A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  “As I’ve said, Miss Winslow and your brother are not strangers to each other. Miss Winslow is also not a stranger to you, nor to your family.”

  A small, warning bell sounded in Michael’s mind. “Tell me what you mean, doctor.” Gillian looked uncertain how to proceed. “I don’t like hedging,” Michael snapped. “If you’ve something to say, man, out with it.”

  “Miss Winslow originally traveled in social circles not far from your own, though Winslow is not her original surname. You would have known her as Arabella Winston,” the other man stated flatly.

  For a moment Michael assumed he hadn’t heard the man correctly. “I beg pardon, doctor, did you say....”

  “Yes, my lord, that is exactly what I said.”

  For a second, Michael was unsure what to think or how to feel about this revelation, but only for a second. He rose slowly from his chair and Gillian followed suit. Michael stepped around his desk and faced the doctor nose to nose. The other man paled and took an involuntary step backward. “I’d say from the care you took in telling me this that you already understand her history with this family.”

  The doctor swallowed. “Yes, I do.”

  “Why the hell would you bring her here?” Michael demanded as his hands balled into fists at his side. “Bloody Hell man, she’s the reason my brother can’t walk. Drew would never have enlisted if Arabella Winston hadn’t toyed with him. Get her the hell out of here now, or I won’t answer for the consequences.” His tone remained even, but he bit off each word with cold precision, daring the other man to defy him. Arabella, here, in his house. He would not stand for it. Gillian might just as well have hired Medea as a nursery maid.

  “As I told you, my lord, Miss Winslow is the reason your brother is still alive.”

  A vision of golden eyes tipped up in a flirtatious, sidelong glance danced across Michael’s mind. The memory had stolen past his defenses. He could see her lovely face illuminated by moonlight. Damn her. What spell had she woven around Gillian to make him bring her here of all places? “Winston,” he snapped, “Her name is Winston. Don’t hide who and what she is behind some bloody made up name. I can guarantee you she’s destroyed more lives than she’s ever saved.”

  “I doubt that, my lord, “Gillian returned coolly. “As one who’s in a position to know exactly how many lives she’s saved, I ask you to please see reason.”

  “Reason!” Michael shouted as he started towards the door. “Don’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to remove her before I tossed her out myself. I’ll fucking enjoy it, too.” He yanked open the door of his study and headed towards the main staircase, Gillian hard on his heels.

  By God, now he knew why Drew hated him so much. She’d had months to bat her eyes and fill Drew with poison while he lay helpless in Barrack Hospital, months to make him believe any damn thing she chose to tell him. Rumor had her living in Italy, or so he’d heard. Now she’d come here to play on Drew’s sympathies. She was destitute and everyone knew it. Arabella Winston wanted respectability and a return to society. She’d even marry herself to a dying man to do it. Michael took the steps two at a time. Hell if he’d let that happen. This time he’d make certain that she could never lift her head in public again.

  Michael reached the hall to Drew’s bedroom and forced himself to slow down. If he burst into the room and dragged her out by her hair it was no less than she deserved, but then Drew would hate him more than ever. The image of his brother, deathly pale, his hands unable to even hold a cup fueled his rage as he traveled the length of the hallway. He wanted to hurt her, to devastate her for what her manipulations had done to his brother. He closed his eyes against the memory of her five years ago, her face white and her eyes staring vacantly. She'd deserved it, damn it, every humiliating moment. She deserved worse now. Michael willed himself back to the present, but as he neared Drew’s door strains of female laughter drifted towards him. For a moment he was certain he could smell jasmine.

  Michael opened the door without knocking. A tall, slender woman stood with her back to him, her black hair neatly dressed in a chignon. God help him, he remembered every curl of it. The sleeves of her dark-colored gown were rolled up to her elbows and she held a tray filled with a variety of jars, bottles and clean bandages. She hadn’t heard him enter.

  “Well, you certainly smell better, I’ll say that much,” she commented with a laugh. Michael saw his brother smile weakly at her. It was the first smile he’d seen on Drew's face since – well he couldn’t remember. “Now you’re more comfortable I’ll see to getting you something to eat, something more readily identifiable as food, that is.” Drew made raspy attempt at a laugh and it took everything Michael had to restrain himself from rushing to the bed and grabbing his brother’s hand. He’d never thought hear him laugh again. Suddenly, Drew noticed him standing in the doorway and his smile faded.

  “What is it?” Arabella Winston said, putting the tray down on a table by the bed. She reached out to touch the blankets covering Drew’s legs. “Are you in pain, Drew? Is the ointment stinging you badly?”

  Drew shook his head, looking past her and straight at his brother. “Hello, Michael,” he said quietly.

  Michael watched the woman’s back momentarily stiffen. Then she turned around and gave him a dazzling smile. “Oh, how nice, Drew,” she said. “Your brother has come for a visit.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Seeing her face to face threw him off balance. He’d been prepared to order her from his home, physically throw her out if need be, but then he’d heard Drew laugh. She’d turned around and damn her, she was still one of the most startlingly beautiful women he’d ever seen – more so now.

  She set down the tray of medicines and busied herself rolling down her sleeves and buttoning her cuffs. Michael moved into the room, stopping at the foot of his brother’s bed. He heard Dr. Gillian enter behind him. Tension thickened the air like cold custard.

  Drew licked his lips and spoke. “Thank you, Michael. Thank you for bringing Belle here.”

  Dear God, what was he supposed to say to that? Michael was saved from having to answer by Arabella, herself.

  “You may not be thanking him once you’re well enough to start working your muscles,” she joked. “Paddy and I received our marching orders from Dr. Gillian and we have plans for you, fellow, me lad.” The smile returned to Drew’s face and he looked at Belle with what could only be described as hope. Unwillingly and idiotically, Michael began to hope as well. What terrified him however, was the reason for the sudden change in Drew. He was still in love with her, still envisioning a future with ‘the Incomparable Araby’ at his side. It was a hell of a situation. If Michael sent her away Drew would sink further into despair and never be able to pull himself out of it before he....

  That vindictive witch held his brother’s fate in her callous, fine-boned hands, the perfect weapon to use against a man she had every reason to hate. He met her eyes waiting to see triumph, hatred, fear – anything that would tell what to expect from her. She’d become a good gambler during the past five years though, because her expression revealed nothing.

  “Miss Winslow,” he said, taking care to keep his tone polite and impersonal, “Would you please join me in my study?”

  “Of course, my lord,” she returned pleasantly. “If you’d permit me to see to Mr. Andrew’s tray first.” She turned her attention to the doctor. “The food sent up by the kitchen was not at all what you ordered and should only be considered food in the most general sense of the word.” She indicated the tray setting on a small table against the wall and shuddered in distaste. “Whatever these concoctions are they are certainly not in keeping with Monsieur Soyer’s diet sheets,” she declared.

  Michael crossed to the table and stared at the collections of bowls on Drew’s tray, unable to hazard a guess what each one of them contained. Gillian had explained at length that Miss Nightingale and her nurses rigidly followed a diet developed especially for injured soldiers by the famou
s French chef, Alexi Soyer. His recipes and his design for portable stoves had changed the way British forces were fed both on the battlefield and in hospital.

  “This is not acceptable,” Dr. Gillian stated sharply. “I took those sheets to the cook personally and was assured they would be followed exactly.” He addressed Michael. “We must see to this immediately, my lord.”

  “With all respect, my lord,” Miss Winslow interjected politely, “Dr. Gillian will be gone in the morning and I think it best if I begin as I mean to go on and speak with cook myself.”

  Michael didn’t believe for a second that deference came naturally to her. It never had before. He glanced at the doctor as suspicion crossed the other man’s features.

  “Very well, Miss Winslow,” Michael said, biting out her name, “handle this as you see fit, but when you’ve discovered the culprit, you will give me their name and I will deal with them. I shall expect you in my study within the half hour.” Michael turned on his heel and left the room. It felt more like a retreat and that didn’t sit well with him. Why couldn’t she have grown to the size of a barge, or lost half her teeth? He felt helpless against her where Drew was concerned, but he’d find a way to deal with her and she'd regret ever setting foot across his threshold.

  ***

  Belle let out a shaky breath. “You see,” Duncan said heartily, “that was not nearly as bad as you feared.”

  “If you say so,” Belle replied, doubt weighing in each word. She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead with a trembling hand. It had taken all her reserves to meet his stoney gaze and appear calm and collected.

  “I agree,” Drew rasped softly. “You’re still here, Michael still has his....” Belle held up a warning finger.

  “‘Thank you, Michael’?” Belle said. “Since when did you become so, so...strategic, Drew?”

  “I learned it from you,” he answered, giving her a weary smile.

  “I shall remember to be more circumspect around you in the future. Can’t have you picking up any more of my bad habits.” She leaned down and patted his shoulder. “I think there must be a bowl of custard somewhere in this place.”

  “Make that for three. Paddy and I could use some tea and cakes as well,” Duncan added. “I’ve some catching up to do with Andrew.”

  “Fine,” Belle muttered. The three of you shall feast while I face the lion.” She picked up Drew’s tray and mentally prepared for battle.

  “There’s a good soldier,” Duncan called after her as she headed out the door.

  Belle stopped by her room and checked herself briefly in the mirror. She straightened her linen cap and made certain her unruly hair hadn’t escaped its bun. She generally avoided looking at her face. It was there and she knew from their reactions that most men still considered her to be attractive. Her appearance simply didn’t matter anymore past making certain she had no smudges or streaks on her face or clothing. A clean, crisp apron, buttons all done correctly. She risked another brief glance at the face she professed to ignore. What had he seen when he looked at her? She was all large eyes and cheekbones these days. Was he pleased that she’d fallen so low in her consequence? Of course he was. Others had been and the earl had little reason to be charitable in his thoughts towards her.

  She abruptly turned away from her reflection. The last time she'd seen him was on the wharf in Scutari. He'd been pale that day – his handsome face a study of grim torment. He'd looked ready to commit the worst sort of violence then and she wondered what he must have looked like when he'd returned to the abbey and discovered the extent of Drew's decline. Michael...no she must not think of him by his given name. He was titled now and far above her new station.

  The past five years felt more like five hundred and Belle had long ago surrendered any claims to her former life. She’d lived in two distinctly different worlds – one inhabited by the rich and privileged, and one filled with the rest of humanity. While wealth and power were damned fine things, her life was both happier and more useful in her present circumstances. It gave her comfort to know that she'd accomplished a lot of good during the past five years and she hoped that it made up for some of her previous less than kind behavior.

  Belle briefly closed her eyes and immediately saw an image of Michael Lassiter, his golden-brown hair illuminated in the sunlight and reflecting a hundred subtle variations in color. She remembered the strength in his arms as he held her, his uncommon, gray eyes filled with laughter and warmth, then turning cold enough to banish all hope. She took a deep breath.Don’t look back. Belle tugged at the white collar of her dress to straighten its already precise lines and headed below stairs to come to terms with the staff.

  In great households nurses fell into the same classification as governesses. The staff never knew quite what to make of them, though for different reasons. Governesses were generally well-educated, but impoverished young women more accustomed to life above stairs than to life below them. Governesses were frequently excluded from meals in the servant’s hall, or from dining with the family and therefore relegated to taking their meals on a tray in the nursery or in their room. In short, they did not mix with the staff.

  Nurses, by in large, were regarded as women of questionable character who, though they were expected to dine in the servant’s hall by their employers, were discouraged from doing so by the housekeepers to safeguard the moral fiber of the other servants. Unlike governesses, they were expected to look after their own needs and were often required to fetch their own meals unless they ate in the sick room. In some households they even did their own laundry. They also did not mix with the staff.

  Belle had prepared herself for the stares and blatant rudeness of the kitchen and servant’s hall, but she was hardly inured to them. The earl's footmen leered – doubtless from the scandal of her profession rather than any gossip connected to that dreadful night five years ago. The icy gaze of Mr. Hodges, the butler, told her that while he recognized he must put up with riffraff in his domain, he did not have to make her stay pleasant. Belle had spent enough time around servants to make an accurate guess which job went with which person. The housekeeper drew herself up haughtily, prepared to deliver an immediate setdown. One of the parlor maids regarded her with active dislike. Clearly, some of the staff had been in earshot of Duncan’s exchange with the earl and were aware of Belle’s real name, as well as the reasons for their master's dislike of her. It was impossible to hide anything from servants.

  The maid seated at the table bore the haughtier of an upper level servant. That meant she was probably the countess’ personal maid, as well as the culprit charged with insuring that Lady Stowebridge’s instruction’s for Drew’s care went directly to the cook. Belle reviewed her strategy and made some minor adjustments. She turned to speak with the cook first.

  “I’m Miss Winslow, Mr. Andrew’s nurse,” she began.

  “We know who you are well enough,Miss Winston,” the housekeeper interjected sharply.

  “Aye,” the cook chimed in. “Don’t think to be sashaying in here all airs and graces. You’ve followed the soldiers and that makes you no better than you ought to be.” Try as she might, Belle had never understood that expression, or why people used it to infer one’s character was not good at all. She drew a calming breath, determined not to speak in anger. She needed their cooperation. “I’m not here to tell anyone their business. I’m here to take care of Mr. Drew and part of that care is ensuring that his food is edible from now on.” She set the tray down smartly on the plank table and lifted the covers. While the cook looked shame-faced, both Mr Hodges and the housekeeper looked genuinely appalled. Only the lady’s maid remained angry and defiant under Belle’s hard stare.

  Belle tapped a bowl of congealed, foul-smelling liquid. “Liver broth?” she asked Cook. The other woman nodded. “Calf’s foot jelly?” Belle indicated a saucer filled with a pasty, gelatinous substance. Cook nodded again. “And I’ve no idea what this might be,” Belle concluded, studying a cup of lumpy, white liq
uid.

  Cook shook her head. “Her ladyship says it’s a root that’s good for his bone marrow,” she muttered. “I’m just to boil it and mash it up a bit.”

  Belle lifted the lid of the small teapot on Drew’s tray and sniffed the brew. It was an herbal blend and it smelled earthy, almost dank. While it was true some of the most restorative herbs smelled and tasted quite foul, there was some undertone in this particular tea’s fragrance that sparked something in the back of her mind.

  “That’s his Tonic Tea,” the countess’ maid said with defiance. “Her ladyship makes it up special for him – always has since he was just a lad. Mr. Andrew has had trouble holding his food down.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Belle muttered as she set the lid back on the pot forcefully and shot a quelling glance at the maid. “I appreciate plain speaking,” she stated, giving all of them a level look. “I am willing to receive it as well as use it when necessary. Many of you have known Mr. Andrew since childhood and I can see your concern for him.” Most of the servants had lost their hostility and listened to her quietly. “Dr. Gillian has informed his lordship that if matters don’t significantly change, and quickly, there is every likelihood that Mr. Andrew will not live past summer.” There were gasps and one or two broken sobs. Belle knew her words had been harsh, but these people must understand the risks posed by them choosing sides in this manner. Duncan’s orders, her orders too, for that matter must be followed. She looked at Mr. Hodges as he fought to control his reaction. She would not ask him to speak right now. She could extend him that much kindness.