by Pearl Wolf
“What the…?” He watched in astonishment as the arc of his trousers caught the wind and sailed away. He grasped at her, but she evaded him and flew out of the gazebo.
“Why, you little…!” he shouted after her, unable to follow without trousers. His words fell on air, like the wind rushing through dead leaves.
Helena hobbled off with a slight limp, for she’d left one shoe behind. The uncomfortable soreness between her legs throbbed. Small price to pay for her triumph. She hummed a tune to herself.
Her happiness in victory might have been short-lived had she witnessed Harry Trasker watching her.
Chapter 19
Sunday, the Tenth of May, 1818
Waverley’s mysterious disappearance from the castle filled Helena with dread. Where had he gone? Had her deception driven him away? His disappearance without a word meant he could not forgive her lie, she was sure. When she pressed his secretary Rupert, he claimed ignorance as to his lordship’s destination.
“His lordship informed me he had urgent business to attend to, milady, but he did leave word for you to act in his place until he returned.”
She was uneasy at being left in sole charge in his absence, but she didn’t let on. “Thank you, Rupert,” she said. The young man bowed and left her. She sat for some time wondering what to do, for there was nothing pressing that needed her attention. She recalled the door into the second basement. The arc left in the dirt was proof enough that the door had been in use. She had a mind to investigate, but first she would have to locate the key.
At a knock on her door, Helena glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Come in, Mrs. Trasker. You’re right on time.” She greeted the housekeeper in a brisk, businesslike tone but lingered before closing the accounts book, making sure the woman knew what she had been studying. She locked the book in the safe, placed the key in her pocket and rose to join the older woman.
She kept her eyes down, for fear she might giggle at the sight that met her eyes. Mrs. Trasker wore a starched white cap and a spotless gray muslin gown trimmed with white fulcrum, her chain of keys encircling her middle where once her waist had been. She actually looked presentable for the first time in Helena’s memory. What’s more, she was sober. Helena wondered what mischief she was planning.
“When you told me you had an interest in the Banningtons, I had the old portrait gallery cleaned to a shine, Lady Helena. It’s been an age since anyone’s ever asked to see it.”
“How thoughtful,” she murmured.
“My pleasure.” The housekeeper led Helena to the end of the Great Hall. She stopped in front of a door Helena had taken little notice of before. Mrs. Trasker fumbled with her large ring of keys until she found the right one. As she did so, Helena noted a key larger than the rest, rusted with age.
“What’s that key for?” Helena asked casually.
“Key to the old cellar door under the abbey. Ought to throw it away, ’cause no one uses it anymore. I’m sure it no longer works.” There was an odd look on her face.
She was lying, Helena guessed, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Trasker inserted the proper key into the gallery door and stepped aside to allow Helena to enter first. In the long room, one wall was lined with large portraits in ornate gilded frames. They faced a bank of mullioned windows flanking an enormous fireplace over which hung the largest of the portraits.
“We’ll start over here by the fireplace, ma’am. This here’s the first Marquis of Waverley, name of Thomas Bannington. Lost his leg during the war in the American colonies. King George rewarded him for his bravery with Waverley Park. It ain’t the biggest holdin’ in the kingdom, it bein’ so far from London and all, but folks hereabouts speak of it wi’ respect.”
Helena examined the portrait for a moment, then turned to the next one.
“And this here’s his wife, Lady Martha Fox. Her father was a local squire.”
Helena examined the portrait of an attractive woman surrounded by three children and a large Russian wolfhound seated at her feet. The dog caused a pang of homesickness for her own Prince. When would she see her frisky pup again, she wondered.
“Lord Neville became second marquis when Lord Thomas passed. This here’s his portrait. He was husband to the dowager. Her portrait’s right next to his.”
“‘Lady Dorothea, neé Hargrave, born 1736,’” Helena read aloud. The dowager was truly a beauty in her day.
“And this here’s Lady Mary, younger sister to the second marquis, Lord Neville. She was me grandmother.” The housekeeper added, “She wed Baron Marcus Weston. Next to him is their son, Sir Robert.” Mrs. Trasker beamed at the portrait of a handsome young man. With a great deal of pride, she added, “This here’s me father, Sir Robert Weston.”
“Where is your mother’s portrait?” Helena asked innocently, knowing full well her father had never married the young maid, for Cook had already told her so.
“He was a’ goin’ to marry me mum, but he took ill and died afore the weddin’.”
“He was betrothed to your mother, you say? Poor man. He was only twenty, according to the plate under his portrait. What did he die of?” Helena’s eyes were all innocence, though she already knew the answer. Lord Robert Weston had died of syphilis.
The housekeeper’s tone turned belligerent. “Don’t know zackly. Some bad disease, mayhap. He was gonna marry me mum, I tell ya. He took ill is why he din’t. Me mum tol’ me so. And anyways, I turned out respectable. I married proper to John Trasker, a fine man let me tell you. We posted the banns, we married in church and me Harry’s no bastard.” Her voice had reached a shrill pitch.
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Trasker. I have no cause to disbelieve you. In fact, I’m impressed by your knowledge of the Bannington family history.” Dream your dreams of glory for your son, my girl. Even if Waverley were to die without an heir, the Crown would never allow the likes of your Harry to become the next marquis.
“It’s writ down in the family Bible in the chapel for anyone to see,” Mrs. Trasker said, but the starch had gone out of her.
They moved on to the next portrait. Helena stopped to admire it and said, “Ah, here’s a face familiar to me. I knew him. William was the second marquis’ brother. A kind man, I recall. And next to him is his wife, Jane. They were neighbors of ours in Brighton and became family friends.”
“That right?” mumbled the housekeeper, made painfully aware of the difference in their stations by this remark.
“Is this next a portrait of Lord Waverley’s father?” Helena examined it carefully, but she saw no resemblance. Lord George Bannington was not handsome by any measure. She saw cruelty in his unsmiling face, which only reinforced what Waverley had told her of his father’s steadfast refusal to forgive his only son. She moved on to Waverley’s mother and immediately saw the resemblance to Desmond, now the Fourth Marquis of Waverley.
“How beautiful she was. ‘Marchioness Drucilla Browne, born 1760, died 1804,’” she read. “The likeness to Lord Waverley is astonishing, don’t you think, Mrs. Trasker? His lordship has his mother’s blue eyes as well as her dark hair.”
“Mayhap,” the older woman muttered. “That’s the last of the lot. Shall we go?”
“Thank you for this rare treat, Mrs. Trasker,” Helena said, but her mind was on that rusted skeleton key firmly fixed on the ring round Mrs. Trasker’s ample waist. There had to be a way to wrest it from her.
The opportunity presented itself, but not without a great deal of trouble.
London
Waverley reached Mayfair late on the third day, having ridden hard, stopping only to change horses. But his eagerness to accomplish his mission had its price. The wound Lord Saltash had inflicted upon him caused considerable discomfort.
He put up at the Pultenay Hotel, one of the finest in London, and ordered dinner as soon as he was settled in his suite. It was excellent, for the Pultenay was known for its outstanding cuisine. He drank a full bottle of fine French Bordeaux, undressed and fell asleep at on
ce.
He woke much refreshed, bathed and dressed with the help of a footman provided by the hotel, for he refused to permit Rabu to accompany him. The poor man’s fear of horses would only have served to slow down his master. He breakfasted leisurely and ordered a carriage for eleven o’clock, when he planned to visit Heatham House. If it turned out that Helena was with child as soon as may be, there was no time to lose.
Waverley Castle
Helena could not put the second cellar out of her mind. Perhaps there was nothing there. So be it, but she was determined to see for herself.
It wasn’t as difficult as she had supposed to steal the key from Jennie Trasker. The door to her chamber was slightly ajar and she was dozing, an empty brandy bottle on the table at her side. The ring of household keys lay on the table next to her, kept company by an overturned whiskey glass. Helena unhooked the rusted key, the largest on the chain, but as she did so, the door creaked open. She thrust the key into the pocket of her morning gown and took two steps back.
“What’re ye doin’ in me ma’s room?” Harry Trasker growled.
Helena drew herself up haughtily and said, “Nothing’s amiss, Harry, I assure you. I sent for your mother, but when she didn’t arrive, I came here to ask for the key to the portrait gallery. I wish to take measure for a frame I plan to have made for the new marquis’ portrait.”
“Whatcha wanna do that fer?” He moved closer, forcing her to back away.
“You have no business questioning my actions, sir. Do not come any closer.” But Harry kept walking toward her until her back was pressed to the wall.
“Bein’ in me ma’s room is me business.” He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Get. Your. Filthy. Hands. Off. Me!”
“Why? I know you been used ’afore. You let the marquis have his way. I saw you tuppin’ in the gazebo by the pond.” His hand moved to her breast, but she pushed it away.
“Have you lost your senses? Take your filthy hands off me. I could sack you for this!” She tried to duck under his arms, but he held fast with one hand and played with her breast with the other.
“Give us a kiss,” he said and grabbed her chin.
She kept her voice even and said, “All right. One kiss, but that’s all, Harry. Don’t hold me so tight if you want a proper kiss.”
Harry eased away in anticipation of his reward. When his mouth clamped down on hers, she brought her knee between his legs and thrust it upward as hard as she could.
He let go of her and howled with pain. “Ow! Bitch!” Helena ran out of the room without looking back.
London
“This way, milord,” said Dunston, leading Waverley into the duke’s library.
“Morning, your grace,” the marquis said, bowing.
“Sit, Waverley.” The duke indicated a chair facing his own. “How is my daughter?”
“Her ladyship is well, your grace. I must thank you for allowing her to visit us. My grandmother adores her. Your daughter doesn’t know about my business in London, however.”
“And what is your business in London, may I ask?”
“I came to seek your permission to offer for Lady Helena’s hand, your grace,” he answered at once.
“Indeed? What, pray, are my daughter’s feelings on this matter?”
“Your daughter has professed her willingness, your grace.” I’m being tested. So be it. I’ll play by whatever rules he sets down for me, as long as I win my love’s hand.
“That so? I cannot take your word for this, you realize. Does she know you are here to petition me?”
“No, your grace. I mean to surprise her with happy news.”
His grace did not hesitate. “The answer is no, Lord Waverley. I won’t allow my daughter to wed a man with your well-known reputation.”
Waverley was stunned. After a long moment, he recovered enough to say, “Will you hear me out, your grace? I beg a few more moments of your time.”
The duke took a bit of snuff. “You won’t change my mind, I assure you.”
“I know I have much to answer for, your grace. If I were in your shoes, I would refuse an incorrigible rake like myself if he dared to petition me for my daughter’s hand. But I am no longer the rake of my reckless youth. I’ve put all that behind me. I love your daughter, sir, and she returns my affections.”
“I knew your father, Waverley. He never forgave you for your reckless behavior. Why should I?”
Why indeed? “I begged for his forgiveness many times over, but he never would, not even when my grandmother implored him to do so. He would not even answer my many letters. It’s no excuse, your grace. I know that now, but I could not feel welcome in England under those circumstances. When he died, the Regent summoned me and I came back to England to take up my responsibilities determined to change my ways and restore my reputation.”
The duke stroked his brow. When he removed his hand, he raised his eyes and bore them down on Waverley. “I’ve had an anonymous letter from Cornwall. Can you deny entertaining your French mistresses at a neighbor’s ball? One, I might add, at which my daughter was present? The fracas led to a duel, did it not? It astonishes me that you have the gall to think I would agree to my daughter’s marriage to you under these circumstances.”
“I won’t deny it, your grace. All that you say is true, but give me an opportunity to explain.”
“There is nothing you can say to change my mind, young man. Don’t embarrass yourself by offering me more false coin. The facts speak for themselves. I’ve already sent a letter requesting my daughter to return home at once. There’s no more to be said.”
“Thank you for your time, your grace,” Waverley murmured awkwardly. He rose and took his leave.
Chapter 20
Monday, the Eleventh of May, 1818
The stolen key to the second cellar had cost Helena, what with Harry pawing her so mercilessly. She shuddered at the thought of his coarse hands on her breast, his slobbering mouth on hers. At the same time, she couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. She was rather pleased with her quick-witted response. It did the trick, all right. I don’t dare tell Waverley. He’d murder Harry. Where has the marquis gone? Is he still angry with me?
She dressed herself, thankful that she’d given Amy leave to spend the night with her mother at the Ship Inn. Helena was prepared with an excuse should Cook ask why she was on her way to explore the cellar. To her relief, she didn’t need to tell another lie, for Emma was alone in the kitchen shelling peas.
Helena picked up a scone and took a bite. “Mmmm. Delicious. Morning, Emma. Where’s Cook?”
“She’s in the henhouse with Trudy, milady. Would your la’ship care for some chocolate to go with your scone?”
Helena laughed. “How clever you are. How did you guess that a cup of chocolate with my second scone is just what I need. I’ll have it here, if you don’t mind.”
“’Twould be an honor, milady.”
Amused, Helena took a seat at the servants’ table. “How is Lemuel, my dear? I hear he and Casper have become fast friends since he began to work in our stables.”
Emma blushed to the roots of her hair, for Lemuel was her beau. “Lem’s well enough, I suppose, milady.”
“You…suppose? Are you two on the outs?”
Emma served the chocolate to Helena, then put her hands on her hips. She was a pretty round-faced miss with plump cheeks and a rather large bosom. “He’s a stubborn one he is, your la’ship,” she burst out.
Helena curbed the urge to laugh. “He makes no secret of his feelings for you. What has he done to displease you?”
She hung her head, remembering her station. “I…I shouldn’t say to you.”
“It’s all right, dear. Go ahead. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m tired of just bein’ promised to him these four years and he says he ain’t ready to post the banns!”
Helena wondered if she ought to find a way to increase Lemuel’s wages. “Well, my dear, he’s probably fright
ened of taking on the responsibilities of marriage. I’d advise you to show more patience and less anger.”
“It’s true I’ve been powerful hard on him, milady. Mayhap you have the right answer for me.”
“Kill him with kindness, Emma. That’s what they say.”
Emma brightened. “I’ll try it, milady. Slap me silly, I’ll try it this very night.”
“Good girl.” Helena finished her chocolate and rose. “I’m glad we had this chat, dear. Thank you for a delicious breakfast. I’m off to inspect the cellar. I want to check on the progress the carpenters have made in repairing the damage. Cook certainly needs more shelves for preserves, even though she never complains. I’ll return shortly. Keep up the good work, Emma. I’m proud to have people like you and Trudy on staff.”
She reached up for a lantern filled with oil resting on a shelf, turned the latch to the cellar door and proceeded down the steps, noting that the cellar had been well cleaned since the last time she’d been there. The rotted shelves had been replaced, just as she had ordered. It warmed her heart to see the cellar decently restored at last. Cook now had all the space she needed to store vegetables and fruits, jams and condiments. Indeed, shiny well-marked jars filled with provisions for future use had already been prepared.
She reached the door of the old cellar and inserted the rusted key. To her surprise, the lock appeared to have been well oiled, for the key turned without a bit of trouble. The heavy oak door was another matter. She had to pull with all her strength before it gave way. She wondered why the hinges had not been oiled as well. They squeaked so loudly, they startled her enough to quicken her breath.
Once inside, she faced a set of ancient steps. She was forced to brush away the cobwebs before she could proceed. She trod gingerly, using her foot to sweep the debris on each step as she descended. There was no railing and the steps were worn. Why, she wondered, did Mrs. Trasker have the only key to this cellar? It appeared to have no use at all, except for spiders’ webs, and these served only to assault her mouth, her eyes and her hair. The lantern flickered and made her heart skip a beat.