To Beguile a Beast (3 page)

“Thank you.” She swallowed and stepped into the dim hall. “You’re most
kind,
I’m sure, Sir Alistair.”

He shrugged and turned away. “If you say so.”

Beastly man! He hadn’t even offered to carry their bags. Of course, most gentlemen didn’t carry the belongings of their housekeepers. Even so, it would’ve been nice to at least offer.

Helen grasped a bag in each hand. “Come, children.”

They had to walk quickly, almost jogging, to keep up with Sir Alistair and what appeared to be the only light in the castle—his candle. The gigantic dog padded along at his side, lean, dark, and tall. In fact, she was very like her master. They passed out of a great hall and into a dim passage. The candlelight bobbed ahead, casting eerie shadows on grimy walls and high, cobwebbed ceilings. Jamie and Abigail trailed on either side of her. Jamie was so tired that he merely trudged along, but Abigail was looking curiously from side to side as she hurried.

“It’s terribly dirty, isn’t it?” Abigail whispered.

Sir Alistair turned as she spoke, and at first Helen thought he’d heard. “Have you eaten?”

He’d halted so suddenly, Helen nearly trod on his toes. As it was, she ended up standing much too close to him. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye, and he held the candle near his chest, casting the light diabolically over his face.

“We had tea at the inn, but—” she began breathlessly.

“Good,” he said, and turned away. He called back over his shoulder as he disappeared around a corner, “You can stay the night in one of the guest rooms. I’ll hire a carriage to send you back to London in the morning.”

Helen gripped the bags higher and hurried to catch up. “But I really don’t—”

He’d already started up a narrow stone stair. “You needn’t worry about the expense.”

For a second, Helen paused at the bottom of the stair, glaring at the firm backside steadily receding above them. Unfortunately, the light was receding as well.

“Hurry, Mama,” Abigail urged her. She’d taken her brother’s hand like a good older sister and had already mounted the steps with Jamie.

The horrid man stopped at the landing. “Coming, Mrs. Halifax?”

“Yes, Sir Alistair,” Helen said through gritted teeth. “I just think that if you’ll only
try
Lady Vale’s idea of having a—”

“I don’t want a housekeeper,” he rasped, and resumed climbing the stairs.

“I find that hard to believe,” Helen panted behind him, “considering the state of the castle I’ve seen so far.”

“And yet, I enjoy my home the way it is.”

Helen narrowed her eyes. She refused to believe anyone, even this beast of a man, actually
enjoyed
dirt. “Lady Vale specifically instructed me—”

“Lady Vale is mistaken in her belief that I desire a housekeeper.”

They’d finally reached the top of the stairs, and he paused to open a narrow door. He entered the room and lit a candle.

Helen stopped and watched him from the hall. When he came back out, she met his gaze determinedly. “You may not
want
a housekeeper, but it is patently obvious that you
need
a housekeeper.”

The corner of his mouth quirked again. “You may argue all you want, madam, but the fact remains that I neither need you nor wish to have you here.”

He gestured to the room with one hand. The children ran in ahead. He hadn’t bothered moving from the doorway, so Helen was forced to sidle in sideways, her bosom nearly brushing his chest.

She looked up at him as she passed. “I warn you, I shall make it my purpose to change your mind, Sir Alistair.”

He inclined his head, his one good eye glittering in the light of the candle. “Good night, Mrs. Halifax.”

He shut the door gently behind him.

Helen stared at the closed door a moment, then glanced about her. The room Sir Alistair had led them to was large and cluttered. Hideous long drapes covered one wall, and a huge bed with thick carved posts dominated the room. A single, small fireplace sat in a corner. Shadows masked the other end of the room, but the outlines of furniture crowded together made her suspect that it was being used as storage space. Abigail and Jamie had collapsed on the huge bed. Two weeks ago, Helen wouldn’t have let them even touch something that dusty.

But then two weeks ago, she’d still been the Duke of Lister’s mistress.

She had to pee.

Perhaps if she lay still, she’d go back to sleep. But then there was the fear of waking to a wet bed. It’d been a very long while since she’d wet the bed, but she still remembered the shame the last time it had happened. Miss Cummings, their nurse, had made her tell Mama what she’d done. Abigail had nearly thrown up her breakfast before she could make her confession. In the end, Mama hadn’t been cross, but she’d looked at her with worry and pity, and that had almost been worse.

Abigail hated to disappoint Mama.

Sometimes Mama looked at her with a sad expression, and Abigail knew: She wasn’t quite right. She didn’t laugh like other girls, didn’t play with dolls and have lots of friends. She liked to be by herself. Liked to think about things. And sometimes she worried about the things she thought about; she simply couldn’t help herself. No matter how much it disappointed Mama.

She sighed now. There was no use for it. She’d have to use the commode. She shifted quietly and peered over the edge of the great bed, but it was too dark to see the floor. Poking out a foot from the covers, she slowly slid until she could touch the floor with just one toe.

Nothing happened.

The wood floor was cold, but there were no mice or spiders or other horrible insects. At least, not nearby. Abigail took a breath and slid fully from the bed. Her night rail caught and hiked up, baring her legs to the cold. Above, Jamie mumbled and rolled toward Mama.

She stood and shook down her night rail, then crouched and pulled the commode out from under the bed. She scooped up her skirts and squatted over the commode. The sound of her water hitting the commode was loud in the room, drowning out the dripping footsteps from the eaves.

She sighed in relief.

Something creaked outside the bedroom door. Abigail froze, her stream still trickling into the tin commode. Flickering light crept under the door. Someone stood in the hallway. She remembered Sir Alistair’s horribly scarred face. He’d been so tall—taller, even, than the duke. What if he’d decided to toss them from his castle?

Or worse?

Abigail held her breath, waiting, her thighs burning from crouching over the commode, her bottom growing cold in the night air. Outside the door, someone hawked—a long, scratching, liquid gurgle that turned Abigail’s stomach—and spat. Then boots scraped against the floor as he moved away.

She waited until she could no longer hear the footsteps, and then she leapt up from the commode. She shoved it away and scrambled into the bed, yanking the covers over her and Jamie’s head.

“Wassit?” Jamie muttered, slumping against her again.

“Shh!” Abigail hissed.

She held her breath, but all she heard was the sucking sounds Jamie made as he jammed his thumb into his mouth. He wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, but Miss Cummings wasn’t here to scold him. Abigail wrapped her arms tightly around her little brother.

Mama had said that they’d had to leave London. That they could no longer stay in their tall town house with Miss Cummings and the other servants she’d known all her life. That they had to leave pretty dresses and picture books and lovely sponge cake with lemon curd behind. Leave everything Abigail knew, in fact. But surely Mama hadn’t realized how awful this castle would be? How dark and dirty the halls or how scary the master? And if the duke knew how terrible this place was, wouldn’t he let them come home?

Wouldn’t he?

Abigail lay in the dark listening to the little man climbing the walls and wished she were safe at home in London.

There were several stuffed chairs crowded into the far end of the room, as if a long-ago chatelaine had stored them there and then forgotten them. Jamie was leaping from chair to chair. Each time he landed, a small cloud of dust puffed from the cushion. Already a film of dirt covered his little face.

Oh, God, how was she to do this? The castle was filthy, its master a nasty, rude beast of a man, and she hadn’t a clue what to do first.

But then, it wasn’t as if she had any choice. Helen had known what kind of man the Duke of Lister was when she left him. The kind who didn’t let go of anything that belonged to him. He may not have lain with her for years, and he may’ve taken other mistresses in that time, but Lister still considered her his mistress. His
possession.
And the children were his possessions as well. He had fathered them. Never mind that he’d hardly said two words to the children over the years or that he’d never formally acknowledged them.

Lister kept what was his. Had he any suspicion that she was going to flee with Abigail and Jamie, he would’ve taken them from her; she had no doubt at all. Once, nearly eight years ago, when Abigail was only an infant, Helen had talked about leaving him. She’d returned to her town house from an afternoon’s shopping expedition to find Abigail gone and the nursemaid in tears. Lister had kept the baby until the next morning—a night that still haunted Helen in her dreams. By the time he’d come to her door in the morning, Helen had been nearly ill with worry. And Lister? He’d sauntered in, the baby on his arm, and explained quite clearly that if she hoped to keep her daughter by her side, she must resign herself to their relationship. She was his, and nothing and no one could alter that.

So when she had made the decision to leave Lister, she’d known that she would be burning her bridges behind her. Lister must never find her if the children were to be kept safe. With the help of Lady Vale, she’d escaped London in a borrowed carriage. She’d changed that carriage at the first inn on the road north and had continued renting different carriages as often as possible. She’d kept to the less traveled roads and tried to attract as little attention as possible.

It’d been Lady Vale’s idea for Helen to present herself as Sir Alistair’s new housekeeper. Castle Greaves was well away from society, and Lady Vale had been sure Lister would never think to look for her here. In that respect, Sir Alistair’s domain was the perfect hideaway. But Helen wondered if Lady Vale had any notion of just how wretched the castle was.

Or how stubborn its master.

One step at a time.
It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. This was the path she’d decided on, and she must make it work. The consequences of failure were simply too unthinkable to contemplate.

Jamie landed awkwardly and slid off a chair in an avalanche of dust.

“Stop that, please,” Helen snapped.

Both children looked at her. She didn’t often raise her voice. But then, until a week or so ago, she’d had a nursemaid to take care of the children. She’d seen them when she’d wanted to—at bedtime, for tea in the afternoon, and for walks in the park. Times when both she and they had been in pleasant frames of mind. If Abigail or Jamie became tired or angry or out of sorts, she’d always had the option of sending them back to Miss Cummings. Unfortunately, Miss Cummings had been left behind in London.

Helen inhaled, trying to calm himself. “It’s time we were at our work.”

“What work?” Jamie asked. He got up and started kicking a cushion that had slid to the floor with him.

“Sir Alistair said we were to go away again this morning,” Abigail stated.

“Yes, but we’ll convince him otherwise, won’t we?”

“I want to go home.”

“We can’t, darling. I’ve already told you so.” Helen smiled persuasively. She hadn’t told them what Lister would do if he caught them. She hadn’t wanted to frighten the children. “Sir Alistair does need someone to clean his castle and put it back in order, don’t you think?”

“Ye-es,” Abigail said. “But he said he liked his castle all dirty.”

“Nonsense. I think he’s just too retiring to ask for help. Besides, it’s our Christian duty to help those in need, and it seems to me that Sir Alistair has a very large need indeed.”

Abigail looked doubtful.

Helen clapped her hands together before her too-perceptive daughter could make any more objections. “Let’s go down and order a splendid breakfast for Sir Alistair and something for ourselves. After that, I’ll consult with the cook and maids on how best to set about cleaning and managing the castle.”

Even Jamie perked up at the thought of breakfast. Helen opened the door, and they crowded into the narrow corridor outside.

“I think we came this way last night,” Helen said, and set off to the right.

As it turned out, that
wasn’t
the direction Sir Alistair had led them, but after a few more wrong turns, they found themselves on the ground floor of the castle. Helen noticed Abigail dragging her heels as they tramped to the back of the castle and the presumed direction of the kitchens.

Abigail suddenly halted. “Do I have to greet him?”

“Who, dear?” Helen asked, although she knew perfectly well.

“Sir Alistair.”

“Abigail’s afraid of Sir Alistair!” Jamie sang.

“Am not,” Abigail said fiercely. “At least, not very. It’s just…”

“He startled you and you screamed,” Helen said. She looked about the dingy walls of the hallway, searching for how to reply to her daughter. Abigail could be so sensitive. The slightest criticism sent her brooding for days. “I know you feel awkward, sweetheart, but you must think of Sir Alistair’s feelings as well. It can’t be very nice to have a young lady scream at the sight of you.”

“He must hate me,” Abigail whispered.

And Helen’s heart squeezed painfully. It was so difficult being a mother sometimes. Wanting to shield one’s children from the world and their own weaknesses, and at the same time needing to instill honor and proper behavior.

“I doubt he feels anything as harsh as hate,” Helen said gently. “But I think you shall have to apologize to him, don’t you?”

Abigail didn’t say anything, but she gave a single jerky nod, her thin face looking pale and worried.

Helen sighed and continued in the direction of the kitchens. Breakfast, in her opinion, generally made things better.

But as it turned out, there was very little to eat in Castle Greaves. The kitchen was a vast, terribly ancient room. The plastered walls and groined ceiling had once been whitewashed, but the color was a dingy gray now. A cavernous fireplace, much in need of sweeping out, took up one whole wall. Judging from the dust on the pots piled in the cupboards, not much actual cooking was done here.

Helen looked about the room in dismay. A single dirty plate lay on one of the tables, evidence that someone had eaten a meal here recently. Surely there must be a pantry with food somewhere? She began opening cupboards and drawers in a state of near panic. Fifteen minutes later, she examined her booty: a single sack of mealy flour, some oats, tea, sugar, and a handful of salt. She’d also found a small dried up piece of streaky bacon hanging in the larder. Helen was staring at the supplies, wondering what could possibly be made for breakfast out of them, when the full horror of her situation finally dawned on her.

There was no cook.

Indeed, she hadn’t seen any servants this morning. Not a scullery maid or footman. Not a bootblack boy or a parlor maid. Had Sir Alistair
any
servants at all?

“I’m hungry, Mama,” Jamie moaned.

Helen gazed blindly at him a moment, still dazed by the magnitude of the job ahead of her. A small voice was screaming at the back of her mind,
I can’t do this! I can’t do this!

But she had no choice. She
must
do this.

She swallowed, threw a blanket over the screaming voice in her mind, and rolled up her sleeves. “We’d better set to work, then, hadn’t we?”