The puppy sighed and leaned against Belle’s chilled feet, imbuing them with welcome warmth. This was the second time Lord Terrance had foiled her attempt to reach his home to help a member of his family. First in London, and now in Cheshire.
The last time she had lost her reputation and, sadly, he his father. If his mother’s fear of a ghost haunting Clearview was true, the repercussions of her failure this time might fall on Lady Terrance’s head.
Fists clenched, Belle forced back tears. Not again. She would not, must not, let him stop her again. But how to gain entry to a home that was barred to her?
RUFUS RODE AWAY with his temper as frozen as the surroundings. By the time he entered his home, some of his ire had thawed. Yes, he had behaved badly, but surely he had been provoked? The woman had abused his mother’s good graces in order to reach him. He had to forbid her to come here.
Clearview’s cavernous entryway was as deserted as the landscape of blowing snow outside. The cold delved deep into his bones, and his wet clothes added to his misery. “Felton!”
His butler’s footsteps echoed as Rufus slapped his riding hat across his knee. White slush sprinkled on the marble floor.
“My lord.” Felton’s voice was smooth and calm as he approached. “Did you have a pleasant ride?”
“No. It will be a miracle if I do not catch my death of cold. If I am not warm, well fed, and undisturbed for the rest of the night, there will be hell to pay.”
His butler’s gaze searched the vast entry hall and the wide stairs curving upward. “Er, my lord, did you not find the puppy?”
Rufus ignored the question. The last thing he wanted to talk about was that ungrateful dog. He had spent hours in the storm searching for the hound, got knocked down for his efforts, and then the pesky hound had taken the lady’s side and deserted him. How had his five-month-old wolfhound, Earnest, ended up in Lady Belle’s company in the first place?
He shrugged out of his father’s greatcoat, tempted to wish the intractable hound good riddance. He had put on this unwieldy coat because the confounded dog had soiled Rufus’s garment. All in all, he had been thoroughly ill-used this wretched night.
His scowl, in combination with the wet stain of snow on the greatcoat’s rear, should give Felton all the explanation he needed. Rufus headed for the stairs and ordered his valet to be rousted from whatever corner of the wine cellar the man had secreted himself. “And he had better not be jug-bitten.”
“Rufus.”
The voice belonged to the last person he wished to speak with tonight. At the top of the first flight of stairs, he stopped and stood out of the entryway chandelier’s candle glow.
“I can see you perfectly well, so there is no need to hide,” his mother said.
He leaned over the banister. The open drawing room doors flanked Constance Isabel Frances Marlesbury, Countess of Terrance. His mother’s full cheeks and curly blond hair made her appear younger than her two and fifty years.
Her face was as familiar to him as his, yet he understood her less than he did the hound. He could not remember a time when she had been less than good-natured. Even when he came home with the news that his father had unexpectedly died, his mother had merely worn a tired smile and murmured, “How like him.”
“I am fatigued beyond measure,” he said. “I have had a most disagreeable experience and simply wish to rid myself of the memory. No,” he added before she could ask, “I do not wish to discuss it.”
“I see,” Lady Terrance said. “Well, once you clean up, would you be kind enough to lend me your ear? I have news.”
“If it is about that Marchant woman, I have nothing to say on that quarter either. In fact, I have advised her she is not to call on us and is unwelcome in this house.”
He gave a curt bow and continued on his way. The shock on his mother’s face told him she had indeed invited Lady Belle. The knowledge burned his gut. So, his mother had written to her old friend, the Marquess of Alford, Lady Belle Marchant’s grandfather. True, he was a family friend, as had been Lady Belle’s late father, an earl in his own right. But his mother had written to ask for help about a ghost?
Even if she did have such irrational fears, why not come to him? His father had held a low opinion of him, but did that conviction also grip his mother?
His shoulders dropped as he entered his room. He stripped off his neck cloth with a vicious jerk, ignoring the burn.
“Gently, my lord.” Ellison stepped away from the candles he lit by the bedside. “We have hope of reusing the material.”
“What do I care about the deuced cloth? And let the devil take my mother for ruining our name yet again.”
How could she be convinced of something as scatterbrained as their home being haunted? Worse, she must have discussed the idea with strangers. Or had that Marchant woman planted the worry in his mother’s heart? How long had they been writing?
His valet slid away Rufus’s fitted jacket, wool waistcoat, linen shirt and breeches, soggy from his fall. Rufus eased himself into a warmed robe and tightened the sash. The hearth’s heat and smoky scent drew his gaze to the flames.
He accepted the glass of port Ellison offered and dismissed him. Restless, he strode to the window and stared at the bleak, white landscape. The storm swirled around the wide rolling grounds. He could barely make out his mother’s rose garden or the elm trees that lined the pathway to the house.
Surprisingly, he had to fight an urge to go to the inn tonight to ensure Lady Belle had arrived safely. Remembering her tears, he worried that his harsh words might have unduly upset her. He had just taken a sip of the port, trying to let its familiar bite ease the discomfort of his guilty conscience, when a discreet tap told him his bath awaited next door. He entered the sitting room and discharged his valet with strict instructions he was not to be disturbed.
The door closed with a soft click. Rufus shrugged off his robe and stepped into the steaming bath water. He sank into the tub and folded his long legs to submerge as much of his body as he could. Slowly, the water’s heat soaked into him and drove away unpleasant memories, but his head continued to pound.
He winced as his fingers brushed the sticky spot on his head. He soaked a thick cotton washcloth and dabbed gingerly at the tender area. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rinsed the cloth and repeated the action until no more blood flowed.
A rap of the shutters startled him, and he dropped the cloth. Outside, the wind howled mournfully. The shutters rattled and then held. Cinders sparked as coals shifted, and the fire bathed the room in an orange glow.
He sighed and relaxed into the water, releasing the night’s troubles, most prominent of which was his encounter with Lady Belle.
At a knock, he frowned. He had said no disturbances. A hushed argument preceded what must have been a struggle for the handle before the door was flung open, bringing in a gust of cold air.
“Rufus,” his mother said, entering the room. “I must speak with you.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” Ellison said. “I tried to dissuade her ladyship but—”
The door slammed, cutting off Ellison’s excuses.
“Madam!” Rufus said, indignant at her storming in while he was in the bath. He hurriedly spread a towel across the hip bath. “Can this not wait?”
The countess strode toward the tub, looking to be in high dudgeon. “No, it cannot. What did you mean when you said Lady Belle is unwelcome here?”
“I meant what I said.”
“But why? How? Did you meet her on the road?”
“More like she met me,” he murmured, remembering hearing Earnest’s frenzied barks. Then a carriage careened out of the night. Goodwin reared. Rufus frantically drove his mount to the edge of the road. Goodwin stumbled, and Rufus flew toward the ground. He hit it hard, pain slicing through his head and blocking out the wor
ld in a blazing white light. His last thoughts had been of the barking pup and wondering if he had been trampled by frightened horses.
He came back to the present as his mother said, “You do not make sense. I have been expecting Lady Belle all afternoon and was worried the storm delayed her. If you have seen her, is she well? If she is not coming tonight, when will she arrive?”
“Pray, calm yourself,” Rufus said in a soothing tone. “I have dealt with the matter.”
His mother wrung her hands, looking worried now. “Rufus, what have you done?”
“It would be more accurate to ask what did she do? Did she run me down with her carriage? Yes. Did she steal our dog? Yes. Did she talk rubbish about ghosts and haunted houses? Yes. Did she . . .” He had almost said, Did she steal my heart with one enchanting smile? Yes!
Covered from neck to toe in white, she had looked like a lily in a winter garden. And like a lovesick pup, he had wanted to stay with his head on her lap, gazing up at her. He could hardly admit that to his mother. The thoughts bedeviled him enough. His head began to ache again.
“Then she had the temerity to fling snowballs at me.” Even as he said it, an urge to laugh bubbled in his chest. Seeing his mother’s eyes light up with interest effectively doused that humorous germ.
“How extraordinary,” Lady Terrance said, and he could tell she was struggling to keep her lips still.
“I wonder where she came by her ideas about a ghost at Clearview?” He gave his mother a piercing glance.
That satisfyingly killed his mother’s merriment. She backed away as she said, “How should I know? From what Alford has told me, his granddaughter is a well-behaved, kind child. One whose manner is tender and sweet and respectable. Certainly not someone to have flights of fancy. Or fights in the snow. Are you sure the young woman you ran into was my Belle?”
“Your Belle?” He could not recall ever being her Rufus.
“Well, Rufus, I feel I do know her. She sounds a charming girl. There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake. Lady Belle Marchant is drawn to scandal, and I will not have her here.”
“Oh, dear.”
His mother departed before he could question her more on this havey-cavey business about alleged spirits.
The water had cooled while they spoke, his head still throbbed, and the topic of conversation had done nothing to ease the pain. He lost all interest in relaxing and stood.
Cold air brushed against his bare skin, and he shivered as he stepped out of the tub and dried himself before shrugging on his robe. Sighing, he leaned against the fireplace mantle and caught sight of his father’s gold watch. A new purchase, by the polished look of it. He lifted the timepiece. The watch lay heavy on his palm and heavier on his heart.
On its backside was a tiny inscription. As he squinted at the words, the candles flickered out. A gust of wind descended into the fireplace and left scattered embers in its wake. The room went pitch-black, the temperature dropped, if possible, and a vaguely familiar odor invaded the room.
Rufus dropped the watch on the mantle and searched for a brimstone match. All the while, he bellowed for Ellison.
Running footsteps were followed by the handle jiggling. That was followed by a knock before his valet said, “My lord, you have locked the door.”
“How could I lock it when I do not have the key?” he said with impatience. “The damned candles have gone out, as has the fire. You probably used inadequate coal. Wait, while I find my way to you.” He took a couple of steps, and his foot struck the metal bath, causing pain to shoot up his leg. He swore, shaking his foot to ease the pins and needles, then hobbled over to the door and reached for the handle. Ice stung his palm, and he jerked his hand back.
His valet shouted in a high-pitched voice, “My lord, the handle be icy cold. It is bewitched. I . . . I shall go for help.”
“Ellison,” Rufus said in a deadly calm voice, “stay where you are, and do not spout such idiocy.” Using the sleeve of his robe, he grabbed the handle again, turned and pulled. The door remained stubbornly in place and then suddenly gave way. He stumbled back.
Rufus pointed at the handle. “See, nothing but a sticky door. See that you oil the hinges so we avoid a repetition.”
Ellison delicately reached out to touch the handle. “It seems fine now, my lord.”
“Of course, it is fine. I have warmed it with my touch.”
The valet stared at the handle with a doubtful expression.
“You are not to say another word about a haunting to me or anyone else,” Rufus said, then added in a threatening tone, “If I find you have spread tales, especially to my mother, I will throw you out without a farthing to buy yourself ale. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Then get on with your duties.”
Unsettled, Rufus returned to his bedroom. He should have come home directly after his father died. Then he could have accomplished his two main goals—searched for his father’s killer and cared for his family and servants. They apparently needed taking care of. Ellison was scared of shadows. His mother apparently imagined ghosts roamed the corridors. As for his sister, he had been home for days, and she had yet to greet him.
He paced around the bed. He should not blame his mother for turning to someone else for help. After all, he had not been here to comfort her after her husband died. But he was home now. He could make her trust in his goodness again, love him again, as she had when he was a child.
Beast. Rufus cringed at Lady Belle’s unfair charge. Yes, he had erupted until he had sounded like a beast, but she had provoked him. Still, her allegation stung because it echoed his family’s, his friends’, even his Regent’s, recent view of him. He paced to the window, flung open the curtains, and glared at the wintry landscape. It glittered back, cold and barren, like prison walls.
I am not a monster. A fine way to prove that to the world would be to clear all lingering suspicion that he had murdered his father.
Chapter Two
An oppressive mantle settled across Belle’s shoulders as her coach clattered past the iron gateway guarding Lord Terrance’s manor house. If only her carriage had not crossed his path last night. If only she had met his mother first.
She stopped herself. If onlys were as useless as snowballs thrown at a rock wall—or a man like Lord Terrance. The fact was, her vehicle had run across him, and he had forbidden her to come to his home. However, since his mother needed her, she must find a way to buck his frosty rebuff.
The carriage rounded a bend, and Clearview Manor came into view. Bare vines draped the medieval sandstone and brick building. High above, snow-capped gargoyles crouched over corner turrets, and rows of icicles stabbed downward from the eaves, like armed weapons awaiting the order to fire.
The conveyance drew to a halt, and the coachman jumped down to open the door. Normally, Belle would be the first to rush out, but a vision of Lord Terrance’s furious demeanor kept her soles planted to the floor. She reasoned that she should wait for her companions to venture out first. But her maid Mendal wore a disapproving frown that rivaled one of those gargoyle’s expressions and stayed in her seat, as if she never meant to leave the carriage.
At Belle’s feet, the pup showed no sign that he wanted to go near the imposing manor. Despite his cowardly stance, Belle was pleased with his calm disposition. His behavior had changed dramatically since he instigated the carriage accident, and that suggested he had potential. On Belle’s arm, which was encased in a long leather glove she had procured from the innkeeper, the owl sat and solemnly watched the dog, as if unsure about his changed character.
If the dog and her maid refused to get out, that left one last possibility. She turned to the man beside her who smelled of fresh baked bread. The moment the village innkeeper informed her that Mr. MacBride and Lady Terran
ce were close acquaintances, Belle had worked hard to persuade the baker to act as her escort.
She gave him a gentle elbow nudge. “Sir, would you please announce our arrival?”
The baker, shaking in his seat, refused to budge.
“There is nothing to fear, sir. Lady Terrance is your friend. She will be thrilled you have come to visit.”
“But ah havena brought anything.” He rolled his “r” in a strong Scottish brogue. “We should go get a few loaves.”
“We are not leaving after coming all this way, Mr. MacBride.”
The man did not respond, and with a defeated sigh, Belle accepted the coachman’s help and stepped out herself.
The puppy followed, sniffing at the snow. He got a nose full of white powder and sneezed.
With grave misgiving, Belle contemplated the wide stairs that led to the imposing double doors. No one had come to greet them. She was unsure if she should be glad or worried.
The last time she had approached Lord Terrance’s home was still fresh and mortifying. Then, it had been a clear spring night, at the tail end of her second Season, with a full moon in brilliant display. Belle’s escort had tripped while he exited the carriage and landed on top of her, tearing her gown. From that point onward, the situation had gone from bad to worse.
Behind Belle, Mendal alighted onto Clearview Manor’s sunny, snow-covered courtyard. Ignoring her maid’s appalled protest, Belle handed her the spare glove and then the owl.
Finally, Mr. MacBride, too, stepped outdoors and offered Belle his arm. They were preparing to ascend the stairs when a clatter of hoofs sounded. MacBride jumped, and Belle’s heart thudded.
“Ach, it be Lord Terror!” The baker whispered Terrance Village’s nickname for their lord of the manor. “Ah am dun for. Why ever did ah listen to me wife when she said ta take ye here? She has not said a thing worth listening to since we married.”
Afraid he would run away, Belle took a firm grip on his hand, prepared to drag him up the steps, if necessary. The horseman drew to a halt, and Mr. MacBride let out an audible sigh.
A Beastly Scandal Page 2