To Beguile a Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “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.

  HELEN CLOSED THE tower door behind her and then couldn’t resist a small grin. Ha! She’d definitely won that round with Sir Beastly. She hurried down the tower stairs before he could come to the door and call her back. The stairs were old stone, worn and shallow, and the walls of the tower were bare stone as well until she came to a door at the bottom of the stairs. This led to a narrow hall that was dim and musty but at least paneled and carpeted.

  She hoped that Sir Alistair’s breakfast wasn’t too cold, but if it was, it was his own fault. It’d taken her a while to find him this morning. She’d been all over the gloomy upper floors of the castle until it had finally occurred to her that she should try the towers. She should’ve thought he’d be lurking in an old tower like something out of a tale meant to terrify children. She’d braced herself before opening the door so that she wouldn’t react to his appearance. Fortunately, he’d worn an eye patch this morning. But he still let his black hair hang around his shoulders, and she didn’t think he’d shaved in a week or more. His jaw had been quite shadowed with stubble. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he kept it that way to intimidate people.

  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-full 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 trail
ing 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.

  Chapter Three

  The black castle was cavernous and gloomy, with winding passages leading into more passages. Truth Teller followed the beautiful young man, and although they walked for long minutes, they did not meet another soul. Finally the young man led Truth Teller to a great dining hall and set before him a meal of roasted meat and fine bread and all manner of exotic fruit. The soldier ate everything gratefully, for it had been years since his vittles had been so fine. All the while Truth Teller ate, the young man sat and smiled and watched him. . . .

  —from TRUTH TELLER

  Helen let her head loll against the carriage side as they swept around a bend, and the castle disappeared from view.

  “It was a very dirty castle,” Abigail said from across the carriage.

  Helen sighed. “Yes, my love, it was.”

  A very dirty castle with a surly master—and she’d let them both defeat her. She’d seen movement in the high tower window as they’d tramped out to the waiting rented carriage. No doubt Sir Beastly had been gloating over her rout.

  “Our house in London is much nicer,” Abigail said. “And maybe the duke will be happy that we’ve come back.”

  Helen closed her eyes. No. No, he wouldn’t. Abigail obviously thought that they’d be returning home to London now, but that wasn’t an option. Lister wouldn’t welcome them with open arms. He’d steal the children from her and toss her into the street.

  And that was if she was lucky.

  She looked at Abigail and tried to smile. “We won’t be going back to London, dearest one.”

  Abigail’s face fell. “But—”

  “We’ll just have to find another place to stay.” And hide.

  “I want to go home,” Jamie said.

  A headache started at her temple. “We can’t go home, sweetheart.”

  Jamie’s lower lip protruded. “I want—”

  “It’s simply not possible.” Helen inhaled and then said in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry, my darlings. Mama has an aching head. Let’s discuss this later. For now, all you need to know is that we must find another place to stay.”

  But where else could they go? Castle Greaves might’ve been filthy and its master impossible, but as a hiding place it’d been perfect. She patted her skirts, feeling for the little leather bag that hung under them. Inside were some coins and quite a few jewels—the nest egg she’d saved from Lister’s gifts. She had money, but finding a place where a single woman with two children wouldn’t excite comment was going to be difficult.

  “Shall I read to you from the fairy-tale book?” Abigail asked very quietly.

  Helen looked at her and tried to smile. Her daughter really was a dear sometimes. “Yes, please. I think I’d like that.”

  Abigail’s face smoothed in relief, and she bent to rummage in the soft bag at her feet.

  Beside her, Jamie bounced on his seat. “Read from the story about the man with the iron heart!”

  Abigail drew out a bundle of papers and very carefully paged through them until she came to the place she wanted. She cleared her throat and began reading slowly. “Once upon a time, long, long ago, there came four soldiers traveling home after many years of war.…”

  Helen closed her eyes, letting her daughter’s high clear voice wash over her. The fairy-tale “book” she read from was actually a bundle of loose papers. The original book was written in German, and Lady Vale translated the tales for her friend, Lady Emeline Hartley. When the viscountess had sent Helen and her children north, she’d requested that Helen transcribe it so that she might eventually have the translation bound for Lady Emeline. All the long journey into Scotland, Helen had read the stories to the children, and now they were familiar favorites.

  Helen glanced out the window. Outside, the purple and green hills rolled by, bringing them closer to the little village of Glenlargo. If she was still Sir Beastly’s housekeeper, she could’ve bought groceries there. Something more appetizing than moldering bacon and oats.

  Oh, if only she wasn’t so terribly useless! She’d spent her entire adult life as the plaything of a rich gentleman. She’d never been trained in anything practical.

  Except that wasn’t quite true. Once upon a time, before Lister, before she’d broken ties with her family, when she was still young and innocent, she used to help her father as he made his rounds. Papa had been a doctor—quite a successful one—and sometimes when he visited patients, she had accompanied him. Oh, not to help with the doctoring—that was considered too distasteful a task for a young girl—but she’d kept a little notebook in which she’d written his thoughts on the various patients they attended, kept a calendar of appointments, and made lists.

  Lots of lists.

  She’d been Papa’s helper, his organizer of lists. The one who kept his life and business in order. It hadn’t been a big job, but it had been an important one. And, now that she thought about it, wasn’t that really what most housekeepers were? Certainly they needed to know how to clean and run a house, but didn’t they often delegate these jobs to other people?

  Helen sat up so suddenly that Abigail stuttered to a stop. “What is it, Mama?”

  “Hush, darling. Let me think. I have an idea.” The carriage had reached the outskirts of Glenlargo. It was a tiny village in comparison to London, but it held everything a small, isolated community needed: shops, craftsmen, and people who could be hired.

  Helen half stood in the swaying carriage and pounded on the roof. “Stop! Oh, stop the carriage!”

  The carriage jerked to a stop, nearly throwing her back on the seat.

  “What are we doing?” Jamie asked excitedly.

  And Helen couldn’t help but grin at him. “It’s time to enlist reinforcements.”

  ALISTAIR SPENT THE afternoon in his tower writing—or at least trying to write. Like many previous days, the words simply refused to form. Instead he filled a basket with crumpled sheets of paper, each covered in the crossed-out attempts at an essay on badgers. He couldn’t even find the first sentence. Writing had once been as easy as breathing for him, and now… now he feared he would never again finish an essay. He felt like a broken fool.

  When four o’clock came and he noticed that Lady Grey had wandered from the tower, he took it as a good excuse to abandon his wretched attempts and go looking for the dog. Besides, he hadn’t eaten anything since that execrable morning meal.

  The castle was silent as he made his way down the winding tower stairs. It was nearly always silent, of course, but last night, when Mrs. Halifax and her children had occupied his home, it had seemed less dead. He shook his head at the morbid thought. He’d watched the woman leave this morning and had rejoiced at once again being virtually alone—Wiggins hardly bothered him at all. It was good to be alone. Good to not be interrupted at work.
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  When he could work.

  Alistair scowled as he reached the hallway, and strode to his own rooms first. Lady Grey liked to nap in a spot of sunlight under the windows in the afternoons. But his rooms were as he’d left them this morning: empty and untidy. He frowned at his unmade bed, the coverlet and sheets trailing on the floor. Hmm. Perhaps a housekeeper wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

  He returned to the hall and called, “Lady Grey!”

  No scratch of claws on stone floor heralded her approach.

  Most of the other rooms were closed off on this floor, so he proceeded to the next. Here there was an old sitting room he sometimes used. He looked, but Lady Grey wasn’t lying on either of the overstuffed settees. Farther down the hall was the room he’d given to Mrs. Halifax. He glanced in and didn’t learn anything besides the fact that her bed had been made. She might not’ve ever been here at all, so forlorn did the room look. From outside he thought he heard the sound of her carriage pulling away again. Fanciful nonsense. He continued his search. On the main floor, he checked all the rooms without success, ending in the library.

  “Lady Grey!”

  He stood staring at the dusty library a moment. There was a patch of afternoon sun where a curtain had fallen and never been replaced, and sometimes she would nap here. But not today. Alistair frowned. Lady Grey was over a decade old and noticeably slowing down.

  Dammit.

  He turned and strode toward the kitchen. Lady Grey didn’t usually go there without him. She and Wiggins didn’t get on, and the kitchen was where the manservant hung about most often. In fact—

  He halted abruptly at the sound of voices. High, childish voices. He wasn’t being fanciful now—there were children in his kitchen. And the odd thing—the completely unexpected thing—was that his first emotion was gladness. They hadn’t left him after all. His castle wasn’t really dead.

  Of course, that was followed very quickly with outrage. How dare she defy his command? She should be halfway to Edinburgh by now. He’d order another carriage, and he’d pack her pretty arse on it himself if he had to this time. There was no room in his castle, in his life, for a too-attractive housekeeper and her pair of brats. Alistair started forward, his intent focused, his stride firm.