Lord of the Beasts

by Susan Krinard

  “He was most gallant, madame. When you sent him to attend Sir Geoffrey, he discovered the cabinet where your father kept his ‘medicine,’ and I was compelled to tell him the rest. He feared, however, that this information would be too great a burden on you, and so he ordered me to hold my silence.” Chartier snorted. “He seemed most enraged at le vicomte’s activities. Or perhaps it was not concern for you which prompted his threats…after all, only yesterday he attended the races with Inglesham and did not tell you. Perhaps the doctor and le vicomte are greater friends than they pretend, non?”

  “Dr. Fleming would never attend a race. He despises such entertainment.”

  “Even so, madame, I heard Inglesham inform your father that he expected to derive great benefit from Fleming’s cleverness with the horses, and that if he regained his wealth through such gambling he would no longer require Sir Geoffrey’s influence upon you.” Chartier picked up his bags and opened the garden door. “And now I shall take my leave of you, madame, and of your vulgar lover. Good day.”

  The door slammed. Cordelia winced and pressed her hands to her face. Everything Chartier had said seemed too fantastic to credit, yet the valet had never once flinched from meeting her eyes as he related his story. She could think of no reason why he should prevaricate simply to upset her, especially when he was abandoning an excellent position and any hope of references. Despicable he might be, but he had spoken the truth.

  Strangely enough, it was not the revelation about Inglesham’s treachery that most disturbed her. If not for the harm he had done Sir Geoffrey, she might almost have felt relief…relief to know that she was absolved of the need to marry him. But the fact that Donal had learned of it and did not tell her…and that he’d actually attended a race with a man he so bluntly claimed to despise…

  There must be a rational explanation. And it did not shock Cordelia that Donal would think to “protect” her by withholding damaging information about her father and Inglesham. He was, after all, a man, and she a mere woman who must inevitably founder under the weight of too much responsibility.

  Cordelia turned blindly back toward the stairs. If this business of the race was an unrelated anomaly—Chartier’s insinuations to the contrary—then it seemed probable that Donal intended to deal with Inglesham himself. That was not only foolish and dangerous, but entirely inappropriate. The only one entitled to confront Inglesham was the daughter of the man he had betrayed.

  But first she must face Donal.

  Strengthened by her resolve, Cordelia climbed the stairs and strode for Sir Geoffrey’s suite. Croome met her before she reached the door.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said, “but a visitor has arrived—one Countess Pavlenkova—and has asked to see you.” The butler’s mouth twitched with elegant distaste. “I attempted to inform the lady that you were not at home, but she would not leave.”

  Cordelia glanced distractedly toward the staircase. “Countess Pavlenkova? I have never heard of her.”

  “Apparently she has recently taken a house in the neighborhood. One must assume that she is not familiar with English customs.” He sniffed. “She is presently in the drawing room, sampling Mrs. Jelbert’s teacakes. Shall I make another attempt to…dislodge her?”

  Cordelia resisted the urge to tear the pins from her hair and flee the house. “No, Croome. Please tell the Countess than I shall join her presently, and send Biddle to my room.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

  “Would you also be so kind as to locate Miss Shipp and Dr. Fleming, and ask Miss Shipp to join me in the drawing room. Dr. Fleming is to wait for me in the morning room.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “And Croome…under no circumstances are you to admit Viscount Inglesham to the house.”

  The butler raised a brow but offered no comment. As he hurried off to fulfill her requests, Cordelia returned to her room. She asked Biddle to arrange her hair in a style that could be managed in a few minutes, ignoring the girl’s dismay over the state of her tresses. Once her coiffure was in place, she briefly examined herself in the cheval glass, shrugged off her dull appearance and descended the stairs.

  She had not known what to expect of her inconvenient visitor when she entered the drawing room. That the woman might be somewhat exotic seemed likely, since her name was of Russian origin. But Cordelia wasn’t prepared for the vision that rose to meet her in a froth of ice-blue skirts and sparkling laughter.

  “So you are Mrs. Hardcastle,” the countess began, hardly waiting for Cordelia to clear the doorway. She floated across the carpet, extending an exquisitely gloved hand like a princess accustomed to the most enthusiastic adulation. “I do so hope I have not inconvenienced you, but I could not wait to make the acquaintance of my nearest neighbor.”

  Cordelia took the offered hand and stole a moment to collect her thoughts. Her first impression of the Countess Pavlenkova was of pure, crystalline beauty…beauty so rare and brilliant that it seemed anyone who looked too long at her face must surely be blinded by her radiance. Her face was cream brushed with rose, her eyes blue as a mountain lake, her hair silver as the coat of an Arctic fox. Her figure in the outlandish but striking gown was exquisite, and she exuded an air of otherworldliness that reminded Cordelia of Ivy in a way she could not define.

  “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Countess,” Cordelia said, the polite fiction coming with practiced ease. “You are welcome at Edgecott.”

  Pavlenkova looked her up and down without a change of expression, released Cordelia’s hand and made a graceful circuit of the room, touching this figurine or that memento with a polite show of interest. “I understand that your father seldom leaves the house, but that you manage his affairs,” she said. “I am delighted to see that not all Englishwomen creep about in the shadows of their men.”

  The sheer rudeness of the countess’s comments momentarily stunned Cordelia to silence. She took a stand in the center of the room and straightened her shoulders.

  “My father,” she said, “is ill, which is the reason I cannot properly entertain you this afternoon, Countess. And I fear you have somehow received a mistaken impression of my countrywomen. You may have noticed that our ruler is female.”

  Pavlenkova paused, halfway turning toward Cordelia. “But of course, your Victoria. She is indeed much to be admired.” Her eyes darkened with sympathy. “I did not know about your father. I am so sorry.”

  Once more Cordelia was at a loss, bewildered by the foreign woman’s sudden changes of mood. She seemed to shift from insouciance to effrontery to commiseration in the blink of an eye.

  Theodora appeared as Cordelia was formulating a reply, and she gave an inner sigh of relief. At least now there would be two to face this troublesome guest, and Theodora was a steadying influence in any company. She cast Theodora a warning glance and took her arm.

  “Countess Pavlenkova,” she said, “may I introduce my cousin, Miss Theodora Shipp.”

  Pavlenkova drifted toward them, examining Theodora with the same dispassionate thoroughness that she had scrutinized Cordelia. “Miss Shipp,” she said, failing this time to offer her hand.

  Cordelia felt her temper begin to rise again. “Would you care to be seated, Countess? I will refresh your tea.” She nodded to Theodora, and they took seats opposite the one Pavlenkova had occupied while the maid brought in a fresh pot of tea.

  “Cousin,” Cordelia said formally, “Countess Pavlenkova has taken Shapford for the summer, and wished to make our acquaintance.”

  “Indeed?” Theodora smiled at Pavlenkova. “I had heard that the house was now occupied. It is pleasant to know that we have been blessed with such agreeable neighbors.”

  Pavlenkova sipped her tea, made a face and set down her cup. “Yes,” she said. “Most pleasant.” She looked at Cordelia. “It is very quiet here. Do you live alone, you and your father?”

  “We have a guest, a young lady who has recently come to us from Yorkshire. Small as our fa
mily may be, we seldom find ourselves suffering from loneliness.”

  The countess fluttered her fingers before her mouth as if to stifle a yawn. “And will I not see this young lady?”

  Theodora caught Cordelia’s eye, clearly mystified by the Russian’s behavior. “Ivy is resting,” Cordelia said. “Perhaps she will have the pleasure of meeting you at another time, Countess.”

  “Oh, I am certain of it.” Pavlenkova crumbled a bit of cake on the tray and brushed her hands across the expensive fabric of her gown. “I shall invite you all to Shapford for dinner. We shall get to know each other very well indeed. I—”

  She stopped abruptly as Ivy flew into the room, dressed in her best gown, her dark hair barely contained by its pins. Her spaniel trotted along behind her. Close on their heels came Donal, who had obviously failed to heed Croome’s instructions to await Cordelia in the morning room.

  “Ah,” Pavlenkova exclaimed, rising to her feet. “This must be Ivy.”

  “Yes.” Cordelia rose, pretending an ease she was far from feeling. “Ivy, make your curtsey to Countess Pavlenkova, our new neighbor.”

  Ivy slowed her headlong rush, belated wariness tightening her features. Sir Reginald continued past her, skidded to a halt, and stared up at the countess. He growled softly, the hair rising along the back of his spine.

  “Reggie!” Ivy hissed. The dog ceased his growling, but his hair remained on end and his tail tucked flat against his hindquarters. He slunk to a refuge behind the sofa.

  “I am sorry,” Ivy said, making a pretty curtsey. “I don’t know what’s come over him.”

  The countess shot Sir Reginald a look of distaste and pinned Ivy with her glittering smile. “It is of no importance.” She clapped her hands. “But what a lovely young lady you are! Come, child, and let me look at you.”

  From that moment it was clear that Ivy was thoroughly caught in the countess’s spell. She gazed at the Russian with wonder and admiration, and Cordelia was struck again by the indefinable similarity between girl and woman.

  Ivy edged closer, her eyes locked on the countess’s face.

  “You are so beautiful,” she whispered.

  The countess laughed. “How charming, my dear.” She reached out as if to touch Ivy, hesitated, and let her hand fall. “I am told you are from Yorkshire, but is that not a barbaric land of barren rocks and hills? Surely you cannot have been born in such a place.”

  “I…I…” Ivy stammered and blushed. “I was not born there, my lady.”

  “As I guessed.” Pavlenkova glanced at Cordelia with a strange look that was almost triumphant. “You are surely an orphan, born of royal blood. Is it not so?”

  No sound escaped Ivy’s lips, but her eyes were full of abject worship. Cordelia tried to remember when she had seen the girl so flustered. It was absurd that Ivy should be so taken in by a glamorous appearance and facile allure, but Cordelia wasn’t amused.

  Why did the countess show so much interest in a girl of unknown origins whom she had never met? Why should their bond be so immediate, so powerful that no one could mistake it?

  And how can she succeed in an instant where I have failed in weeks of effort and care?

  She forced a smile. “Ivy’s parents are deceased,” she said, “but she has a new family in us.”

  The countess seemed not to hear. “We must be certain that you are treated as befits your obvious quality,” she said, holding Ivy’s rapt gaze like a spider intent on a fly. “We will start with your clothing. I shall show you how to set off your hair and eyes, and—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Donal said, his voice booming over hers. “Have we met before, Countess?”

  Pavlenkova glanced up, startled, as if she had not noticed that Donal had entered the room. Cordelia hastily corrected her own dereliction.

  “Countess Pavlenkova, may I present Dr. Donal Fleming?”

  The countess looked directly at Donal and smiled. “I do not believe we have ever met, Doctor,” she said, “for surely I would remember such a handsome face.”

  Cordelia watched for Donal’s reaction to the Russian’s peculiar charms, feeling the knot of foreboding tighten beneath her ribs. Donal’s face revealed nothing but cool, distant courtesy. He inclined his head.

  “If you say it, Countess,” he said, “it must be so.”

  Pavlenkova flashed her teeth at him and returned to Ivy, but Donal’s gaze never left the woman. Like Ivy, he appeared to be caught in her web, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

  Cordelia studied Theodora out of the corner of her eye, wondering if even her cousin had taken the lure, but Theodora was staring into her cup of tea with the blank gaze of one who would prefer to be anywhere else. Suddenly she set down her cup and rose, excusing herself with words so soft that no one but Cordelia heard her.

  There was no rational reason for Cordelia to feel abandoned. She had agreed to meet with Pavlenkova; she alone was responsible for the disturbance the countess had wrought. And, indeed, whom had the woman disturbed? Ivy hung on the Russian’s every word, Donal showed no emotion at all, and Theodora had simply walked away. Only Cordelia was troubled by this powerful, almost nauseating aversion to the Russian noblewoman.

  But it is not simply aversion, is it? she asked herself. You blame your visitor for your own failures. Your own…

  She never completed the unbearable thought. Theodora reappeared, her face very grave.

  “I am sorry to interrupt you,” she said to Cordelia, “but Sir Geoffrey is asking to see you, and Dr. Brown feels that you should come at once.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TORN BETWEEN RELIEF and fear for her father, Cordelia quickly rose from her seat. “Countess,” she said, “I must beg you to excuse us. Sir Geoffrey requires our presence.”

  Pavlenkova, who had been interrupted in modeling her gown for Ivy’s admiration, allowed a scowl to mar her features before she smoothed them into bland regret. “I hope that your father is improved, Mrs. Hardcastle.”

  “I am sure all that he requires now is rest, and perfect quiet.” She began to herd Pavlenkova toward the door. “I have enjoyed our visit. Perhaps, when Sir Geoffrey is fully recovered, you will call again.”

  “Most assuredly.” She beamed at Ivy. “We shall see each other very soon.”

  Though it seemed to take an eternity, the countess finally reached the front door and swept off to her waiting carriage. Ivy stared after her until the door closed, and then she went upstairs without speaking another word.

  Cordelia felt Donal standing behind her, silent and remote. Before Pavlenkova’s visit, she had been prepared to question him at length about his reasons for concealing the cause of Sir Geoffrey’s illness and attending the race with Inglesham. She was cravenly grateful that Sir Geoffrey’s summons had put off the inevitable confrontation.

  “I…I should go upstairs,” she said awkwardly. “If you would be so good as to remain at the house while I speak to my father….”

  Theodora joined them, her eyes downcast. “I am sorry, Cordelia,” she said. “I spoke as a ruse to rid you of that…that woman.” She met Cordelia’s eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

  The strength drained from Cordelia’s body in a rush. “Of course, my dear.” She closed her eyes. “I confess that I…” She remembered Donal’s presence and opened her eyes again. He was gone.

  Theodora took her arm and led her into the morning room. It was cool and dark and private. Theodora made Cordelia sit down, left the room and returned a moment later with a dampened cloth.

  “Put this over your eyes,” she said. “I know you haven’t slept in over a day, and that woman alone would be enough to drive anyone mad.”

  Cordelia obeyed, despising her own vulnerability even as she blessed her cousin’s thoughtfulness. “You did not care for the countess?” she asked.

  “I found her quite odious,” Theodora said. “But I could have borne her if not for your distress.”

  Cordelia pressed the cloth against her eyes. �
�Was it so obvious, then?”

  “Only to me.”

  “But I had no reason to dislike her as…as strongly as I did, Theodora. It is wholly irrational to so mistrust a woman I have just met.”

  “Not wholly.” A chair creaked as Theodora sat beside Cordelia. “Her constant flattering of Ivy was most inappropriate. I have seldom witnessed such objectionable manners in any person of rank.”

  And did you see how Donal stared at her? Cordelia wanted to ask. Does our distaste arise only from our sex? Is she truly so beautiful, so fascinating that any man will instantly become her slave?

  She held her tongue and let the cloth fall from her eyes. “But Ivy should be exposed to all manner of people, including those from other countries. She has been very isolated here. In my desire to groom her for society, I have failed to provide her with sufficient and appropriate companionship.” She swallowed. “Clearly that has been one of my many mistakes with her, and why she was so taken by the countess.”

  “If Ivy had been at Edgecott for a year, or half so long, I might agree,” Theodora said. “But she has gone from the streets of London to Yorkshire to this house in a only a few months. It is no wonder that her head is easily turned.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “Once Sir Geoffrey is well again, you can devote more time to Ivy,” Theodora said. “Perhaps you will even permit me to take on a few more domestic responsibilities, so that you will not face so many competing demands.”

  Cordelia looked away. “I have failed you as well. Your life here must seem very dull.”

  “Oh, never dull, I assure you. You doubt yourself too much. I am very fortunate, and so is Ivy.”

  Cordelia took Theodora’s hand. “It must seem as if I hardly care for her,” she whispered. “We so often quarrel. But if I were to lose her—”

  “You will not…certainly not to that pale creature.”

  Suddenly the room seemed brighter. Cordelia’s shameful self-pity began to release its grip.

  “I know we cannot avoid the woman entirely,” she said, “but we shall not encourage a closer acquaintance than is strictly required by courtesy.”