A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  “If we are to save his life,” Belle continued, “then we must work together. Don’t confuse loyalty to your mistress with what is best for her son. Neither Dr. Gillian, Paddy nor myself wish to see her ladyship standing at a grave saying goodbye to another child.” The maids began to weep noisily. “I do not have the time to win your respect and trust –– more correctly, Mr. Andrew goes not have the time. I do not ask for your friendship, but I do ask your help for his sake.” She turned to the cook. “Your name please, Cook.”

  “Mrs. Pike, Miss,” the cook replied, wiping her eyes on her apron. Belle pulled several folded sheets of vellum from the pocket of her apron. “Mrs. Pike, here are some menus with recipes to be use in Mr. Andrew’s care. Please follow them as instructed.”

  “Yes, Miss,” she sniffed, dabbing her eyes. “Right you are, Miss.”

  “Also, if there’s anything that you can think of, not too rich mind, but something that he was particularly fond of as a child that would tempt his appetite, perhaps you could....”

  “Leave it to me, Miss, I know just the thing.” Mrs. Pike bustled towards the kitchen sniffing and wiping her eyes as she went.

  Belle learned that the housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Babcock and Lady Stowebridge’s maid was Tully. Both women unbent a little before Belle left the hall and Mr. Hodges even escorted her above stairs.

  “Where will you and Paddy want to take your meals, Miss?” he asked, more politely than Belle expected.

  “In the sick room for now, thank you, Mr. Hodges. Later we'll take meals with the rest of the staff. Would you please arrange some buttered toast and custard for Mr. Andrew's tea, and cakes and so forth for Dr. Gillian and Paddy? They are in Mr. Andrew’s room as well.”

  “Of course, Miss.” Mr. Hodges turned to go and then turned back. “Do you think Dr. Gillian can help him, Miss Winslow, I mean really help him?”

  “Yes, he can and he will,” she answered firmly. She knew Drew would get better, because she would not allow him to do otherwise.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The footman knocked firmly on the door to the earl’s study.

  “Come,” his harsh voice commanded in response. Time had clearly not tempered his mood and Belle braced herself as the young servant who'd escorted her opened the door and motioned her inside. He gave her a look of commiseration as if he remembered all too well what it was like to face the earl's displeasure. Belle wished that it was only being taken to task by one’s employer for some household infraction. Today she faced one of her fiercest enemies.

  “You wished to see me, my lord?” she asked, once the door closed quietly at her back.

  Stowebridge sat behind his massive desk, writing furiously. He gave her no more than a cursory glance, then returned his attention to the paper in front of him. What was it that he wrote with such swift determination, Belle wondered. Her instincts told her that she was most likely the subject of his missive. Could he be seeking aid from others who also had reason to dislike her, even hate her? The Duke of Strathmore came to mind and worse yet, his loathsome brother-in-law. What new plot could they be hatching? Damn Duncan for bringing her here. Damn Drew for falling into such wretched despair and damn herself for...everything else.

  Stowebridge signed the paper with a flourish, set down his stylus and regarded her with derision. “See you? No, I could have lived quite happily never setting eyes on you again.” He motioned her forward, watching her steadily through his silver eyes. He didn’t offer her a seat. Petty of him, Belle thought, but an effective way to remind her that they were no longer social equals. Stowebridge scattered sand across the document as he continued to stare at her, judging, assessing. He took in her hair, her eyes, her.... The blackguard was staring at her breasts, trying to remind her of that night, trying to humiliate her. His technique might have worked had they met again under other circumstances but not now when she fought for Drew’s life. If Stowebridge thought he could shame her into leaving he had another think coming. Life among soldiers and sailors had broadened her experience in more ways than one. She would not run.

  The earl took his time carefully folding and sealing his missive while he leisurely and insultingly took her measure. Moments stretched on relentlessly until Belle feared she might buckle under the strain of waiting for his next shot. He was good at this game, but then so was she. Belle distracted herself by taking note of her surroundings. The dark, heavy furniture was well suited to a man’s domain and the color scheme of greens and golds, pleasant enough. She eyed a Jerusalem Cherry plant setting on top of an ornate, brass plant stand. It was quite large and its bright, orange-red fruit provided a colorful counterpoint against the formality in the rest of the room. She quickly summoned up her store of knowledge about the plant from its genus to its properties.

  The sound of a heavy envelope sharply smacking the desk snatched her from her revery. Stowebridge regarded her with contempt. “I detest you,” he said bluntly. “More now than I did five years ago, if such a thing is possible. Given my choice, I’d drive you right out of England...again.”

  “I’ll leave if you prefer,” she returned smoothly, calling his bluff. His reaction in the sickroom told her that he already realized she must stay for Drew’s sake. Otherwise, she’d be walking down the drive this very moment. He rose from his desk, his eyes filled with calculation. He clearly believed he now held the upper hand.

  “I don’t think so,” he stated, moving around the desk towards her. “Drew wants you here and you’ll stay. It’s poetic justice, don’t you think?” He advanced on her, but Belle held her ground. She’d learned long ago never to show fear in front of a predator. If you did he’d tear you to pieces. Stowebridge smiled coldly at her. “I’ll see that you work day and night changing his soiled linens and emptying his slops – whatever he needs, whenever he needs it, no matter how grueling the work and you’ll do it willingly, gladly. If you don’t, if you falter even once you’ll be sorrier than you ever imagined possible and even then it will be so much less than you deserve,Araby,” He ground out her old appellation, filling the sound with derision.

  Well, now he’d gone and done it, Belle thought and her good intentions of holding her tongue for Drew’s sake flew straight out the window. She would have been content to let him vent his spleen, until he called her by that dreadful nickname. She could tolerate his anger, even his pettiness, but meanness and spite, she could not.

  “You’ll remain at the abbey until I say you may leave,” the earl continued, “and if Drew wants you served to him naked on a platter, I’ll make certain that happens as well,” he ground out, his eyes narrowing as he fixed her with a ferocious look, “If he does not survive, then by God, I’ll make certain you wish you hadn’t either. You may have deluded yourself into thinking we are even, Madam, but we are not. We never will be. You deserved everything that’s befallen you. You deserved far worse. If he does not make a full recovery, I will see you destroyed.” He pressed his mouth together in an unforgiving line.

  Belle clasped her hands together at her waist, striving to be the picture of grace and decorum. She prayed he didn’t notice how white her knuckles were from clenching her hands together as panic washed over her. ‘You deserved everything that’s befallen you. You deserved far worse.’ Dear God, she wouldn’t have survived worse. Belle wanted to run as far away as she could from this furious man who hated her more than he hated any other person on this earth, yet she met his eyes unflinchingly through the sheer force of will she'd garnered in places darker and more dangerous than this room.

  Did the arrogant bastard think she’d been serving tea and cakes at Barrack Hospital, or on the battlefields around Balaklava? ‘You deserved far worse.’ Michael Lassiter’s opinion of her didn’t matter in the slightest, she told herself. The young girl he’d shamed in front of a room of men had died an ignoble death and been reborn in a place of fire and redemption as someone strong and fearsome in her own right. Begin as you mean to on, she repeated to herself. Those words
had become her strength, her creed and her hope when everything around her became dark and filled with desperation.

  Belle cleared her throat and spoke as crisply as a tart, green apple although inside she quivered like a bowl of poorly set aspic. “It would appear, my lord, you don’t understand the nature of nursing. What you describe is my job – aside from being served ‘naked on a platter.’ I doubt Drew would thank you for attempting to procure me for him. He’s not physically capable of sexual congress yet and you’d simply distress him. However, I’ll certainly keep you advised when that changes.” Michael Lassiter blinked at her and then opened his mouth to speak. She didn’t give him the chance.

  “As for everything else, I’m an excellent nurse, sir. If I wasn’t, I assure you that Dr. Gillian would never have asked me to come here in first place.” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, or to stand face to face with him, yet at some point in her speech she’d moved closer, heedless of any danger. “If you think that a bedpan is the worst thing I’ve had to deal with, then clearly you’ve never been in a hospital and certainly never in one at the front lines of a war. Very well, you detest me. I wish I could return the favor, but I stopped caring what you, or any of your kind thought about me years ago. Who I do care about is Drew...my lord,” Belle ground out the courtesy as an afterthought. She could be petty too. “What is this nonsense about whether or not he survives?” she demanded crossly. “Of course he’s going to survive.” She saw surprise in his face and something else. Perhaps it was a glimmer of hope. “Is that all, my lord?”

  “You are still one of the most arrogant women I’ve ever met.” There was neither amusement, nor admiration in his tone and rage simmered just below the surface of his words.

  Belle turned her head slightly and looked down at the carpet, taking a scant moment to consider his words. An instant later her gaze snapped straight back to his. “Yes, my lord,” she replied, nodding. “Arrogance is still my greatest failing, but I am trying to work on it. Dr. Gillian says he’d settle for mere tact. He may yet have a long wait, but, your accusation, sir, is clearly a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  The earl glared at her and the energy of his aggression swirled around them. “You are still foolishly reckless as well. I will only give you one warning. Don’t push me.” They glared at each other for a moment before Belle dropped her gaze and tipped her head deferentially.

  “I suppose I’ll simply have to trust Gillian’s judgment in bringing you here,” he said, the condescension in his tone scraped against her nerves like a nail on slate. “His reputation speaks for itself.” His silvered eyes raked over her and clearly found her lacking. “Unfortunately, so does yours. I’ll be watching you,Miss Winslow.”

  Belle wanted to remind him that the only blemish to her reputation had been the earl, himself. She wisely held her tongue. “Is that all, my lord?” she asked.

  “No. Did you discover who disobeyed Dr. Gillian's orders?”

  “Not really, but I have my suspicions.” She told him about her concerns regarding his mother’s maid. He turned away from her as if to prevent her seeing his expression. She surmised it to be murderous. “I have dealt with the situation.” He swung back to her. Oh yes, absolutely murderous and now he had a handy target.Good work, my girl, she told herself.

  “I said you were to....”

  “Forgive my presumption, but...” He laughed, a short and harsh sound without humor. Belle ignored his interruption. “I’ve explained the gravity of Drew’s situation to the staff.” He rushed towards her and for all Belle’s good intentions of standing firm, she retreated a step.

  “You had no right to gossip with the staff of this house about private, family matters,” he thundered. “You will not speak to a member of my household in such a careless manner again.”

  Belle squared her shoulders. “I believe the staff deserved to know the truth about Drew’s condition. These people are worried about him. They love him.” She looked the earl up and down mimicking his own dismissive assessment of her. “I suppose even some of them love you too...my lord. At any rate, now that they know exactly what’s at stake for Drew I’m certain they will cooperate.”

  “When did Hell freeze over?” He muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s beyond absurd that Lady Arabella Winston stands in my library lecturing me on consideration of anyone’s feelings other than her own and least of all those of my servants. I assumed the Devil had taken up ice skating.” Stowebridge considered her. Belle couldn’t help it. She smiled and lowered her gaze a little sheepishly.

  “I know. Let’s just say that I’ve gained a healthy respect for people regardless of their station in life and leave it at that.” Of course, he wouldn’t.

  “And when did you arrive at this, ‘healthy respect,’ as you call it?” His relentless eyes held her accountable and Belle found that under the power of his stare she had no choice but to be completely honest.

  “On November the fourth, 1854,” she answered quietly. He gave her a quizzical look. “That’s the day we arrived in Scutari with Miss Nightingale.” No further explanation was necessary. Everyone in England knew of the horrible conditions the nurses encountered upon their arrival at the infamous military hospital. It was the public’s outcry over the deaths of thousands of soldiers from both lack of care and appalling insanitary conditions that made it possible for Miss Nightingale and her volunteers to go to the Crimea. Belle, often wondered how many more young men would have survived if the war office had granted Miss Nightingale’s request when she’d initially made it.

  Her sorrow must have shown on her face, because he nodded briefly and asked nothing further. It was a relief not to be asked to explain the unexplainable. “You’re dismissed,” he said curtly. She dipped her head and turned to leave. Stowebridge’s voice stopped her at the door.

  “Why are you so certain he’ll survive?” he asked. Belle was struck by the bleakness in his tone and it bothered her that she felt compelled to ease his mind. No matter what he believed Belle knew she owed him nothing. Still, she turned back to him.

  “Drew will survive because he knows better than to waste my bloody time.” She left, knowing by intuition, if nothing else, that the earl watched her go, his mouth agape at her language.

  ***

  The room felt hollow after she left, as if she’d taken its substance with her. She’d always been good at doing that, he recalled bitterly. No matter what anyone said about Arabella Winston, she’d always filled the space around her with a vibrancy all her own. Nothing had changed in that regard. She’d been an impossible and infuriating girl. She still was – correction, she was now an impossible and infuriating woman and she was alluring as hell. Drew didn’t stand a chance against her anymore than he had years ago, perhaps less of one given his physical and mental state. Michael, himself, was all too aware of her charms. He crossed to the fireplace and stared sightlessly into the flames, his stomach twisting in rage at his own stupidity for reacting to her face and form. It was a mistake to let her stay. He’d made a critical mistake by trusting her years ago. Still, what choice did he have but to let her remain? Drew already looked better, more animated than Michael could remember seeing him since.... No, he thought grimly, they were stuck with her for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, Michael had let her leave before learning anything about her that he could use to his advantage. Araby Winston, or, Annabelle Winslow, as she called herself, claimed not to have thought about her previous life for years. She was lying. One didn’t simply decide to grow a soul. He knew that better than anyone.

  Arabella Winston grew up in privilege and even now, with her mother dead and her stepfather penniless and in disgrace, she still had enough titled family to relaunch her into society. Nevertheless, she’d chosen a life considered beyond the pale for any woman of rank. Though Miss Nightingale was of good family herself, there were plenty of drawing rooms in London where she
would never again be welcomed simply because of her profession.

  Michael considered the fates that had befallen each of the young ladies known as The Furies. He’d expected Araby to return the next Season after her flight from London. Even with her pride in tatters she could still have managed some sort of decent match with a second, or third son, even a wealthy cit. She hadn't returned though, and while he'd thought of her occasionally – when he happened upon a flower cart, or the firelight illuminated his cognac in just the manner to resemble the color of her eyes – he’d resisted considering what had become of her. It was just as well that she'd been out of his reach after he'd learned of Drew's injuries.

  In hind sight, Araby had gotten off considerably lighter than the other two Furies. Lady Katherine's family had suffered financial hardships after the death of her illustrious father and Lady Bellwood had been forced to marry off her pedigreed darling to the wealthy, if somewhat ruthless, industrialist, Jonas Rutledge. He’d hoped to use her to widen his social connections. The marriage had been a disaster from the beginning, resulting in Lady Katherine's exile.

  The fate of Sarah Jane Melbourne still pricked Michael's conscious, though. True to his word, Rafe Kingsford had publicly ruined the girl. She'd fled to the Continent in disgrace. Michael believed young Sarah hadn't deserved her fate. Her only real sin had been in befriending the two young women who'd conspired against Damaris Kingsford Wentworth. He thought perhaps Rafe regretted his actions against the girl, though at the time he'd couldn't be dissuaded from his path. It was almost as if....

  Michael turned his mind back to the matter at hand, toying with various methods of ridding the house of Araby Winston as soon as possible. He could have her arrested for theft. Hell, he didn’t need to involve the law for that matter. He owned a fleet of ships. It would be simple enough to have her abducted and delivered to any number of foreign ports. He considered the fate awaiting a beauty like her in such a situation and his chest tightened. Not even he could consign a woman like her to that life.