At last he set her down beside Reggie.
She watched as he reached for Reggie. He seemed more hesitant, less certain of himself. Reggie stood still while Father reached to pick her up, but she stared somberly—and with Reggie, as always, defiantly—into his eyes the entire time.
He did not lift her high, simply braced her against his hard chest with his arm around her hips. Reggie hesitated an instant, still staring Father in the eye, before she relented and laid her head on his shoulder. Father held her tight and rocked her back and forth. Reggie’s arms slid around Fathers neck and clasped him tight.
Becky wished she had thought to hug him back. It had all happened so fast, it had never occurred to her. Father had to pull Reggie’s hands away before he could set her on her feet.
Becky had clasped Reggie’s hand, because she could see Reggie wanted to run, to escape before she started crying. Reggie never let anyone see her crying. Her chin had wobbled before she clenched her jaw, but once the urge to escape was past, she stood firm.
Becky waited for Father to impart the admonition he never failed to give them before he traveled away from home.
“Be good,” he said.
Only this time it was a request, not an order. There was a wry smile on his face and rueful understanding in his voice. As though he expected their high spirits to lead them astray, but hoped they would stay safe until he returned.
Becky was not certain how she knew all that from two simple words and a look. But it was absolutely clear to her that he loved her and would miss her while he was gone.
That was her last memory of Father. If only he had disappeared before that miraculous change. She would not have missed the cold and stern father nearly as much as she missed the one who smelled of bayberry and hugged her tight, and said, “Be good” in a way that really meant “I love you.”
Father was dead. He was not coming back. The house had been draped in black for an entire year. The period of mourning was ended today. It was time to start living again. All Becky and Reggie had left was Uncle Marcus, who had exiled himself to this rundown wing of Blackthorne Abbey.
One moonlit night, Becky had seen Uncle Marcus from her bedroom window wearing a black, hooded cloak, racing her father’s stallion, Blanca, across the rolling hills that surrounded the Abbey. She had tried staying up late enough to confront him in the stable. But she always fell asleep in the stable before he came.
The next morning she would be in bed, with no idea how she got there. Reggie said the groom probably brought her to the Abbey door, where the butler called the governess to carry her to bed. But since neither of them had been awake, Becky was left to speculate on the possibility that if she could some night pretend to be asleep in the stable, she might discover it was Uncle Marcus, after all.
Sleeping in the stable. Of course. She should have thought of it sooner.
“I have an idea how we can get Uncle Marcus to come out and see us,” she whispered to Reggie.
“I’m listening.”
“We can talk while we’re finding the way out,” Becky said in a hushed voice, pushing herself up to her knees and then onto her feet. Reggie followed suit. They had left a candle a little ways into the passage, and Reggie picked it up to lead the way.
“Uncle Marcus did not look dicked in the nob to me,” Reggie said when they were far enough into the passage that her voice would not carry back to him.
“Who told you he was crazy?” Becky demanded.
“The groom, and he should know. Ralph has a brother in Bedlam.”
Becky’s brow furrowed. “Bedlam?”
“A hospital for crazy people in Lambeth.”
Becky felt out of curl, imagining Uncle Marcus in such a place. It was not as easy to dismiss the groom’s words as she would have liked. “How does Ralph know that Uncle Marcus is … not well.”
“Ralph said any man who was once as handsome as Uncle Marcus would go crazy if he were so horribly scarred. The servants claim to have heard strange, beastly howls coming from this wing of the Abbey at night. AaaaooOOOOooo,” Reggie howled in her best imitation of a strange beast.
“Stop that!” Becky wished it were not quite so dark. She took a step closer to her sister and the candlelight.
Reggie’s voice softened to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ralph says the reason no one is allowed in this wing of the Abbey is because Uncle Marcus really has become a beast, and that he’d tear a living person limb from limb.”
Becky scoffed, but her heart was thumping hard. “You saw for yourself Uncle Marcus is no beast.”
But she remembered the fearsome look on his face. And the frightening sound of his voice in a rage. And glass shattering against the fireplace.
Nevertheless, she defended him. “I think Uncle Marcus is only sad and lonely.”
“Then why does he refuse to let us see him? We could cheer him up!”
“What if we ran screaming from him instead? What if we looked at him as though he really were a beast? Can you honestly say you would let Uncle Marcus touch you with that awful, frozen hand?”
Reggie visibly shuddered.
“We have only seen his face in the dark and from a distance,” Becky continued. “Imagine what it must look like up close, in the daylight. We both know Uncle Marcus is not a … a beast. The tears prove it. Animals cannot cry. It is only because of the scar on his face, and … and his hand that they call him that.”
“It looks like a bird’s claw to me,” Reggie admitted. “His hand, I mean. Why do you suppose he always wears that leather glove?”
“You know the answer without asking. As scary as that clawed hand looks, think how mutilated his flesh must be. On second thought,” Becky conceded reluctantly, “maybe Uncle Marcus should stay where he is. Maybe that is best for him.”
Reggie’s chin took on a mulish tilt. “But not for us. I miss Uncle Marcus. I refuse to settle for watching and whispering behind a grate. And if I have to scare away one more fusby-faced governess to get his attention, I may resort to something drastic.”
If everything Reggie had done so far did not constitute “drastic” behavior, Becky was afraid to contemplate what antics her sister might employ to drive away the next unlucky governess. Granted, everything they had done so far was intended to pry Uncle Marcus out of hiding. But so far, none of it had worked.
“I have an idea how to get him to come out,” Becky said.
“I am willing to try anything,” Reggie said.
That was exactly what Becky was afraid of. She continued, “When Father died, Uncle Marcus became the Duke of Blackthorne. Now he must marry and produce an heir to carry on the title.”
Reggie was silent for a moment. “So?”
“Don’t you see?” Becky said. “All we have to do is find him a wife. Surely the right woman can pry him out of there.”
“I suppose that would work,” Reggie mused. “But where are we going to find someone willing to marry the Beast of Blackthorne?”
“I came up with the idea. You figure out how to make it work,” Becky said.
They had reached the spot where they had entered the passageway, and Reggie released a latch that opened a doorway beside the fireplace in their bedroom. She pushed her way past the cobwebs, and blinked rapidly as bright sunlight hit her constricted pupils.
Becky brushed frantically at a web that had caught in the curls around her face. It stuck to her fingers even after she had clawed it from her hair. “Reggie, help! I can feel a spider crawling on me. I hate spiders!”
Reggie searched for the offending insect, helping Becky brush away the sticky web. “I don’t see any spider.”
“It must be there. I can feel it!”
“I tell you I cannot find any spider! It is only the web you are feeling.” Reggie pulled the last of the sticky spiderwebs from Becky’s hair and fingers. “There. It is all gone.”
Becky stood still, waiting for the trembling to stop. She saw the disgusted look on Reggie’s face and said, �
�I cannot help it. Spiders scare me.” And had ever since she was six and a spider had crawled down her arm and onto her hand in the dark passageway.
Becky crossed to the canopied bed and let her weak knees buckle as she fell back onto it.
Reggie looked thoughtful. “You have given me an idea.”
“I have?”
Reggie crawled on her knees across the bed to the other side and sat cross-legged beside her. “I know how to lure Uncle Marcus’s future wife to Blackthorne Abbey.”
“You have someone in mind already?” Becky asked, sitting up, astounded.
“Of course. She already knows Uncle Marcus. If you will only think for a moment, you will come up with the name yourself.”
“Eliza! But how can we get her to come here?” Becky asked.
“Uncle Marcus will surely advertise in the Times for another governess. We will simply make sure Miss Sheringham gets a copy of the Times with the advertisement circled, along with a note from us begging her to come and save us from Uncle Marcus.”
“From Uncle Marcus?”
Reggie nodded, a mischievous smile on her face. “She will surely have heard rumors about the monster.”
Becky’s eyes went white around the rims. “Monster?”
“The Beast of Blackthorne. We will simply embellish upon them and make Uncle Marcus seem as fearsome as the rumors. Tell Eliza we fear for our very lives, that the Beast of Blackthorne scares us to death.”
“Like spiders frighten me,” Becky said with a laugh. “I see. It will work! I know it will. I mean, to get her here. But how are you going to get her together with Uncle Marcus?”
“We will worry about that when she arrives.”
Chapter 13
“I will not do it!” Eliza balled up the Times advertisement seeking a “qualified governess to attend Lady Regina Wharton and Lady Rebecca Wharton at Blackthorne Abbey in Kent,” and pitched it into the fire.
Aunt Lavinia sat knitting in an overstuffed chair placed close enough to the fire to catch the additional heat as the newsprint briefly flared, before turning to ash.
“I despise Captain Wharton. With good reason,” Eliza said. “I have no desire to seek employment from him.”
“Captain Wharton is no more, my dear. Enter the Duke of Blackthorne. His Grace, or the duke, if you please.”
“I am the last person His Grace would want in his home, caring for His Grace’s children,” Eliza said.
Aunt Lavinia’s lips puckered as though she had just sucked on a lemon.
“Don’t kick up a dust at me,” Eliza chided her aunt. “They are his daughters. I do not doubt he seduced his brother’s wife. After all, he thought nothing of seducing an innocent like me!”
“That is all in the past. You must move forward, my dear.”
“I cannot do it!” Eliza insisted.
“Hummingbird!” Aunt Lavinia replied.
Eliza felt the urge to laugh at Aunt Lavinia’s rendition of “Humbug!” but choked it back. “I tell you, I cannot! And it is humbug, not hummingbird.”
Her aunt harrumped. The knitting needles clacked furiously. “You can work for him. And you must. Or we are lost.”
Panic rose in Eliza’s breast. She was being urged willy-nilly toward a situation fraught with danger. She paced a well-known path before her aunt’s chair, holding Charlie’s letter, which had accompanied the Times advertisement, clutched in her fist.
Thanks to the Countess of Denbigh, Eliza had been the recipient of each of the previous six Times advertisements for a governess placed during the past year by the newest Duke of Blackthorne. On each occasion Charlie had prompted Eliza to apply for the position of governess.
It had been easy, at first, to throw the advertisements—and Charlie’s notes—away. She would do nothing to help His Grace. Blackthorne had not kept his promise. He had not watched over Julian. The Beau had come home alive. And Julian was dead.
Eliza had mourned Julian as though he were her husband, rather than merely her fiancé. She had draped the hunting box—and herself—in black. During her year of mourning, the scandal had returned to haunt her. Country folk hid their children’s faces from her when she walked down the aisle at church. The gentry excluded her from their holiday celebrations. The Quality gave her the cut direct. Even with her aunt’s company, she had never felt so alone.
Charlie had insisted Eliza come to Denbigh Castle for a visit, but Eliza had not allowed herself that comfort. She did not deserve it. Because the first thing she had felt upon hearing of Julian’s death had not been grief. It had been relief.
From the moment she had accepted Julian’s proposal, Eliza had known it was a mistake. It was all so clear to her—after it was too late to change what she had done.
She had thought she loved Julian. She had been so certain she did! When she had her heart’s desire in hand, when Julian had proposed to her, she had realized what she felt for him was not love. It was admiration. And amity. Regard. And respect.
That should have been enough for a good marriage. It would have been enough. If the Beau had not kissed her that last time.
Something had happened inside her, something she did not understand, could never have explained, but knew had been life-altering. He needed her. And God help her, she needed him. Somewhere inside her was a void she had not even known existed. When she looked into the Beau’s blue eyes, when he held her tight in his embrace, when he gave her that final, devastating kiss … the void had been filled.
Eliza had grieved mightily over the past year. For the loss of her one true love. And for the loss of Major Sheringham.
She had been careful to hide her true feelings for the Beau from everyone. He was a confirmed bachelor. He had proved that by refusing to marry her, even though he had ruined her reputation. She had conceded the futility of loving such a man. But she could not seem to stop. It would be humiliating to have anyone find out what an addle-cove she was.
Eliza had accepted blame for her part in the kiss that had mined her. She had flaunted the rules, not realizing—or to be perfectly honest, not caring—how catastrophic the consequences might be. But her sin was not nearly so great as his. The Beau had known full well what would happen to her if they were caught, and had selfishly, thoughtlessly, taken the risk.
She could not forgive him for that, or for abandoning her to her fate. But she still loved him. Would always love him. Eliza fought that weakness every day. It was why she had not responded to any of the advertisements for a governess at Blackthorne Abbey.
She did not trust herself near him.
Her reputation had been blackened so badly by scandal, there was nothing left to preserve. Eliza was afraid she would give in to the Beau’s blandishments—she had no doubt he would tempt her—and become his mistress. His whore. She knew she would hate herself—and him—if she did.
Late this afternoon, Eliza had received the seventh Times advertisement. Charlie’s accompanying note had been laced with capitals to emphasize her sentiments.
Dearest Eliza,
I heard Marcus Wharton called the Beast of Blackthorne in my drawing room last night. I understand his face is Horribly Scarred. He lives in the Dark, and No One is allowed to see him. Imagine the plight of those Two Little Girls!
I am not asking you to Forgive the Beau. I doubt whether you would even see him, since he is playing Least in Sight. You must consider the Children. They need Someone like you to Love Them.
At least go see him. I have no doubt he would hire you Forthwith.
Affectionately,
Charlie
Eliza forced back the pity she felt for the scars that had turned the Beau into a beast. He had suffered a terrible calamity. But a great many men had not returned whole from Waterloo. And a great many more had not returned at all.
She forced herself to speak calmly to her aunt, but her voice vibrated with feeling. “I am sorry for the twins. But I cannot go to Blackthorne Abbey. I am not certain what I would do if I ever laid eyes o
n the Beau again. I would rather not find out. Believe me, Aunt Lavinia, anyone who applies for the position would make a better governess than I would.”
“What about the correspondence you received from Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca?” her aunt challenged, knitting needles clacking noisily. “Are you planning to disregard it, as well?”
Eliza bit her lower lip. “I will simply have to tell the twins I cannot help them.”
Her aunt stopped knitting and focused her gray eyes on Eliza. “Then you’re a worse ninnypoophammer than I thought!”
“It’s ninny. Or ninnybammer. Or nincompoop,” Eliza said.
“You know what I mean,” Aunt Lavinia replied, bristling. “How can you refuse their plea? Those two little girls seem genuinely frightened of what their uncle might do to them in one of his rages. Their safety must be considered first in any decision you make.”
“Surely there is someone else—”
“Rhubarb! Those helpless babes did not write to someone else. They wrote to you. Their uncle has apparently deserted them. Will you desert them as well?”
“I am not the person to remedy the situation. I have responsibilities here. And it is Rubbish!”
Her aunt harrumphed. “I can take care of myself. And there is no coin to take care of anything else. We cannot even afford to buy meat to—”
“I would rather starve than work for him!”
Aunt Lavinia made a disapproving sound. “You say that with your belly full from supper. Wait a few weeks and tell me that when hunger gnaws at your bones.”
The vegetables Eliza had grown in her summer garden last year were nearly gone, and it would be months before a new crop could ripen. They had eaten meatless stew for a month.
Eliza looked around her. She and Aunt Lavinia were using less than half the space in the two-story hunting box, since that was all they could manage to heat. She remembered what it been like—was it only three years ago?—before her father had died. A cheery fire, sparkling windowpanes, the acrid smell of his favorite pipe tobacco, which she still caught a faint whiff of now and again.
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