To Beguile a Beast (4 page)

Beside the door was a small fireplace, lit even though the day was warm. Lady Grey was getting on in years, and she enjoyed warming herself on the little rug in front of the fire. She sprawled there, taking her morning nap as Alistair worked behind the largest table, which also served as his desk. Earlier they’d gone on their morning ramble. They no longer walked as far as they used to, and Alistair had been forced to slow his stride in the last couple of weeks to let Lady Grey keep pace. Soon he’d have to leave the old girl behind.

But he’d worry about that another day. Alistair unfolded the letter and perused it as the fire gently crackled. It was early in the morning, and he had no doubt that his unexpected guests of the night before were still sleeping. Despite her claim to be a housekeeper, Mrs. Halifax struck him as more of a society lady. Perhaps she was here on a wager, some other aristocratic lady daring her to beard the revoltingly scarred Sir Alistair in his castle den. The thought was a terrible one, making him ashamed and angry at the same time. But then he remembered that she’d been genuinely shocked by his appearance. That at least wasn’t part of some game. And in any case, Lady Vale was not the type of frivolous woman to play such tricks.

Alistair sighed and tossed the letter on the table before him. No mention of Vale’s wife’s scheme to send him a supposed housekeeper. Instead, the letter was full of Vale’s news about the Spinner’s Falls traitor and the death of Matthew Horn—a false trail abruptly cut short.

He lightly traced the border of his eye patch as he gazed out the tower window. Six years ago in the American Colonies, Spinner’s Falls was the place where the 28th Regiment of Foot had fallen in an ambush. Nearly the entire regiment had been massacred by Wyandot Indians, allies of the French. The few survivors—including Alistair—had been captured and marched through the woods of New England. And when they’d made the Indian camp . . .

He dropped his hand to touch a corner of the letter. He’d not even been a member of the 28th. His was a civilian position. Charged with discovering and describing the flora and fauna of New England, Alistair had been three months from returning to England when he’d had the misfortune of walking into Spinner’s Falls. Three months. Had he stayed behind with the rest of the British army in Quebec as originally planned, he wouldn’t even have been at Spinner’s Falls.

Alistair carefully refolded the letter. Now Vale and another survivor, a Colonial named Samuel Hartley, had evidence that the 28th had been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls. That a traitor had given the French and their Wyandot Indian allies the day when they’d pass by Spinner’s Falls. Vale and Hartley were convinced that they could find this traitor and eventually expose and punish him. Alistair tapped the letter gently against his desk. Ever since Vale’s visit, the thought of a traitor had begun to fester in his mind. That such a man was still free—still
alive
—while so many good men were dead was unbearable.

Three weeks ago, he’d finally taken action. If there was a traitor, he’d almost certainly dealt with the French. Who better to ask about the traitor than a Frenchman? He had a colleague in France, a man named Etienne LeFabvre, who he’d written and asked if he had heard any rumors about Spinner’s Falls. Since then, he’d been waiting impatiently for a reply from Etienne. He frowned. Relations with France were terrible, as usual, but surely—

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the tower door. Mrs. Halifax entered carrying a tray.

“What the hell’re you doing?” he rasped, surprise making his words harsher than he’d intended.

She stopped, her wide, pretty mouth turning down with displeasure. “I’ve brought you your breakfast, Sir Alistair.”

He refrained with effort from asking what she could’ve possibly brought him for breakfast. Unless she’d caught the castle mice and fried them up, there wasn’t much of anything to eat. He’d dined on the last of the sausages the night before.

She glided forward and made to set the tray on a rather valuable Italian tome on insects.

“Not there.”

At his command, she froze, half-bent.

“Ah, just a moment.” He hastily cleared a space, stacking papers on the floor beside his chair. “Here will do.”

She set the tray down and uncovered a dish. On it reposed two ragged slices of bacon, crisped within an inch of their lives, and three small, hard biscuits. Beside the plate was a large bowl of porridge and a cup of inky black tea.

“I would’ve brought up a pot of tea,” Mrs. Halifax was saying as she busied herself arranging the dishes on his desk, “but you don’t seem to have one. A teapot, that is. As it was, I was forced to boil the tea in a cooking pot.”

“Broke last month,” Alistair muttered. What scheme was this? And was he expected to consume this dreck in front of her?

She looked up, all rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, damn her. “What did?”

“The teapot.” Thank God he’d put on his eye patch this morning. “This is most, ah,
kind
of you, Mrs. Halifax, but you needn’t have bothered.”

“No bother at all,” she blatantly lied. He knew full well the state of his kitchen.

He narrowed his eye. “I expect that you’ll want to leave this morning—”

“I shall just have to get another, shan’t I? A teapot, I mean,” she said as if she’d suddenly gone deaf. “The tea just doesn’t taste the same boiled in a cooking pot. I think ceramic teapots are the best.”

“I shall order a carriage—”

“There are people who prefer metal—”

“From the village—”

“Silver’s quite dear, of course, but a nice little tin teapot—”

“So you can leave me in peace!”

His last words emerged as a bellow. Lady Grey raised her head from the hearth. For a moment, Mrs. Halifax stared at him with large, harebell-blue eyes.

Then she opened her lush mouth and said, “You
can
afford a tin teapot, can’t you?”

Lady Grey sighed and turned back to the warmth of the fire.

“Aye, I can afford a tin teapot!” He closed his eye a moment, irritated that he’d let her draw him into her babble. Then he looked at her and took a breath. “But you’ll be leaving just as soon as I can—”

“Nonsense.”

“What did you say?” he rasped very gently.

She raised her impertinent chin. “I said
nonsense.
You obviously need me. Did you know that you have hardly any food in the castle? Well, of course you
know,
but really it will not do. It will not do at all. I shall do some shopping as well when I go to the village for the teapot.”

“I don’t
need
—”

“I do hope you don’t expect us to live on oats and streaky bacon?” She set her hands on her hips and glared at him in an entirely becoming manner.

He frowned. “Of course I—”

“And the children need some fresh vegetables. I expect you do as well.”

“Don’t you—”

“I’ll go to the village this afternoon, shall I?”

“Mrs. Halifax—”

“And that teapot, do you prefer ceramic or tin?”

“Ceramic, but—”

He was talking to an empty room. She’d already closed the door gently behind her.

Alistair stared at the door. He’d never been so completely routed in all his life—and by a pretty little slip of a woman he’d thought half-witted the night before.

Lady Grey had raised her head at Mrs. Halifax’s exit. Now she lay it back down on her paws and seemed to give him a pitying look.

“At least I got to choose the teapot,” Alistair muttered defensively.

Lady Grey groaned and turned over.

And then there had been his hand.

Helen paused at the memory. She hadn’t noticed his hand last night, but this morning when she’d opened the door to the tower, he’d been holding a sheet of paper between his middle two fingers and thumb. His forefinger and little finger were missing on his right hand. What caused such a horrible mutilation? Had he been in some accident? And had this terrible accident also scarred his face and cost his eye? If so, he wouldn’t welcome her pity or even sympathy.

She bit her lip at the thought. Her last sight of Sir Alistair gave her a twinge of remorse. He’d been surly and unkempt. Rude and sarcastic. Everything she’d expected after the night before. But there was something else. He’d sat at that huge table, barricaded behind his books and papers and mess and he’d looked . . .

Lonely.

Helen blinked, gazing around the dim little passageway. Well, that was just silly. He’d make a terribly cutting remark if she told him her impression of him. She’d never met a man less likely to take kindly to the concern of another human being. And yet, there it was: He’d seemed lonely to her. He lived all alone, far from civilization in this great dirty castle, his only company a big dog. Could anyone, even a man who seemed to dislike people, be truly happy in such a circumstance?

She shook her head and began marching toward the kitchen again. There was no place in her life at the moment for such sentimental thoughts. She couldn’t afford to be swayed by soft emotions. She’d done that once and look where it’d gotten her—fleeing in fear with her children. No, better to be pragmatic about the castle and its master. She had Abigail and Jamie to consider.

Helen rounded the corner and heard shouting from the castle kitchen. Good Lord! What if a tramp or some other villain had invaded the kitchen? Abigail and Jamie were in there alone! She picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the kitchen quite out of breath.

The sight that met her didn’t do anything to calm her fears. A stubby little man was waving his arms and shouting at the children, who were arrayed before him. Abigail held an iron skillet in both hands, resolute, though her face was pale. Behind his sister, Jamie hopped from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and excited.

“—all of you! Thieves and murderers, a-stealin’ into places you don’t belong! Hangin’s too good for you!”

“Out!” Helen bellowed. She advanced on the creature haranguing her children. “Out, I say!”

The little man jumped and whirled at the sound of her voice. He wore a greasy waistcoat over too-big breeches and patched stockings. His hair was a graying ginger, and it stood out in a frizzy cloud on either side of his head.

He had bulging eyes, but he narrowed them at the sight of her. “Who’re you?”

Helen drew herself up. “I am Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s housekeeper. Now, you must remove yourself from this kitchen, or I shall be forced to call Sir Alistair himself.”

The little man gaped. “Dinna talk nonsense, woman. Sir Alistair doesn’t have a housekeeper. I’m his man. I’d
know
if he had one!”

For a moment, Helen stared at the repulsive creature, nonplussed. She’d begun to think Sir Alistair hadn’t any help at all. Indeed, that prospect, dim as it had been, was preferable to the nasty manservant in front of her.

“What is your name?” she finally asked.

The little man threw out his thin chest. “Wiggins.”

Helen nodded and folded her arms. The one thing she’d learned in her years in London was not to show fear before bullies. “Well, then, Mr. Wiggins, Sir Alistair may not’ve had a housekeeper in the past, but he has one now, and I am she.”

“Go on with you!”

“I assure you it’s true, and what’s more, you’d best get used to the idea.”

Wiggins scratched his rear end contemplatively. “Well, if’n it’s true, you got a wagon load of hard work on yer hands.”

“Indeed.” Helen softened her tone. The little man had no doubt been startled to find strangers in the castle kitchen. “I hope I can count on your help, Mr. Wiggins.”

“Ur,” he grunted noncommittally.

She let it go for the moment. “Now. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Naw.” Wiggins shuffled to the hall. “Hisself will be wantin’ ta see me and give me his orders for the day, won’t he?”

He stomped out of the kitchen.

Abigail set the iron skillet on a table. “That man smells.”

“He does indeed,” Helen said. “But we shouldn’t hold that against him. However, I want you both to stay out of his way when I’m not by your side.”

Jamie nodded vigorously, while Abigail merely looked worried.

“Well, enough of that,” Helen said briskly. “Let’s do the washing up, and then we’ll start on the kitchen.”

“
We’re
going to clean this kitchen?” Jamie gaped at the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

“Of course.” Helen said it confidently, ignoring the flutter of trepidation in her stomach. The kitchen was
very
dirty. “Now. Let’s go fetch some water to wash with.”

They’d found the old pump in a corner of the stable yard just this morning. She’d pumped one bucket of water then, but she’d used it all up in making breakfast. Jamie carried the tin bucket as they all tramped out to the stable yard. Helen grasped the pump handle and gave an encouraging smile to the children before hauling it up with both hands. Unfortunately, the pump was rather rusted, and it took a great deal of effort to work it.

Ten minutes later, Helen pushed sweaty hair off her forehead and eyed the half-f bucket.

“It’s not very much,” Abigail said dubiously.

“Yes, well, it’ll do for now,” Helen panted. She took the bucket and returned to the kitchen, the children trailing behind.

She set the bucket down and bit her lip. The water had to be heated to wash the dishes, but she’d let the fire go out since breakfast. Only a few embers still glowed in the fireplace ashes.

Mr. Wiggins entered the kitchen as she was standing and staring at the hearth in dismay. The little man looked from her to the pitiful bucket of water and grunted. “Had a grand start, have ye? Why, th’ kitchen’s so clean it near blinds me eyes t’ look at it. Well, never fear. Yer stay is fixin’ to be short. Hisself is sendin’ me to fetch a carriage from th’ village.”

Helen straightened in dismay. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Wiggins.”

The little man merely snorted and left.

“Mama,” Abigail said quietly, “if Sir Alistair is sending for a carriage for us to go home in, maybe we don’t have to clean the kitchen after all.”

Helen felt sudden weariness sweep over her. She wasn’t a housekeeper. She didn’t know how to clean a kitchen or even know enough to keep the fire burning, it seemed. What was she doing, attempting a task this insurmountable? Perhaps Sir Alistair was right.

Perhaps she should admit defeat and take the carriage away from the castle.