, just to ensure the estate’s survival. It had given him a strong back and powerful arms. Yet his self-discipline had always been far stronger.

  What in heaven’s name was wrong with him? First Helene Middleton, and now this! Look what the mere mention of the woman had done to him. He’d very nearly throttled a seventeen-year-old boy! In truth, he loved Bentley, and wanted only the best for him. As he did for Ariane and Catherine.

  Yes, the family’s name was still a bit tarnished, despite the fact that Cam had forced his father to restrict his antics to the country these past few years. But now, with their father finally at peace, Bentley could throw off the bad influence and yet make something of his life. He was Cam’s heir, for pity’s sake. Was that what so rankled his brother? Did the thought of Cam’s remarriage remind Bentley that he might easily be supplanted?

  By the time Cam reached the stables he had calmed marginally. He strode past the box stalls and into the tack room, then hefted his saddle onto one shoulder.

  “Beg pardon, m’lord,” came a voice from the shadows. “Would you be in need of a mount?” Shreeves, the groom, stuck his head out of a stall and into a shaft of sunlight. Dust motes danced about his head like a rustic halo.

  “Ah, Shreeves!” said Cam, shifting the weight of the saddle. “Be so obliging as to bring ’round that new bay stallion. I’ve a mind for some exercise.”

  The groom’s face split into a grin as he strode into the corridor. “Aye, if it’s exercise you’re wantin’, you’ll get it. That devil’s a trifle ill-tempered today.”

  Cam smiled grimly. “Aye, well, we’ll make a fine pair, then.”

  “Oh ho! Like that, is it?” The grin widened to reveal a broad gap in his teeth. “Looked as though ’twas young Hell-Bent’s gear being unloaded this morning. Right after that new governess arrived, it was.”

  Cam inwardly smiled at the staff’s nickname for his brother. “Yes, Shreeves, it’s like that. Now fetch me the bay so I can die in style.”

  He carried the saddle out into the daylight, and in another ten minutes, Cam was well on his way to breaking his neck. The stallion was worse than feisty, he was outright spiteful, and it took Cam the better part of half an hour to work the devilment out of the both of them. Soon enough, however, the horse settled down for a long, hard ride, and Cam settled down to decide what to do with Helene. What a task that had always been!

  Cam had first laid eyes on her as a wide-eyed, leggy adolescent, and even then, she was a dark, coquettish beauty in the making. And she had learned from the best. Her mother, Marie Middleton, had been a beautiful French émigré of uncertain origin. The lovely widow had taken London by storm when first she had arrived in England. Before long, she had buried two more marginally respectable English husbands, and only God knew how many lovers.

  Cam’s mother had died a few months after Bentley’s birth, when Cam was in his teens, and Catherine but a child. Randolph Rutledge had cast off his mourning early, and with relish. In truth, the short charade of grief had suited him very ill, for he had never loved his wife.

  Mrs. Middleton had run with a raffish crowd which moved on the fringes of Polite Society. In hindsight, it seemed perfectly natural that such a woman should soon become fast friends with his father. Throughout the gay autumn which followed, Chalcote had buzzed with house parties and hunting, country weekends and picnics. And through it all, Cam had watched the dashing, hoydenish Helene with an inward fascination, for she was everything he dared not be.

  Soon Marie Middleton was his father’s paramour, and because they were so frequently thrown together by self-absorbed parents, Cam and Helene became friends, and partners in crime as well, for no one could ferret out adventure like Helene unleashed on an unsuspecting countryside. Serious even as a child, Cam was shocked to discover his own penchant for mischief under Helene’s wayward influence.

  Their friendship deepened over the course of many months, and soon, a more dangerous sort of attachment began to take root. The years drifted past, until eventually, Helene had bewitched and bedeviled poor Cam to the point that his young cock was incessantly rigid, like a Maypole stuffed into his breeches. He had been utterly humiliated, utterly charmed, and utterly lost in the depths of her blue-black gaze.

  In the end, Cam had been so maddened by desire, he had been unable to help himself. They were close; too close. And ultimately, he had been unable to stop himself from compromising her, by even the most liberal of English standards. Had Marie Middleton wielded any influence among the ton, there would have been a parson’s mousetrap for Cam, and never mind his tender years.

  But what, then, would his life have been like?

  If he were honest, he’d admit having been haunted by that question all too often throughout the years. But the answer was always the same: damned difficult. Certainly, there would not have been his wife’s marriage portion to save Chalcote from his father’s excesses. There would have been no money to fund his sister’s dowry, nor to educate Bentley. In those respects, at least, Cam’s marriage had been worth something. But it was of cold comfort to him now, when he looked back over the last decade of his life, and felt a timeless hunger gnawing at his gut.

  And now ... and now Helene had come back. And to his eye, though she would soon be eight-and-twenty, she had not changed at all. There would be all manner of trouble if he allowed her to stay. His argument with Bentley was but the first instance.

  But bloody hell, the woman invited such remarks! That seductive smile! That saucy hat! That bold, assessing stare! Still, Cam was admittedly hard-pressed to blame her for this one. How dare the boy even dream of bedding Helene? Or any other member of the household? Damn it all, it just was not done.

  Well, it was done, and Cam was shrewd enough to know it. But by thunder, not in his house.

  Already Bentley was too much like their father for Cam’s comfort. Just short of eighteen, the boy was a handsome charmer who looked far older than his years. Bentley had already managed to breach the portals of London’s hells, and Cam knew for a fact that the boy consorted with Haymarket whores and village barmaids every chance he got. Cam just prayed that his brother would not carry out his threat to trifle with Helene.

  Fleetingly, however, he wondered what Helene’s reaction would be. Would she be flattered by the attentions of a younger man? Bentley was handsome enough, and in a few years’ time, he would come into a decent independence.

  Cam remembered with perfect clarity what he had been like at Bentley’s age. He had wanted to bed Helene, and he was quietly determined that nothing was going to stop him. Her mother had barely done so. He had tried to tell himself afterward that it was not his fault. That Helene had been more temptation than any young man could have been expected to resist.

  But in truth, it was no more her fault than his, and the attraction had been more than her body. Cam was alternately angry at their parents for se
parating them, and angry at himself for compromising her. Often, he had even been irrationally angry with Helene for making him want her.

  Beneath him, the horse set a steady course along a familiar bridle path, its powerful muscles rolling under him in a smooth, flowing motion, but Cam had all but forgotten where he was.

  Standing on tippy-toes until her feet hurt, Ariane Rutledge watched the new lady through the crack in the dressing room door. She could barely see. It was just too, too bad! If not for Milford, she could have been under the lady’s bed by now.

  The lady walked all about the room, her forehead wrinkled like Papa’s, and her arms crossed over her ... her front. But Bentley called it something else ... a bosom. She almost let a giggle escape. Uncle Bentley was funny.

  “Gad’s me life!” she had once heard Grandpapa say to Bentley. “If that ain’t a fine rack o’ tits.”

  “Why, that bosom could pretty nearly smother a fellow!” Bentley had answered.

  And then they had laughed and laughed. But they had been talking about Miss Eggers, not this pretty new lady. And now Miss Eggers was ... gone.

  And Grandpapa was gone, too. From what she’d heard Milford say belowstairs, she rather thought Grandpapa had been smothered by Miss Eggers’s tits or bosoms or something, which made no sense at all. Anyway, he was gone. Like Mama was gone. Gone forever, which was different from gone away, like Miss Eggers. They did not think she understood the difference. But she was not a baby anymore. She knew a lot of things.

  Suddenly, the lady came closer. She walked to the window and pulled away the draperies with one fingertip. She stared out through the glass, then went to her dressing table and began lifting up the bottles and jars. Now she was back at the window, peering out again, and nibbling at her thumbnail. Slowly, she lifted her hand and let her fingers rest upon the glass, as if studying someone beyond.

  Perhaps the lady was restless. She knew about restless. Papa used to say it a lot. “Your Mama is just restless,” he would say. And then, he would hold her in his lap, because Mama was usually too busy walking around, being restless. Staring out the window and making gloomy faces. And soon, she was gone forever.

  Suddenly, the lady made a little gasping sound, then let the draperies drop again. Well! Ariane knew what that was all about. She knew that look. She knew what the little sound meant. The watcher was out there. Perhaps he was watching the new lady, too. Ariane shivered. She would not think about him. Not at all. She would not let herself. She would think about the new lady.

  She wondered if the new lady was about to become gone. She sure looked as if she wanted to be. That would be all right, she supposed. If the new lady—Helene—stayed, then Helene would just want her to talk. Talk, talk. That was what they always wanted. They wanted to ask her questions.

  But she would say nothing.

  Mama had said “Do not ever tell!” And “Shh! shh!” she would whisper. “It must be our little secret, Ariane! Don’t answer their questions!” Ooh, it all made her head hurt now. And the worst thing was, she could no longer remember exactly what it was that she was not supposed to tell. She could not remember the secret anymore, no matter how hard she tried.

  Suddenly, something soft and warm touched her leg. Boadicea! Oh, no! But Papa’s cat was very quick. She darted past, and pushed open the door to run across the lady’s bedchamber. Damn and blast and bloody hell! That is what Uncle Bentley would have said! But she did not have time to think about silly Bentley. She moved fast, too. Back through the passageway, toward the schoolroom.

  “Le chat botté!” she heard the lady say in her pretty, lilting voice. “Wherever did you come from?”

  Filled with restless unease, Helene paced the length of her bedchamber, staring at her unopened trunk and wondering what next to do. How dare Camden Rutledge insult her so! Five minutes into their meeting, Cam had leapt to some less than flattering assumptions about her character, and what had she done? She had offered him her friendship, when she ought to have slapped his face and stalked out.

  Helene caught herself up short. She was not being entirely fair. Cam had always been an honorable person, and in Helene’s experience, people changed little. And, really, what would most people have expected her to become? Certainly, Helene had not been brought up in the most respectable of environments.

  And despite Cam’s being her elder, Helene knew perfectly well that throughout their adolescence, she had tormented him—yes, even manipulated him—beyond human bearing. Helene had enticed quiet, responsible Cam into capers that hauled him through hell and back. They had painted all the village weathervanes blue on May Day, replaced all the prayer books with Methodist hymnals on Palm Sunday, and burnt down Mr. Clapham’s hayrick on Guy Fawkes’ Day—accidentally, of course—in a veritable calendar of misadventure.

  And as they got older, matters become far more serious than a few childish pranks. Ah, yes. More serious indeed. Little wonder Cam thought her unfit to teach his daughter. And from the outset of their friendship, neither of them had been, figuratively speaking, an innocent. Helene had been unduly influenced by her mother’s devil-may-care attitudes. Marie had believed that life was short. That life was for the taking. That life was for pleasure. These were the lessons taught her by the guillotine. For a very long time, Helene had known no better.

  Abruptly, Helene threw back her shoulders and pushed aside the memories. Resentment seemed like a safer emotion. And she very much resented being sequestered in this bedchamber, instead of being permitted to see her intended pupil. For what seemed like the tenth time in a quarter hour, Helene strode to the window, drew back the draperies, and stared dully across the rear gardens of Chalcote. This time, however, as she turned away, her eye caught a flash of motion in the distance. She looked again.

  Someone—a man—was walking rapidly along the public footpath which ran from the village proper along the wall of Chalcote’s rear garden. Abruptly, he stopped, then turned to stare. Indeed, he seemed to look quite deliberately at the rear of the house. Helene gasped when his gaze, almost methodically scanning the row of windows, caught and held hers for a long moment. Or at least, it seemed that it had done so.

  An ugly, unpleasant chill ran up her spine. But how fanciful. She was just weary and distracted. The stranger was some five hundred yards away, and on a public path, no less. Indeed, she could not even see his features; just his size, his long, open greatcoat and black hat. She blinked, and looked again. He was continuing on his way, perfectly disinterested in Chalcote and its occupants. Still, the chilly unease lingered. Helene wrapped her arms about her shoulders and shivered. Good heavens, her nerves were overset!

  Suddenly, the door to her dressing closet creaked inward, and Cam’s ginger tabby darted around the bed. How odd. She was quite certain she had shut that door. Nonetheless, Helene greeted the cat, then knelt down and offered her fingertips. But the huge beast did not deign to be scratched, choosing instead to lazily circle Helene’s trunk and portmanteau, pausing to sniff every hinge and handle. And then, as if she had done what she had come to do, the cat turned about and strutted from the room, apparently satisfied.

  Well! It would seem Helene had passed inspection, at least as far as Cam’s cat was concerned. As to the lord and master himself, that was another thing altogether. With a weary sigh, she flopped down onto the wide bed and let herself sink into its thick, downy depths.

  Idly, she let her gaze roam over the furnishings of her chamber. The room was of a good size, and conveniently connected to a passageway that led through a dressing closet, into the schoolroom, and on to Ariane Rutledge’s room beyond. Like all of Chalcote, Helene’s chamber was decorated in a style that was elegant yet comfortable. She found the contrast rather disconcerting, for without, Chalcote was solidly beautiful, the perfect country house. But within, despite its grace and symmetry, there was a bleakness, a sense of melancholy she did not remember from her earlier visits. She doubted it had much to do with Randolph’s demise. Perhaps Cam grieved for
the loss of his wife? And he was quite obviously worried for his child.

  Her feet dangling off the bed, Helene toed off her shoes and let them fall, then curled up in the center of the elegant woolen coverlet. She pressed her nose into the pillow, realizing that she, like Cam’s tabby, was searching for a comforting smell, for some sense of the familiar. Though she had lived more or less alone for years, it suddenly occurred to Helene that she felt terribly lonely in this vast, rambling house. Any sense of homecoming had vanished.

  Yes, returning to Chalcote had been impetuous, she decided, picking aimlessly at a loose thread in the pillowcase. In that, at least, Cam had been entirely correct. Nanny had been right, too. Helene remembered every detail of the argument which had followed her dazed return from Brightsmith’s interview. After gossiping amongst her network of former servants to confirm Helene’s fears, the old woman had been beside herself with worry. Her remonstrations had continued until the day of Helene’s departure.

  “Are you perfectly sure, m’dear, that this is wise?” Nanny had said for the fifth time that morning.

  Helene had felt her exasperation begin to battle the anxiety she had been trying so hard to hide. “Nanny, please!” she had begged. “Have we not been over this time and again? I want to be near you! And I must have a job—”

  “Aye, and a job’s what you’ll get, but o’ what sort, there’s no knowing,” the old woman had insisted with a wag of her gnarled finger. “Now mind me! That Camden Rutledge is his father’s son, and blood’ll tell! Aye, and rich now, too. A man don’t rise up that high—not from where he’s been—with easy ways and a gentle tongue.”

  In frustration, Helene had yanked fast the buckle on her portmanteau, ripping it off and nearly ruining the bag. “I am no longer a child to be nursed, Nanny,” she had insisted, pitching the torn leather strap into the cold hearth. “And I am no longer so easily felled by a shy smile and a pair of smoldering eyes. Moreover, I’ve dealt with men far more sophisticated than the new Lord Treyhern.”