Beauty Like the Night

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Beauty Like the Night Page 25

by Liz Carlyle


  Helene could not suppress a gasp of horror. “But Ariane was there! Cassandra, she ... she took her child along! No woman could be mad enough to do such a thing!”

  Ever so slowly, Catherine turned her gaze upon Cassandra Rutledge’s gravestone and paused. For a long, agonizing moment, she said nothing. “I find I have grown cold, Helene,” she finally whispered. “I believe I should like to return to Chalcote now, if you do not mind.”

  It was a gray and bitter afternoon, precisely two weeks after his departure, when Lord Treyhern and his heir returned from Devon. The portent of winter had made for a miserable journey north, and as he turned into the long sweep of driveway, Cam’s only thought was of Helene and Ariane.

  Indeed, he had thought of little else for the last twenty miles. All throughout the long journey home, with the crisis at Treyhern Castle finally behind him, the day had grown ever colder. But in truth, he felt as if he had been chilled to the marrow since leaving Helene, and he had the most fanciful notion that he could be warm again only when he reached her.

  Nonetheless, there was one thing which had at last come clear to him. He simply could not marry Joan Belmont. Soon—tomorrow morning, in fact—he would wait upon his aunt and make the necessary explanations. She would be outraged, of course, but Cam hardly cared. His Aunt Belmont’s rage was no scarce commodity.

  It was his fair cousin for whom he worried, perhaps needlessly. Crane, the meddling old devil, was probably right. Joan was young, and the young deserved an opportunity to find love. Indeed, who knew better than he the utter misery of a marriage of convenience? These long weeks away from Helene had reminded him that despite all the pain his youthful passions had caused him, he would not have traded away those sweet memories for anything on God’s earth.

  His love affair with Helene, it so often seemed, had been the only love he had ever known. And he must find a way to re-create it, no matter how much disorder it brought into his life. It had taken Cam the better half of his two weeks away to accept the rather disconcerting realization that, in truth, matters were much as he had always feared; that he was incapable of living—really living—without Helene.

  But he had realized something else too. The world would keep spinning upon its axis, even if he admitted his love. Lightning would not rend him in half. Chalcote would not collapse stone by stone. And the rest of his life could still be kept in some semblance of order.

  Perhaps more importantly, Cam had given up trying to fight his emotions, or to understand them, or even to justify them to anyone else. In that much, at least, the miserable trip to Devon had been worth every bloody day of discomfort and loneliness.

  Upon arriving at Chalcote’s wide front steps, Cam slid gratefully from his saddle and bolted for the hall, leaving the horses to Bentley. It was decided. Tomorrow morning, he would ride to the Belmont estate and break the news to his aunt, as gently but as firmly as he could. There was, in truth, little she could do. Nonetheless, he owed her this one small courtesy, and until he had done it, common civility required that he say nothing of the matter to anyone. Not even to Helene.

  Wondering if morning would ever come, Cam stepped into the shadows of the empty hall, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light.

  “Ah! Good afternoon, Treyhern!” boomed an all-too-familiar voice, and Cam looked up to see Thomas Lowe rise from his chair near the twisting stairway. The very same chair, in fact, that the rector had occupied just prior to Cam’s departure for Devon.

  It gave one the rather disconcerting impression that Lowe had been encamped in Chalcote’s hall for the past two weeks. Perhaps the presumptuous ass meant to move in. Cam looked about, half expecting to see a portmanteau on the floor beside the chair.

  “Afternoon, Lowe,” he finally answered, stripping away his riding gloves. “You’ve come to pay us yet another call?”

  The rector leapt to his feet. “Indeed I have! Helene—Miss de Severs, that is—and Ariane have expressed an interest in going to Fairford today, to view the misericords at Saint Mary the Virgin. I thought I would take them this afternoon in my carriage.” He paused for a short moment. “You have, I hope, no objection, Treyhern?”

  “Objection—?” muttered Cam. Damned right he had an objection. He should have known better than to leave Gloucestershire. Helene’s social life had obviously jumped forward by leaps and bounds. Absently, Cam slapped his gloves onto a side table.

  “Any objection to my paying a personal call on a member of your staff, my lord?” clarified Lowe.

  Cam hurled his hat on top of the gloves and stared at the rector rather too pointedly. “Is that what you are about here, sir? A personal call? Not a parish call?”

  Thomas Lowe’s face flushed with color. “Yes, Treyhern. I think it has rather quickly come to that. In fact,” the rector dropped to a soft, uncertain undertone, “I daresay this will seem rather too sudden, but I must admit, I’m quite taken with Miss de Severs.”

  “Are you indeed?” Cam’s tone was deliberately arch. “And do you fancy your affections are returned?”

  The rector looked suddenly solemn. “Yes, my lord, I rather believe that they are,” Lowe answered in that tone he often used to convey sad tidings. “Indeed, I would very much like your permission to court her.”

  Cam felt his gut clench into knots. “My permission?” He managed to choke out the words with a semblance of civility. “I hardly think you need it, Thomas. She is, after all, a woman grown.”

  A look which might have been bitterness flashed across the rector’s face, but just as quickly vanished. “I am hardly a fool, my lord. I hold the living of Saint Michael’s by your good grace, and Helene—Miss de Severs—is your servant.”

  “She is not my servant,” retorted Cam, barely hiding his anger. “She is Ariane’s teacher. And I account her a ... a good friend as well.”

  “Indeed,” replied Thomas Lowe ambiguously.

  Cam ran his hands through his already disordered hair. “Look here, Thomas. Have you any idea what you are getting into?” He paused to jab one finger at the man’s chest. “You’re the damned rector! And Helene is ... is—”

  “—a very worthy woman, Treyhern,” finished Lowe, in a voice that held just a hint of a threat. “I daresay I know what you are thinking. Whilst it’s true that Miss de Severs’s background is quite dissimilar to mine, she is a good woman in every respect. I am not overly concerned about her, er, lack of connections.”

  Cam felt as if someone had punched the air from his lungs. Lowe seemed perfectly sincere. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  Abruptly, Cam picked up his hat. “Then I wish you joy of your courtship, Thomas,” he managed to say as he grabbed up his hat and gloves. “Perhaps the lady shall choose to accept your suit. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters which require my immediate attention. I bid you safe travel to Fairford.”

  Lowe gave a half-bow. “Until tonight, then.”

  “Tonight—?” Already on the third step, Cam turned back to face the rector.

  “Tonight,” Lowe repeated, his mouth curling into a slightly sarcastic smile. “You invited me, my lord, to Lady Catherine’s birthday dinner. May I hope that I have done nothing to make myself persona non grata?”

  Slowly, Cam shook his head. Cat’s bloody birthday dinner! Damn and blast! It had completely slipped his mind.

  But Lowe was still staring at up him with a look of mild unease. “Do not be absurd, Thomas,” Cam finally managed to answer. “I had simply forgotten. You are as welcome as ever in my home.”

  As the rector returned to his chair, Cam trudged up the next flight of steps, his disappointment now painfully acute. His hell-for-leather ride home had been for naught. He was not to be rewarded by even one moment alone with Helene.

  Worse, he would have no opportunity to discover what there was between Helene and Lowe. Not that Cam had any clue as to how a gentleman went about asking such a thing. And there was, apparently, something between them. Lowe seemed very sure o
f himself.

  Cam’s feet flew faster and faster up the stairs. How in God’s name had it happened so quickly? Or had anything happened at all? He reminded himself that Helene was often almost inappropriately friendly; open and congenial with everyone, be they servants, villagers, or her equals. Lowe had simply misinterpreted her warmth. Had he not?

  Cam hurtled around the last turn, resisting the urge to rip the newel post with his bare hands and send it hurtling down into the hall below. Bloody hell! He had to get hold of himself. Two minutes under the same roof as Helene and his emotions were running wild. And now, she was off for a drive with the rector, and taking his daughter along, leaving Cam unable to reassure himself that they were well—and that perhaps they had both missed him just a little.

  He reached his bedchamber, thrust open the door and strode toward the front windows. Boadicea bounded off his bed with a throaty trill of welcome, apparently the only one he was going to get. In the driveway below, his traveling coach was being moved to make room for Thomas Lowe’s curricle, which was coming back around from the stables. The rather ironic bit of symbolism did not escape Cam, and it did nothing to improve his mood.

  A quarter-hour before their appointed departure, Helene descended from the schoolroom wing only to discover that Thomas had arrived well ahead of schedule. Helene’s heavy traveling cloak was draped over one arm, and with the other hand, she led Ariane down the twisting staircase. Smiling pleasantly, Lowe leapt from his chair and came quickly forward to assist.

  “One moment, Thomas,” she murmured absently, as he reached for her cloak. “His lordship is expected home later this afternoon.” She rummaged through the pocket of the cloak, then tugged out a carefully folded note. “I must leave him a personal message to let him know where Ariane and I have gone.”

  “Allow me,” said Thomas warmly, taking both the paper and the cloak from her. “You are most thoughtful, Miss de Severs, but Treyhern returned a quarter-hour ago. I took the liberty of mentioning our plans.”

  Helene was a little nonplussed at that. She supposed she had secretly hoped that Cam would seek her out upon his return. Or at least make inquiries as to his daughter’s progress during the past two weeks. Her dismay must have been mortifyingly apparent.

  Thomas cleared this throat tentatively. “There was, I collect, a matter of some urgency that required Treyhern’s attention. He said he would see us at dinner tonight.”

  “Tonight? Yes, of course.”

  The rector looked about as if searching for something, then carelessly shoving the note into his pocket, he took up the cloak again, and spread it neatly across Helene’s shoulders. Smartly, he offered his arm. “Shall we away to Fairford, ladies?” he asked heartily, casting a reassuring smile in Ariane’s direction. “One of my horses came up with a loose nail, but Treyhern’s groom has kindly mended it, and my carriage has come back around to await us.”

  “By all means,” answered Helene, tugging anxiously at the ties of her bonnet.

  “Then what a fortunate fellow I am!” the rector announced as they set off. “Spending the afternoon with what must surely be the two prettiest ladies in all of Gloucestershire!”

  Never taking his eyes from the carriage below, Cam absently bent down to scoop up Boadicea, who had leapt from the bed to twine about his feet. At least someone had awaited his homecoming. The cat clambered up his coat to settle loosely over his shoulder, purring contentedly. But Cam felt far from content. Behind him, he heard Crane directing the footmen to haul the trunks into his dressing room, but he did not turn around.

  “Good God!” he muttered as soon as Crane had left. “What could she possibly see in him?”

  “Thrum, thrum,” said the cat, kneading his shoulder with her claws. She went too deep, digging one claw through his coat, and the resulting prick of pain was as acute as his disappointment.

  He would have no opportunity to tell Helene all the things he wanted to say—not that Cam knew how to say them. He felt so awkward. So angry. So thwarted and so damnably inexperienced.

  “Aye, I daresay you’re right to dig at me,” he told Boadicea. “Even Bentley would have managed better, I have no doubt. And tonight, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  Yes, tonight of all nights, he would to be required to stare at his aunt and Joan across his own dinner table! He would be compelled to play the part of the congenial host to Lowe, his obsequious sister, and that quiet curate, Basil what’s-his-name. And now, he would have to watch his brother resume his fawning over Helene, with the rector in close competition.

  Throughout the ride home, Bentley had turned time and again to the topic of Helene, his fascination apparent. Although the arrogant puppy had refrained from any overtly improper remarks, his comments had made plain his intent to remain friends with her. And Cam had been forced to admit to himself that he had no good reason to refuse him.

  He still didn’t know why his brother had accompanied him to Devon, but he was damned grateful. Bentley had been a huge help. Still, the tension between them had continued unabated. And at last, he’d decided what it was. It felt suspiciously like old-fashioned masculine jealousy.

  But over Helene? That made no sense, for Bentley had been fractious long before her arrival. And it occurred to Cam that he was being insanely, unreasonably jealous of Helene. He knew it, and yet he felt powerless to stop himself.

  For the first time in his life, Cam found himself wishing that he had a little more experience with the female mind. Even Bentley had probably bedded more women; certainly, he had tried to seduce more. The thought should have been galling, but it wasn’t. Cam had never in the whole of his life seduced anyone. And why?

  Because Cam had never truly wanted anyone other than Helene.

  There. It was out. The truth again. He must have jerked convulsively, for Boadicea made a noise of feline annoyance, then leapt from his shoulder, sinking in another claw as she went. But Cam scarcely noticed.

  Below, he watched the rector hand Ariane up into his carriage. Helene stood to one side, smiling at the two of them. In response, Cam reached toward the side table, poured a healthy measure of brandy into a glass, and tossed back half.

  Helene came reluctantly down to dinner in her best gown of dark blue silk trimmed with black braid. Catherine had enthusiastically chosen it from Helene’s wardrobe, though the dress was, perhaps, a bit too ostentatious for her position. Nonetheless, Cam’s sister had insisted, and had brought her own lady’s maid from Aldhampton to dress their hair.

  It had not helped. Apprehension and grief sat in the pit of Helene’s stomach like a stone. She had not seen Cam since that dreadful day when he’d kissed her goodbye and set off to Devon. And she had no wish to see him—especially not with Joan Belmont on his arm.

  But what choice did she have, save feigning a headache, or making some other transparent excuse? And she could hardly be so rude to Cam’s sister, whom she liked so much.

  And so Helene dredged up her courage, and slipped quietly down the stairs to enter the yellow parlor shortly after the arrival of Catherine’s husband, and just in time for a glass of wine before dinner. William Wodeway was a large, blustery blond-haired fellow who greeted Helene warmly, but showed no sign of recognition. Nor did Catherine remind him of their past acquaintance, Helene noted with interest.

  Cam stood across the room, talking quietly with Thomas Lowe’s sister, and looking stunningly handsome in his formal attire. Roughly, Helene jerked her gaze away, returning her attention to Catherine’s husband. Almost at once, Wodeway engaged the slender, fair-haired gentleman to their right in a rather one-sided discussion of the hunting season.

  Helene listened dispassionately, contributing little, as Catherine’s husband explained that the bird hunting this year had been sadly lacking. Worse, even, than the cubbing season that had come before. And no one, Helene learned, knew how to properly cross-breed a foxhound nowadays. Confirmation all wrong, ears too long ...

  On and on Wodeway rambled, while the
young man—the rector’s cousin, Mr. Rhoades, whom Helene had met at church—murmured his polite agreement to every lament. From across the room, Helene caught Thomas’s eye. The gleam of humor which flickered there was all too apparent. Immediately, he crossed the room to stand beside her.

  “Have you no interest in the merits of Wodeway’s hounds, Miss de Severs?” he whispered, flashing her a teasing smile. “Basil, I fear, must suffer in his usual silence—but with poor Will, silence will suffice.” He raised his glass to gesture toward Mrs. Fane. “However, I daresay you ought to join my sister across the room.”

  Helene turned her gaze toward the corner she had been deliberately avoiding. “I fancy,” continued Thomas, “that my sister is impressing Treyhern with her knowledge of crops and livestock. The late Mr. Fane having been a gentleman farmer, she has a fondness for agriculture.”

  From her seated position, Mrs. Fane looked up at Cam, who was bent politely over her chair, an empty wineglass clutched loosely in the palm of his hand. But at that precise moment, whatever interest Cam may have felt for the rector’s sister must have lapsed. As if sensing Helene’s presence in the room, he lifted his gaze to stare just over the top of Mrs. Fane’s head, to catch and hold Helene’s gaze with a startling intensity.

  At once, Thomas laid his hand lightly upon Helene’s arm. “Look!” he exclaimed, turning Helene toward the door. “There is Mrs. Belmont and her daughter! They normally attend church in Coln St. Andrews, so I daresay you’ve not yet been introduced?”

  Weakly, Helene confessed she’d not had the pleasure, and before she was aware of it, Thomas was propelling her toward them. Just then, Will Wodeway stepped to one side, and Helene caught an unobstructed view of the young woman who stood so rigidly at Mrs. Belmont’s elbow.

  The young woman from the churchyard!

  There was no doubt at all. Again, she wore pale green, the perfect foil for her cloud of red-blonde hair. As Mrs. Belmont chattered on like a queen holding court, her daughter suddenly lifted a pair of rather shy blue eyes and glanced about the room as if searching for someone. Almost at once, her gaze caught on Helene, and a burst of color lit her cheeks.

 

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