A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  Michael nodded. “He had his own reasons for wanting to see those young women punished and most of it had very little to do with Damaris, I'm afraid. I knew at the time he was a dangerous man to slight, let alone insult. He and my father were two of a kind that way.” Michael took a deep drink from his glass before continuing. “Ambrose set out to ruin three silly, nineteen-year-old chits and he picked his lieutenants well. We were both so eaten up with rage we ignored some very important questions to which I’m certain he knew the answers. I wish he were still alive,” he said grimly, “because I'd enjoy shaking those answers out of him.”

  “I'd help you,” Rafe murmured as he studied the glass in front of him.

  Michael took stock of the man seated across from him. Circumstance and proximity had forged a friendship between them and he knew the burden Rafe shouldered. “You'll never forgive yourself, will you?” Michael asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “No,” he answered, his voice short and hard. “Sarah was just a girl. She wasn't even part of the abduction, but I didn't care. I chose to ruin her because she was one of the Furies and I knew her family wasn’t powerful enough to do anything about it once I’d succeeded. They had no true standing in society other than what Sarah’s cachet gave them.”

  “Ambrose encouraged you to seek revenge, Rafe. He groomed you and fed you a steady diet of hate.”

  “True, but I must still bear the weight of my own actions. I had a choice.” He leaned forward in his chair, his manner intense, almost urgent. “Don't tell me you won't feel the same if we find something just as ugly at the bottom of Belle Winslow’s story. I know you better than that.”

  Michael nodded. He’d already begun regretting his actions at the Malberry’s ball, but there was little he could do to change matters now. Ten or fifteen years ago he'd have shrugged and quickly brushed aside any real remorse he felt, tossing coins where they needed to go to assuage any pangs of guilt, but it was no longer that simple with Belle. “I'm afraid we may both learn that we have much to answer for before all the puzzle pieces fit together, my friend,” he returned.

  They finished their meal and Michael left Rafe staring broodingly into a glass of brandy. He retrieved his hat and cane from the footman and prepared to set out for his townhouse. The evening drizzle had given way to a softer night that held the promise of the summer to come. It would be a crime not to take advantage of such an upturn in the weather, Michael thought. The evening could be better appreciated on foot. He stood back to let a gentleman enter the club and was taken aback when he realized the late arrival was none other than Leo Crispin, the Marquess of Branfel. Both men assiduously avoided one another for obvious reasons and Michael could count on one hand the number of times they'd encountered each other socially during the past five years. They had certainly never met face to face as they were now. Michael dipped his head in deference to the other man's superior title. A few seconds passed and then Branfel stiffly acknowledged him. As the marquess past him Michael spoke quietly.

  “I beg pardon, my lord, but if I could have a moment of your time.”

  Branfel gave him a cold look – not that Michael blamed him. “I sincerely doubt we have anything worth discussing, Lassiter. Good evening,” Branfel stated with quiet force.

  Using Michael’s family name instead of his title, Stowebridge, was a blatant insult, but Michael chose to ignore it. Frankly, he felt things were going better than he expected. “A lady we both know has returned to London,” Michael persisted, “and in greatly reduced circumstances.”

  Branfel stepped to one side of the large entrance hall and waited for Michael to join him before speaking. “I assume you refer to Miss Winslow. Her circumstances, reduced or otherwise are not my concern. The lady is not a subject I care to discuss and most certainly one I will never discuss with you.”

  “I'm afraid I must belabor the point, my lord. You see...” Michael faltered as something occurred to him. “You called her, 'Miss Winslow.' You've spoken to her. You know that she's....”

  “A nurse? Yes, and a damned fine one,” Branfel said in clipped words that dared Michael to disparage her. “Miss Winslow cared for my cousin during his recovery after the war. However, past that the lady is not my concern, nor is she yours.”

  “I'm sorry to disagree, my lord.” Before Branfel could dismiss him, Michael quickly explained how the woman they'd both known as “The Incomparable Araby,” had suddenly reappeared to care for his brother. Branfel said nothing at first, as if he were combining what few facts Michael had of her with his own knowledge and observations.

  At length he said, “Neither my aunt nor my wife were very pleasant to her, I'm sorry to say and it had little to do with our broken engagement. They considered her no better than an adventuress even though my cousin, gravely ill at the time, made astounding progress under Dr. Gillian and Miss Winslow's care. He owes them his life.” The marquess stared across the hall as if studying the wall intently. “Odd, isn't it? The lower classes, whom we view as so inferior to ourselves work harder and die younger than most of us and yet, they have the insight to view nurses as something akin to angels while we judge them through our privileged sensibilities and find them lacking.” He returned his focus to Michael. “Miss Winslow has not had an easy time of it since her return to England. People are perverse creatures and they frequently like seeing their idols toppled from their pedestals. The Furies made their share of enemies and many in society have enjoyed seeing them brought low. I have not. I kept my silence about that night,” he added, as if sensing Michael's unspoken question.

  “We all have,” Michael affirmed, “but nevertheless something unexpectedly forced her to take drastic measures to secure a future for herself.”

  Branfel gave him a look of intense dislike. “What, yours and Kingsford's scheme didn't go according to plan? Teach Lady Araby a lesson. Bring her low and pay no attention to those whom you injure along the way. It took me a while to sort it all out – your brother's enlistment and something to do with Kingsford's half-sister, though I'm not certain what.” Branfel stepped in closer. “You once warned me that if I hurt her you'd kill me. Let me return the favor, Lassiter. She is not the same girl she was five years ago and if I'd known the sort of woman she could become I would have married her despite your machinations. She is not friendless. Hurt her, trifle with her and I will see you ruined in the Houses.”

  The threat didn't bother Michael in the least, but that comment about marrying her irritated him beyond measure. “You have a fondness for melodrama, sir,” he said dismissively. “You're right. Our scheme didn't go as planned. She disappeared. She didn't even attend her mother's funeral. Kingsford and I intend to find out exactly what happened to her and if I am responsible then I will make the appropriate reparations.” He turned to go, then turned back to Branfel. One more thing needed to be said. “You are also right that we did not consider who else we harmed that night. In our arrogance we believed we'd given you a narrow escape and it never occurred to us that you'd see it differently. We acted dishonorably, my lord, and I offer my sincerest apologies.”

  Branfel snorted. “Did you offer the same to my former fiancee´?” he chided. “No? Something tells me, Lassiter, that before this business is done it's Miss Winslow who'll collect apologies from all of us.”

  Branfel's parting remark wormed its way through Michael's thoughts as he walked towards his townhouse. The man didn't despise her. He hadn't imprisoned and repeatedly ravished her in retribution. Leo Crispin was a decent man and he'd cared for Araby Winston despite her legion of flaws. Michael’s gut tightened up. That night in the Malberry’s back parlor a young girl had declared her love for him. He shook his head again striving to convince himself that those were merely the words of an infatuated girl who’d only fancied herself in love. His heart lay heavy in his chest. Well, he'd soon changed her mind, hadn’t he?

  ***

  The grand Earl of Stowebridge was distracted. Otherwise, he never would have been
so careless is his choice of route. The man might have a fearsome reputation, but he was, after all, merely a man. Seaton kept to the shadows, but maintained a steady distance between himself and his quarry. Time and necessity had honed his stalking skills during the pat few years and very shortly that bastard Stowebridge would come to grief because of them. He'd take his revenge on the earl first and then go after his useless, cripple of a brother. Perhaps he’d pay a visit to the dowager as well and help himself to some of her jewels. He thought about twisting her arms until she squealed like a sow – a fitting image for the woman. A few of her necklaces and rings would give him more funds for his new life with Araby. Of course, he still had to deal with Branfel's betrayal. He frowned, as he considered the remaining problem of finding Araby, herself.

  Elkhorn said he'd heard she’d changed her name and become some doctor's whore, but Seaton refused to believe that. He'd gotten angry then and hit that little pile of shit. He'd kept on hitting him too. Elkhorn deserved it for spreading his filthy lies. Now he’d never lie again. Araby would never sell herself so cheaply. He choked back a whimper of frustration. She was out there and she needed him as much as he needed her. He had to find her. He reached down and stroked his cock. It was sore. It was always sore because of the ulcers. She'd make it better, though, just as she always made things better. It wasn't his fault she'd run away. He'd had to punish her for that disaster with Branfel. He ignored the pain in his cock as he squeezed it for comfort. She'd understand. He'd make her understand this time.

  Up ahead Stowebridge turned the corner and Seaton almost purred with satisfaction. Not long now. He pulled the knife from his belt and licked his lips. He'd make him beg.

  ***

  Surry,

  Two weeks later

  He was back. No one had to tell her when he arrived. She simply knew. The sunlight streaming into the room somehow made the rooms brighter and there was a tingle to the air like the remnants of electrical energy after a lightning storm. She sensed his approach and knew that when she turned around from making up Drew's bed he'd be there, framed by the doorway, just watching her. Every enticing memory Belle held of him chose to surface in that one moment. She tucked the corners of the sheets sharply against the mattress swearing she heard strains of music drifting through the open window along with the scent of roses and the jasmine perfume she used to wear. She thought of Michael's strong, muscular arms sweeping her into a waltz despite her protest, his eyes, steel fire as he took command of her senses. Oh, and his kisses, dark and powerful, the sort that could rob the most virtuous of women of all good sense. She remembered his kisses that day in the gallery, the feel of his arms around her. He’d embraced her as if she were a fragile thing, making her feel as if she were part of a dream spun from moonlight and magic, as if that night in the Malberry’s parlor had never happened and that they were simply a man and a woman caught up in mutual passion, seeking what pleasure they could find between them. However, the incident at the ball had occurred and no amount of miraculous kisses could undo it.

  That night Michael Lassiter had used his kisses to lure a selfish, head-strong girl to her downfall. He'd hated her that night and although he was now willing to declare a truce with her for Drew's sake, his feelings about her would never significantly change. The reality of their situation depressed her. Some virtuous young woman would likely claim him this year or next, but Belle planned to be long gone from his life by that time.

  As she predicted, Michael strolled into the room just as Belle finished making Drew's bed, his smile easy, almost lazy. Belle's stomach made a somersault of excitement. She'd missed him, drat the man, and she silently called herself eight kinds of a fool for letting him have any effect on her whatsoever. “Good afternoon, my l....,” The words died in her throat. His arm rode in a sling and one of his lovely eyes was surrounded by yellowing bruises. There was also a shallow cut above his left eyebrow. “My God, Michael, what happened?” she said, rushing to his side.

  “A footpad,” he said easily as if it were more a source of inconvenience than anything else. “I stupidly decided to walk home from my club and he attacked me from behind. Luckily, I heard him coming at me before he actually struck. He received the worst of it, but unfortunately, he also got away.” Belle noted a certain tightness in his expression – a shuttered look that said there was more to his story and that whatever it was, he had no intention of sharing it with her.

  “What's wrong with your arm?” she asked, noting the bandage that covered his forearm beneath his coat. She suspected it was a knife cut. If he said it was a slight sprain she might just brain him with a chamber pot.

  “Just a slight....”

  “Don't,” she snapped. “Whoever it was cut you, didn't he? How deep is it?”

  Michael released a sigh. “I told Gillian you'd cause a fuss. It's not that deep, merely a stitch or two. The sling is only a precaution. I won't even need it after tomorrow.”

  “You saw Duncan?” That seemed rather odd. Like most well-heeled members of society, Michael and his family retained the services of the more notable of London physicians like John Snow. Duncan Gillian, though highly skilled, was hardly sought after to treat the minor aliments and accidents of the ton. Why wouldn't Michael use his own physician? His expression immediately became more guarded and his mouth thinned into an annoyed line.

  “Yes, I had an appointment withDuncan the next morning to discuss Drew's progress, so I sent for him to come a little earlier, that's all. Are you in the habit of addressing him by his given name? That's not the first time I've heard you use it.”

  Belle felt her cheeks heat under his regard. “He is my friend, but that's beside the point. I want to examine your arm myself.”

  Michael gave a bark of laughter. He said you would.”

  “He knows me well,” she allowed.

  “How well is, well?” he asked her, his eyes narrowing.

  “Certainly not in the manner you're implying.” Belle became all brisk efficiency. “Come with me.” She took Michael by the elbow and guided him gently, but firmly to the room they'd set up as Drew's parlor. She quickly removed the sling and before she took time to think her actions through, began unbuttoning his coat and easing his injured arm from the sleeve. Michael didn't protest, if anything he look amused. Belle ignored him as she removed his cufflink and gently rolled his shirt away from his forearm. She carefully unwound his bandage and gasped at the long gash that had been expertly stitched together by Duncan's fine hand. There had to be at least two dozen stitches and the flesh around each one was inflamed and swollen from the trauma of the sutures being tugged to and fro by movement of the arm.

  “Merely a precaution?” she demanded tartly. “You were using your arm too much and you pulled your stitches. It's a wonder they didn't have to be redone. Don't you move,” she ordered him as she went to retrieve her medicinal tray from Drew's bedroom. She paused to grab a roll of bandages and some clean pads from the closet as well. By the time she returned Michael had removed his cravat and shirt. He watched her steadily as she placed the tray on the small table beside the sofa. The sight of his muscular chest with its V of dark gold hair tapering down to the waistband of his trousers made her hands tremble and in turn, caused the jars on the tray to rattle. Her mouth dried up as if someone had shoved a wad of cotton batting into it. He gave her a slow, lazy grin as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. Of course he knew. Belle cleared her throat and got to work applying a soothing salve to the stitches and then wrapping a clean bandage around Michael's arm.

  “Are you personally involved with Duncan Gillian?” he asked, exploding the tense silence filling the room.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Belle snapped. “Of course not. That would be unprofessional of us both.”

  “Have you ever been romantically involved with him?” he pressed. Belle knew that in the long run it would be easier to answer his questions than evade them, but there were things she didn't wish to speak of, at least for now
. Unfortunately, Michael wouldn't stop until he had enough answers to satisfy him.

  “Not that it's any of your concern, but no. Duncan would never become romantically involved with a patie...I mean a professional colleague.” Good Lord she'd almost let the truth of their first meeting slip out.

  “Fine, then,” Michael answered, studying her hands as they cut and tied off the fresh bandage. Belle felt the heat rising to her cheeks under his scrutiny. He noticed. Of course he noticed, because Michael never missed anything. “You have a gentle touch,” he said softly.

  “Sometimes, I suppose,” she countered. “It wasn't my gentleness that earned me my moniker, that’s for certain.”

  “And what was that? No, let me guess. 'Madonna of the Battlefield'.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Hardly. I was known as 'Hell's Belle,' even amongst the doctors. Ask Drew if you don't believe me.”

  “Actually, I don’t doubt it for a moment.” There was humor in his eyes, but also a gentleness she'd glimpsed once or twice long ago and had never thought to see again. Belle scolded herself for being fanciful, reminding herself that romantic stirrings had no place between herself and the earl. They never had, nor would they.

  “Speaking of Drew,” Michael asked, glancing around the room as he stood to pull on his shirt, “Where is he? Did you throw him out the window?” He eased his injured arm into the sleeve of his shirt. Belle tried not to watch him, but he made a stirring vision. Eying his muscular back and chest would tempt an eighty-year-old nun and Belle suddenly felt very un-nun-like.