by Liz Carlyle
“I believe,” Cam managed to answer, “that I must ride toward Fairford. There are two inns and a smithy between here and there. Perhaps they pulled off the main road to mend a thrown shoe or some such thing.”
“I’d best come along,” insisted Bentley, obviously suspicious. “Look—there’s Shreeves now, coming ’round to fetch both our mounts. I’ll just have him shift our gear to fresh horses.”
Mutely, Cam nodded.
Still talking over one shoulder, his brother headed for the door. “Oh, Milford? Be so obliging as to stuff some bread and cheese in my bag. I’m hungover as all hell, but I’ll bloody starve without my luncheon.”
For a long moment, Cam stood silently in the hall as activity burst forth all about him. Finally, he forced himself to go upstairs for a fresh shirt, pausing just long enough to toss a little cold water onto his face and chest. As he lifted his head from the basin, however, he glimpsed his own bloodless reflection in the mirror above and hesitated.
Good Lord, what was the matter with him?
There was no reason to suspect that anything was amiss. No reason at all for the sick sensation in the pit of his belly. No intelligent explanation for the sense of urgency that held him in its grip.
Helene had simply taken Ariane out for a drive with the rector, a man he knew well—and for the most part, trusted. What did it matter where they had gone, whether she had left a message, or whether or not they had been seen? Helene loved him.
Violently, Cam yanked on his shirt and tied a fresh cravat into the most simple of styles, insisting to himself that nothing could be wrong. This was Gloucestershire, for pity’s sake, not Whitechapel, where people often disappeared without a trace.
Abruptly, he turned from the basin and jerked on a waistcoat and heavy surtout, then rummaged through his wardrobe until he found what he sought. With the near-silent whisk of steel against leather, Cam drew the glistening knife from its sheath to test its sharpness. Satisfied, he resheathed the blade and shoved it hard into his boot.
Inexplicably, the action comforted him, even more so when he recalled that in his saddlebag he still carried a brace of pistols, since fetching Helene’s ring had required that he travel armed. And Bentley still carried his bird gun, and probably a pistol or two himself.
Cam realized that he should have felt like an idiot for being armed to the teeth merely to go in search of a parson’s lost curricle. But inexplicably, he did not.
19
The Grand Panjandrum
In the early afternoon, a flock of sleepy Wiltshire quail were startled into flight as the Reverend Mr. Thomas Lowe’s carriage plowed through their midst and went flying past the turn to Cricklade. Without so much as hesitating at the intersection, the horses barreled onward, past the streaking hedgerows, and down the road toward Swindon.
Under normal circumstances, Helene might well have failed to notice the tilted and weathered signpost that jutted from the roadside, since she had but a passing acquaintance with the geography of southern England. But today, other than the flushed quail, there had been no excitement whatsoever, except for the fact that Thomas had driven as if the devil were at his heels.
All conversation since leaving Chalcote had been desultory and trite, in marked contrast to his usual habit of chattering effusively about each village and spire—and indeed, very nearly every cow byre—they might happen to pass.
Lightly, she laid a hand over his driving glove, noting as she did so how tightly he grasped the ribbons. “I say, Thomas. Was not that the turn to Cricklade we just passed?”
Thomas sat silently, prodding the horses to go faster still. Their pace seemed almost unsafe, and yet the rector showed no sign of slowing. Indeed, they had paused but once to rest his horses. Initially, Helene had excused his behavior by telling herself that he wished to speed the journey for Ariane’s sake, but in the face of his silence, even that charitable excuse began to fade. She felt suddenly ill-at-ease.
“Thomas?” she repeated, a little tightly. “Is something amiss? Are we not to go to Cricklade after all? I do believe we’ve passed the turn.”
Abruptly, Thomas turned to face her. His expression could only be described as one of bleak desperation. “We are going, my dear, to Southampton,” he said, his voice barely audible.
When Helene’s mouth flew open, Thomas thrust one hand inappropriately around her shoulders, squeezing his fingers into her upper arm until it hurt. It was not an affectionate gesture.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
“We shall be in Southampton by tomorrow, Helene,” he whispered across Ariane’s head, “and you will be still about it, lest you unnecessarily alarm the child.”
But it was too late, Helene was certain. She looked down to see that Ariane’s hands were knotted into the fabric of her cloak, the knuckles white and bloodless. The child sat still between them, rigidly staring across the horses’ heads, her expression unfocused. It was a look which Helene recognized all too well, though it had been some weeks since she had seen it.
“Sir, you will stop this carriage at once,” she said, keeping her voice lethally soft. Thomas’s only reply was a bitter half-smile.
Tremulously, Helene extended her arm to point at a small copse of evergreens just ahead. “You will pull up this carriage now! Ma foi, I shall have an explanation from you! And I will have it in the privacy of those trees, or I cannot answer for my actions.”
Withdrawing his arm, Thomas transferred the reins, then coolly pulled open his greatcoat. A pistol protruded heavily from an inner pocket. “Very well, Helene,” he said, his tone impassive. “As long as we clearly understand one another.”
A pistol! Her heart raced. Her vision clouded. She barely noticed the dark sidelong look Thomas cast in her direction as he slowed up his team.
What was going on? Who was this man? Surely not the amiably handsome rector, who had so openly befriended her? This was someone else altogether, with his jaw set at a cruel angle, and his eyes so coldly narrowed. With great care, he eased the curricle alongside the copse.
The hedgerow along the roadside faded from her vision. After that, Helene had no distinct memory of walking deep into the copse, then whirling on him in a fit of temper, though she must have done so.
Vaguely, she was aware of Ariane, who stood on the verge near the horses. Her only clear recollection was of facing down Thomas Lowe, and willing herself not to fly at him with her fists.
Ruthlessly, Helene dug her nails into her palms, reminding herself that any display of panic might distress Ariane. “Now just what is the meaning of this, Mr. Lowe?” she demanded, willing herself to breathe. “What wickedness are you about that you must thrust a gun into my face like a common highwayman? Mon Dieu, you are a priest!”
Slowly, Lowe paced toward her. “My former profession not withstanding, Helene, we are en route to Southampton. Regrettably, you left me little choice when—”
Viciously, she cut him off, stamping her foot into the stiff, wintry grass. “Indeed, sir, you must be mad if this is your idea of punishing me for refusing you. What manner of man drags an innocent child into his grievances?”
“Do not flatter yourself, my dear,” he laughed lightly. “Whilst it’s true that I must take control of you, one way or a—”
A sharp crack rang through the canopy of evergreens.
Helene did not know she had struck him until the blood began to trickle from one corner of Lowe’s mouth. With his eyes narrowed to lethal slits, the rector balanced forward on the balls of his feet, as if he burned to leap forward and choke the life from her. But something, perhaps a gesture from Ariane in the distance, forestalled him. He stepped back a pace.
Gingerly, Thomas tilted his head, dabbing at the blood with the back of one hand. “Listen to me, Helene,” he said icily. “And listen with the utmost care, for I do not mean to repeat myself. If you challenge me, I will hurt you. And very badly. Do not place us in such an awkward position again. The result would be exceedingly
unpleasant for the girl.”
“Why—how utterly vile! You would not dare to harm an innocent child by—oh!”
“I would prefer not to harm her, and I hope you do not force my hand by doing something rash or brave, my dear.”
An angry, bone-deep tremble ran through Helene. “I swear to God, Thomas Lowe, when Camden Rutledge catches up with you, you’ll pay dearly for frightening his daughter! Take her home this instant, do you hear me?”
Almost thoughtfully, Lowe rubbed the side of his mouth where her blow had caught him. “Well, there’s the problem, Helene. The child isn’t his. She’s mine.”
Helene felt the breath being dragged from her body. “Yours?” she managed to whisper weakly. Awild array of thoughts went tumbling through her head. She tried to make sense of what he was saying, but the pieces would not fall into place. She shook her head as if to clear her vision.
Thomas laughed almost sadly. “Come, Helene! You are a woman of the world! Surely you can see there’s no resemblance between Treyhern and that girl. And he has to know Cassandra played him false. Though in truth, I suppose I admire the man for holding to his pride and giving the chit a home.”
Helene stepped forcefully toward him. “A home from which you have ripped her, you deceitful wretch! You claim she is yours? Well, given the depravity I see before me now, I do not doubt you capable of such an evil,” she hissed. “But tell me this, rector—is it not enough to lie with a decent man’s wife, to commit fornication behind his back? Must you then snatch from him his child? And she is his child, sir. In the only way that signifies to God. Or to me.”
For a moment, it seemed his face might crumple, but Lowe’s composure held. “My, my,” he said softly. “You really are taken with the fellow, are you not? I feared as much. Then Lady Catherine’s veiled gossip sealed your fate.”
Helene tossed him the most disdainful look she could muster. “Explain yourself, sir!”
In the sunlight, Thomas Lowe’s blond good looks made him look like an archangel of evil. The effect was further heightened when he crooked one elegant eyebrow and smiled sardonically, as if laughing at her naiveté. “Treyhern had a devil of a time finding a good governess, did he not?” His expression turned bitter. “But then you arrived. I saw the risk at once. You were both smart and patient. Nonetheless, as long as I could observe you, I saw no need to panic.”
“Panic?” cried Helene. “Good God, Thomas! What did I know of your perfidy? Or Ariane either, come to that?”
Thomas ignored her. “I had to befriend you, perhaps even court you.” Appreciatively, he eyed her up and down. “And it was no great sacrifice, Helene. Indeed, I’m exceedingly anxious to get you into my bed, once we are far from England. And far away from Treyhern, cold, inhuman bastard that he is. And I am tired of watching my child from afar, worrying about what she might say or remember.”
“You ... you mean to kidnap us?”
“Such harsh phrasing, my dear!” Lowe looked hurt. “I’m merely offering you and Ariane a better life, far away from the rigid class structure of England. Canada, America—just think of it!”
Abruptly, he paused to stare at her stricken visage, then threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Helene! Surely you are not as romantically stupid as Treyhern’s sister! She cannot have convinced you that he will offer you marriage! Oh, he may well bed you—if he hasn’t already. But that self-righteous blue-blood will never make a Parisian trollop’s daughter mistress of his beloved Chalcote. He will never deign to do for you what I will—make an honest woman of you.”
With a measure of arrogant disdain which only the French seem to possess, Helene spit vehemently at Lowe’s feet. “Pourceau! Filthy swine! I shall never marry you!”
Thomas did approach her then, seizing her chin tightly in his hand and jerking her face ruthlessly into his. Helene could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek. She fought to turn away.
“Make no mistake what I am offering you, Helene,” he whispered silkily, “before you so carelessly cast it aside. I may lust for you, but I am in no way enamoured of you, my lovely. And so my choice is a simple one: I will marry you, or I will kill you. Either ensures your silence. But for all that you may think me—sinner, adulterer, liar, and yes, I am all of those—I would prefer not to murder you in your bed. And I would prefer not to distress or hurt the child. But if I must, I will.”
“Camden Rutledge will see you hanged for this, you fool!” she insisted. “If he doesn’t shoot you where you stand!”
Grimly, Lowe smiled and released her face. “Again, your intelligence fails you, Helene. If I stay, he will most certainly hang me. It has become inevitable.”
“I do not understand you. I think you have lost your reason.”
Thomas shot her a withering look. “If Treyhern has cast off his fiancée to keep you in his bed, it means that you are fixed at Chalcote indefinitely. I cannot risk it. You are too clever. Already the child has begun to change. Eventually, she’ll talk. And I have no way of knowing what she might say.”
Absently, he stared down into the sweep of valley where a thickset farmer struggled to secure a shock of corn in the breeze. “Indeed, I am not even certain she remembers,” he murmured.
Helene gasped, sudden intuition flaring. But Thomas was still speaking. “If I take you from Treyhern, not only do I evade the hangman, but I shall have a beautiful wife to warm my bed; one who can make my child well again.” His mouth twitched with wry humor. “In short, you’re the best end of a bad bargain, m’dear—better than the end of a rope.”
“You killed her,” whispered Helene hoarsely, drawing back from him. “That is the secret you fear, is it not? You murdered Cassandra Rutledge! And you did it in front of your child! Admit it, you fiend!”
Violently, Lowe shook his head, and for the first time, he looked wild with grief. “Oh no, Helene,” he whispered. “Never that! Cassandra killed herself! And she did it the way she did everything in life—with pure, unmitigated spite.” The rector blinked rapidly. “Oh, I was there, yes! I lit the candles, and waited just as usual. But she’d been growing distant. Avoiding me. And so I had to pressure her. I had a right, you know, to see her. And the child. But when at last she arrived, I saw at once that something was amiss. She was so cold. So aloof. And she said things. Terrible things.”
“You fought with her?” asked Helene, disbelievingly.
“Just a quarrel at first,” Thomas admitted hoarsely. He looked perilously unsteady as the words poured out. “She no longer wished to continue meeting me! She said she would no longer bring Ariane to me; that the child had grown old enough to talk, and had begun to chatter. She said that no matter how carefully she cautioned the child, that sooner or later, Ariane would tell her father—Treyhern, she meant—about our meetings.”
Distracted by Thomas’s grief, and amazed by his story, Helene watched his face in awe, never stopping to consider that she might seize the weapon from his coat. The rector heaved a deep, ragged breath and continued. “She said that I had become boring. That she was removing to Treyhern’s house in town. That the country was crushing the life from her—and that she meant to leave all of us—even Ariane—at Chalcote. But I did not kill her.”
“I ... I believe you, Thomas,” said Helene quietly. “I do believe you. Cam will, too.”
He was staring straight at Helene now. “What an utter fool I was to love her so.” He laughed bitterly. “She said it had been such a lark to seduce a rector! A temporary solution to her ennui, when she had no one else. I know now what I could not see then—that she was a test. Atest of my faith. I failed it miserably, and what’s worse—God help me—I’d do it all over again. Because Cassandra could entice a saint with the devil’s own words.”
“I am sorry, Thomas,” whispered Helene. “I am so very sorry. But now, we must do what is best for Ariane. Please! We must think only of her welfare.”
Something seemed to snap inside the rector at that, and he lifted his gaze to hol
d hers, its cold intensity slowly returning. “Oh, I am fond of the girl, Helene. But I bloody well won’t hang for her.”
“But it was an accident,” pleaded Helene, trying to convince herself. “You said it was just an accident, Thomas! Ariane will remember that, will she not?”
Firmly, Thomas shook his head. “Oh no, Helene. I dare not risk it. And as to what Ariane remembers, who knows? Oh, she has impressions—terrifying ones, to be sure. But can she testify that Cassandra swung the candelabrum at me? I cannot take that chance.”
“She ... she attacked you?” asked Helene, suddenly resolved to get to the truth, and to delay Lowe’s flight as long as she dared.
“Oh, yes! The bitch meant to kill me, and to silence the truth of my words! I told her that I loved her. That I would never let her leave me. And I told her what I would do if she tried. Then, in her usual fit of temper, she swung the candelabrum at my head, and sent half a dozen candles flying. Then she came at me with her hands, scratching me, choking me.”
“Thomas,” she interjected plaintively. “Lord Treyhern will understand.”
But Thomas was beyond listening. “I did not see—I swear to God, I did not see that one of the candles had rolled into a rubbish pile. Soon, the old window curtains had burst into flame, and still she fought me. Until her skirts caught fire. It was as if the whole room burst into flame.
“I barely got Ariane to safety, and that’s the truth of it. Anyone witnessing such wrath would be hard-pressed to explain how it happened. But a terrified child?” He shook his head violently. “No, I dare not risk it. Even if I should be exonerated, Treyhern would ruin me. He is a hard man.”
His tone was again implacable. Suddenly, Helene felt her knees weaken from incessant fear and fatigue. “But Thomas, you cannot mean to take us on to Southampton! Why do you not simply go on without us?” she begged desperately. “You have no need of us. We shall do nothing but hinder your pace.”