Adam frowned, rubbing his fingers thoughtfully along his chin. “You said you heard something?”
“Barn noises. The horses acting up.”
“Could something have gotten them stirred up?”
Kepper’s eyes narrowed. “Could have. What are you thinking, sir?”
“Your mistress was found by the barn during the fire.” Adam bowed his head and took in a deep breath. “Do you remember seeing her before you were hit?” Kepper raised his eyebrows and Adam amended with a lopsided smile, “Or walked into a beam?”
“No, sir. I didn’t see the mistress. She’s all right, isn’t she?”
The question dammed emotion in Adam’s throat. “I hope so. Kepper…if you recall anything else, have someone fetch me right away.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And get some rest. We need you.”
The groomsman chuckled. “Right-o. I’ll get to mending straightaway.”
Adam added with a grin, “There’s plenty of work, so don’t think I’ll be letting you get off easy because you’re wounded.”
They said their farewells and Adam returned to the house to find good news. Helena’s fever seemed to have broken, and she had awakened to take some weak broth. Mrs. Kent was ecstatic, and Rathford, who was hovering anxiously in the hall, pressed his clasped hands to his forehead as if in silent thanks.
Adam went to her side. She was sleeping again, but this time peacefully. Her chest rose and fell softly, and there was a touch of color in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. He cursed his luck. He’d been by her side from the moment he’d brought her home, yet she had regained consciousness when he had stepped out for just a few hours.
He sat for a long time. And he thought about those damned faggots and why she had had them in her pocket.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sometime in the night, Helena raised her head off the pillow and peered at the window.
It was dark. She couldn’t say what had awakened her. She felt strange. Achy in her shoulders, her arms. Her legs felt heavy and it was difficult to move them. She must have the ague, she thought.
Her head felt fuzzy as well. Thoughts came sluggish and slow, and she had difficulty perceiving her surroundings. She knew she was in her room; she recognized that much. But there was this pressing certainty that something quite specific had disturbed her dreams, though she couldn’t think of what it was.
Then she heard it again. Someone was here—speaking to her.
Turning her head on the pillow, she listened. Was that a human sound whispering? It sounded like someone calling her name.
Fear curled a thin thread from her stomach to her chest before she quelled the reaction. It was ridiculous; she had nothing to fear, safe in her room as she was.
She was disinclined to worry about the sound. Sometimes night played tricks on the senses. It was the quiet, the utter darkness. It made one feel isolated, as if the nearest living being were fathoms away and all manner of unliving beings were right at one’s elbow.
Fanciful stuff she usually had no time for. It must be the fever. She let her eyes close, which meant allowing the leaden lids to have their way. She fell back asleep almost immediately.
Adam roused himself out of the chair, wincing at the pain that shot from his shoulders to his spine. Damn, the blasted divan was like sleeping on a plank. He felt a hundred years old as he levered himself to his feet and rose in careful degrees.
Twisting his torso this way and that, he worked the stiffness from his limbs. A nice early ride would restore him, he thought, and decided to do it. Coming to Helena’s bedside, he peered down at his wife. Her closed eyelids looked fragile, like the most delicate china. The only thing to name them human was the faint tracings of blue veins that showed against the translucent skin. Her cheeks were flushed, a sign of health, and her perfectly shaped mouth was slightly open, lips softly parted in too tempting a display. He bent over and touched them ever so slightly with his own. Straightening, he frowned at himself for the impulsive act. He had disturbed her.
She twisted around, and her head, half off the pillow now, was caught at an awkward angle. Gently, he reached under her and attempted to bring the pillow more in line with her head.
He made the adjustment without disturbing her any further. Something fell onto the floor. He stooped to pick it up. It was small, lumpy and soft. Holding it up to the light, he inspected it.
It was some sort of crude doll. Scraps of cloth were tied with twine, and there was a rudimentary suggestion of a face on the flat surface of the top bundle. The printed material that wrapped around the torso area was vaguely familiar.
Then he recalled it was the ugly print pattern of one of the ill-fitting dresses Helena had worn when he had first come to the house. Since her new wardrobe had arrived, she had probably given it away or thrown it into the ragbag. He understood immediately what this meant.
The doll was a poppet. Crazy old ladies used them in the supposed dark arts of magic, and this one was supposed to represent Helena. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, but the sight of the doll filled him with an unreasonable anger.
Someone who did believe in that balderdash was toying with Helena. Was it meant for good, or ill? He didn’t know the answer to that question, but he did know where he could find out. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind who was responsible.
Tampening his rage, he folded the vile thing in his fist. He glanced at Helena’s peaceful face. Lifting his other hand, he touched her cheek lightly, then turned away and went to his room.
It was too early for the valet to come in. He hated having assistance in dressing, anyway, but it was expected here in Rathford Manor for him to behave like a gentleman. Except he wasn’t planning on behaving like a gentleman when he saw Kimberly.
He sought out the enigmatic servant the moment he was downstairs. No one seemed to know her whereabouts, and it was clear they rarely did. He had already observed that the woman enjoyed a great deal of freedom. He set out to search for her. As good fortune would have it, when he exited the back of the house, he caught sight of someone in the herb garden. It was Kimberly, all right. He could see the frizz of her red hair just over the wall.
“Looking for ingredients for your spells?” he snarled, drawing up to her.
She tilted her head back and squinted at him in a most uncomely manner. Before she could reply, he shoved his hand out, dangling the grotesque poppet in front of her nose. “Keep this filth away from my wife.”
The expression of surprise transformed in degrees to stony resentment. She didn’t deny the thing was hers. Instead, she shoved out her bottom lip as she rose to her feet.
“Ye best put tha’ back where it goes, young master. The spirits won’t watch over her if ye don’t.”
“I’m not interested in your superstitious nonsense, and Helena has no need of it anymore.”
Her look was sly. “Lady Helena knows the power of the spirits. She’d want ta’ know she was being protected. Put tha’ back where ye found it and she’ll rest easy.”
He couldn’t believe the gall of the woman! The blood rushed to his face and the pulse in his temple throbbed so hard he could feel it. Clenching his teeth, he forced the words out with a snarl. “I’ll assume you haven’t been listening, rather than consider you’ve deliberately chosen to disregard my orders. Therefore, I’ll repeat myself. Your pathetic rituals have no place in this house any longer. Either you control yourself and cease or I will have you put out of this house without so much as a second thought.”
She glared at him. “Ye can’t. Yer not the master here. Try gettin’ rid o’ me an’ ye’ll find yer not so high an’ mighty as ye think.”
“Do you mean to say you think you have more power in this house than me?” He was incredulous. It was difficult not to laugh. He didn’t bother to conceal a mocking tone in his voice. “I assure you, I know my place in this house very well. I am Helena’s husband, and that gives me every authority to forbid you from h
aving any contact with her. If you cannot abide by my wishes, you will be let go. It is very simple.”
The sound of a throat clearing from the house diverted him. He turned his attention to Mrs. Kent who, by the look of her, had overheard enough of the exchange between himself and Kimberly to be uncomfortable.
“My lady is awake, sir. She’s asking for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kent. I shall go to her right away.” He handed the poppet to Mrs. Kent as he passed her. “Destroy this,” he said, “and let me know if anything like it is seen again.”
She gave him a look of approval. “Of course, sir.”
He didn’t go directly to Helena, as he had said he would. At the base of the stairs, he detoured into Lord Rathford’s study.
The old man was sitting in the chair behind his desk, stiffly paging through a ledger. Adam registered a measure of surprise that he showed no signs of drinking at this early hour. Come to think of it, he seemed to be restraining himself of late.
This was a good thing. He wanted the man sober. Rathford had a tendency to become morose when in his cups.
“Why the devil haven’t you put Kimberly out of this house?” Adam demanded forcefully. “She’s a threat to Helena’s well-being, you must know that.” He drew in a breath and stopped at Rathford’s raised hand.
Rathford’s tone was rather sad. “I hate the woman myself. But…she has a certain way with Helena. She calms her.”
“Calms her? My God, man, can’t you see that she’s cowed, not calmed?”
Rathford seemed confused. “Helena’s mother was very close to Kimberly. The servant’s ‘sight’ was irresistible to her. She elevated her to friend, and Kimberly did little in the way of chores. When my wife…died, she continued as Helena’s confidante. I thought it gave her comfort.”
“Well, if you won’t do anything about her, I will. I’ve given her warning to stay away from Helena. If she interferes with my wife, I will have her out of this house.”
Rathford blinked rapidly in surprise. “I’ll dismiss her myself if she’s doing anything wrong with my girl.” He turned to the patiently waiting Jack. “Yes?”
“Mr. Howard has arrived, sir. I didn’t know if I should send him in, or if you wished to continue your private conversation.”
“We’re finished,” Adam announced, heading for the door. “Helena is waiting for me.”
An urgent message from Mr. Darby, the solicitor handling Adam’s investments, arrived, advising him that the investors with whom he had been wanting to meet were in London. Adam made swift preparations to return to the city.
Under different circumstances, he wouldn’t think of leaving Rathford Manor. There were so many reasons to stay. The weather was bitter and unrelenting, making travel wretched. The hunt he and his new comrades had planned was nearly upon them. The snow had melted, but the ground was rock hard, making tracking impossible. It would be completely up to the dogs. If there was any wild-life out there. Personally, Adam doubted it. How anything could survive in this bitter cold was beyond him.
Repairs to the barn were already under way. Men from the village had come in to do it, and they needed to be supervised. And there was the invitation the Duke and Duchess of Strathmere had sent for a party at the end of February. Helena’s health was on the mend, but she wasn’t fully herself yet.
Helena. Adam’s wild rush of thought halted abruptly. What difference did all the rest of it make? It was only Helena that mattered.
Damnation, this trip came at an inconvenient time, but one had to seize these opportunities. Telling himself Helena would be all right, he grimly packed his things, eschewing the services of the manservant set aside for just these kinds of tasks. Adam very much relished his solitude as he mulled over dark thoughts while shoving badly folded items of clothing into a valise.
When his packing was finished, he went to Helena’s room.
She was sitting up, propped with a plethora of pillows behind her. A tray was set before her, the kind used for dining in bed, with tiny legs straddling her lap. Upon it was a soup bowl, and she was idly skimming the silver spoon over the surface. Her night rail was fastened primly, tied at the neck with a girlish pink ribbon. Her hair was pulled back loosely, then left to fall over one shoulder.
There was nothing sexy in the picture she presented. It was decorous and demur and nearly angelic in its aspect…and yet the blood in his veins flared instantly hot.
“You seem improved,” he said, and his voice, he was glad to note, sounded sufficiently detached.
“I feel much better.” The thick ridge of eyelashes drifted over those cerulean eyes, veiling them and keeping their secrets.
This was the most frustrating part of the illness. For some reason, it had made her more distant. Not the heated animosity of their early days of acquaintance, not the tender blush of affection that had come upon them unexpectedly as their knowledge of one another deepened. These days, her eyes had a tendency to dart, as if she were wary all the time. She watched him, and he had the sense—although she never said anything to indicate it—that she was afraid.
Surely…not afraid of him?
This was the hardest part—feeling like he was abandoning her. It felt…wrong to go. Damn, he hated feeling helpless.
She played with her consommé, eyes lowered, her lashes fanned against the gentle blush of those impossibly defined cheekbones. “I am planning to dress today. I may even take a walk.”
“I hope you will not push yourself too much.”
“No. I shan’t.”
She wouldn’t look at him. He wanted to make her.
Nervously, she laid her spoon down and smoothed her hair.
On impulse, he took a step forward. “Helena, I’m sorry I have to leave….” The stiffening of her shoulders stopped him.
“Yes. Mrs. Kent told me. About your leaving.”
“Are you angry?”
She was so startled, she did look at him then. But only for a moment. “No.”
It seemed an honest enough answer. Then what was the matter? “I’ll return as soon as I can. There is the Strathmere ball next month. I want to be here for that.”
“It’s very kind of you.” The words were spoken with not an ounce of irony, and yet it annoyed him all the more. He wasn’t doing it to be kind, damn it all. He was doing it because it was what he wanted.
She turned, tucking her chin into her shoulder. He had the feeling he was being dismissed.
He had planned to stay, but felt awkward and dissatisfied all of a sudden. Making some excuse, he left.
She shot a quick glance at him before he turned away, and that look stayed in his mind’s eye for the remainder of the day. It was likely his imagination, but he could have sworn it was ripe with a plea.
But a plea for what?
When he had gone, Helena lay her head back and stared at the ceiling. The hurt was on the fringes of her awareness, and she had the most foolish idea that if she stayed very still, she could keep it from rearing up on its hind legs like some rabid beast and devouring her whole. Rather, it crept upon her, stealing inch by inch until her chest ached and it was difficult to breathe. Her eyes stung and when she blinked, wetness spiked her lashes.
It was ridiculous to feel this way just because he was going to London to attend to business. Weepiness and clinging were certainly not qualities she was used to seeing within herself, nor ones Adam would consider attractive.
At that very unlucky moment, her father entered the room.
With forced brightness, she said, “Oh, Father. Any good news on the stables?”
He appeared distracted. “What? Oh. Yes, it’s coming along nicely.” He cleared his throat and asked, “I don’t suppose…you haven’t been to your mother’s rooms lately?”
This caught Helena completely off guard. “Mother’s rooms? No, of course not. Why?”
He frowned, muttering to himself. “Bettina must have imagined it.”
Bettina was one of Mrs. Kent’s helpers
who’d come in from the village. She did most of the heavy labor, beating the rugs and polishing the floors, while the elder and more senior servant busied herself with the dusting and polishing.
“Someone was in your mother’s rooms, it seems. Bettina said she saw someone—said it was you—coming out of them one day when she was going up to clean in there.” He paused, glancing uncertainty at her. “It wasn’t you, was it? Odd.”
“No.” She sat quietly, not proffering the obvious question: Then who?
“She’s a silly girl,” George Rathford said.
But Bettina was not at all the silly girl type.
Helena said, “I’ll speak to her about it. It seems strange that she would be mistaken.” Gazing up at her father, she saw a flash of something dark in his eye. A close, careful intensity as he gazed at her.
She might have heard his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.
She felt a cold finger trace a shivery path up her spine. Jutting her chin out, she forced herself to smile. It felt brittle and false, and she had the awful suspicion that her father wasn’t fooled one bit. “I’m anxious to come and see the progress on the stables.”
“Don’t rush it, button.”
The endearment rocked her. He hadn’t called her that since she was a very small child. He smiled a bracing smile, patted her hand and chatted for several more minutes. Helena wished he would leave. As much as she craved time like this with her father, other thoughts, darker thoughts, pressed in on her, begging for consideration.
She was afraid. She was so very afraid.
It wasn’t just this supposed mix-up about the servant girl thinking she’d seen her in her mother’s old apartments. The nightmares…they were back, and they had grown terrifyingly real. Sometimes Helena thought they were real. Sounds so crisp, visions of shadows moving about her bed.
Also, there were all the things she had been misplacing of late. The other day, she awoke to find a pair of slippers floating in the basin she used to wash in the mornings. No one had been in the room since she had slipped them off the previous night and left them on the hand-knotted rug by her bed.
The Sleeping Beauty Page 18