Elusive Flame

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  His companion, Howard Rudd, was equal to him in height, but the man’s ponderous belly seemed to blaze a trail before him. His bulbous nose was darkened with broken veins, and a small purplish birthmark marred his left cheek. Although Cerynise hadn’t seen the barrister in two or three years, she distinctly recalled him slyly fingering every treasured piece within reach while awaiting admittance into Lydia’s private chambers. The gleam that had burned in his eyes during those times had seemed to betray a covetousness that had often caused her to wonder if he would make off with anything of value. Cerynise found it difficult to imagine that Lydia had continued to rely upon the man after such a lengthy absence, for it had been apparent from the fumes which had long ago enveloped him and were even now apparent that Howard Rudd was prone to liberally indulge in strong libations.

  “Mr. Winthrop has always been welcome here, Jasper,” Cerynise began demurely, directing her attention to the butler. Lydia had always made a point of receiving her nephew with polite deference even when his arrival had proven an intrusion during the dinner hour or when guests were being entertained. The elder would have expected her charge to do the same. “And, of course, Mr. Rudd…”

  Harsh, derisive laughter interrupted, and Cerynise faced Alistair, somewhat surprised by his rudeness. His strange way of walking had oftentimes made her wonder if the man had a rigid bone in his body, and she found herself again pondering his disconnected stride as he swaggered toward her with dark eyes glittering malevolently.

  “How gracious of you, Miss Kendall,” he sneered, his wide mouth seeming as unmanageable as his body. “How very, very considerate you are.”

  Cerynise tried to brace herself for what would follow, for she sensed it wouldn’t be enjoyable. Her meetings with the man had entailed nothing more lasting than passing each other in rooms or hallways. Nevertheless she had formed a rather low opinion of Alistair Winthrop. During her brief glimpses into his behavior, he had proven himself to be a conceited braggart, who seemed to think he had some claim to fame because he was the great-nephew of an enormously wealthy woman, even if it was only by marriage. Cerynise had oft suspected him to be a wastrel, but more than that, he had never shown the slightest regard for his aunt. Though Lydia had always remained mute about his reasons for calling, Alistair had usually left counting his new assets or else striding irately out berating her so-called closefisted stinginess, which he had done at the conclusion of his last visit. His name-calling had strengthened Cerynise’s aversion to the man, to the degree that she now considered it a true test of her acting skills to be able to maintain a gracious poise in his presence.

  Alistair waved a pale, hairy hand in the lawyer’s direction as he paced in front of her. Loudly he commanded, “Tell her!”

  Howard Rudd wiped the back of his own hand across his ever-drooling lips and stepped forward to comply. Before he could do so, a lewdly garbed young woman came flouncing into the parlor, streaming a brightly hued feather boa out behind her. Her bosom and hips were amply displayed, the first by a plunging neckline, the latter by the tightness of her gown. Her hair was piled high on her head in a mass of bright golden ringlets, a shade that might have been extremely difficult to find in nature. Black kohl lined her brown eyes, and a beauty patch dotted her right cheekbone above a heavy deposit of rouge, which, Cerynise surmised, closely matched the reddish tint that presently marred the whiteness of Alistair’s collar.

  The woman wiggled up against her escort with a nervous little giggle. “Oh, Al, please don’t be mean ta me an’ make me wait in the hall anymore,” she crooned. Pursing her mouth in an exaggerated pout, she fluttered overlong lashes at him and stroked a hand caressingly over his waistcoat. “I ain’t ne’er been in a house what’s as grand as this, but I knows good manners when I sees ’em. Why, the servants ain’t offered me a chair or a sip o’ tea since we come in. Can’t I please, please stay in here with ye? I simply can’t bear ta be alone in that big ol’ hall. It gives me the creeps, thinkin’ yer poor ol’ aunt might’ve keeled o’er dead in there.”

  Alistair snarled in exasperation and threw off her hand. “Oh, all right, Sybil! But mind you, you’re to keep still, understand? I want none of your caterwauling.”

  “I hear ye, Al,” she replied with another nervous twitter.

  Jasper sniffed and, dragging his gaze from the offending creature, lifted his beaked nose with lofty dignity as he gained Alistair’s glowering glare. Even so, he ignored the man and directed his query to his late proprietor’s ward. “Your pardon, miss, but should I stay?”

  “Go!” Alistair barked, waving the butler away. “None of this concerns you!”

  Jasper proved immobile until Cerynise inclined her head in a stilted nod, giving him leave to retire to another part of the house.

  Alistair glared after the departing servant as if seriously tempted to chide him for an offense, but he dismissed the incident for more important matters and returned his attention to the counselor. “Continue, Mr. Rudd.”

  The barrister drew himself up to his full height and, capturing Cerynise’s gaze, conveyed a concern apparently intended to emphasize the gravity of the moment. “Miss Kendall, you must be aware that I’ve had the honor of serving as Mrs. Winthrop’s solicitor for several years. It was I who drew up her last will and testament. I have it here with me.”

  Cerynise gave him the same wary attention one might lend a snake threatening to strike as the man removed a sheaf of parchments from an inner pocket of his tailcoat and, with pompous ceremony, broke the seal. As hard as it was for her to fathom Lydia’s own continuing loyalty to Howard Rudd, he was here and obviously in possession of legal documents. Slowly she sank back into the nearest chair, her thoughts congealing. “Do you intend to read Mrs. Winthrop’s will now?”

  “Has to be done,” Howard answered. “That’s the thing.” Still, he looked to Alistair for confirmation.

  “Get on with it,” Alistair snapped, spreading his coattails fastidiously and lowering himself into a large armchair on the opposite side of the table from Cerynise. He gave the young woman a smug smile and began to toy with one of a pair of Meissen figurines that resided there.

  Sybil wasn’t at all pleased by the attention her lover was bestowing upon the young lady and promptly deposited her ample rump on the wooden arm of his chair. Her eyes cast an icy glare toward the one sitting beyond the table as she wrapped a possessive arm around Alistair’s bony shoulders. He had failed to mention that his aunt’s ward was so fetching, yet she vividly recalled his arguments against her accompanying him. The memory of those angry protests confirmed in her mind that he hadn’t wanted her to come along simply because he had planned on doing things to the girl that he normally did with her in the privacy of his flat…and his bed

  Howard Rudd cleared his throat, feeling sorely in need of a beverage to lubricate his vocal cords, but he knew that Alistair wouldn’t tolerate him taking another sip until their business was concluded. He unrolled parchments festooned with beribboned seals and scanned them. “Goes on a bit, it does. Small amounts to this one and that, mainly servants, distant kin, nothing of any significance. What really matters is that Mrs. Winthrop has left the bulk of her estate, including this house, its contents, and all of her assets, to her only kin, her nephew, Mr. Alistair Wakefield Winthrop. He is to take immediate possession.”

  “Immediate?” Cerynise gasped. There had never been any reason to discuss such matters with her guardian, but she had always understood that Lydia cared for her deeply and would have allowed her time to prepare for a more orderly transition to other quarters or climes before handing over the house to another. Having been no relation to the woman, Cerynise hadn’t expected anything beyond that simple courtesy. Truly, it was impossible for her to imagine the elder being so callous and unconcerned about her ward that she would have overlooked the need for that small provision.

  “Would you mind if I looked at the will?” she asked, hating the small tremor in her voice. She rose expectantly, holdi
ng out a hand to receive the papers.

  Rudd hesitated, glancing toward Alistair for direction, and received a curt nod that casually authorized him to pass the document to the girl. Though Cerynise was no expert on such matters, she carefully inspected the pages of closely written script. To an unpracticed eye, the will appeared authentic. There was absolutely no question that Lydia’s initials verified each page of the text and that her signature elegantly embellished the last.

  Distantly Cerynise was aware of the lawyer twitching uneasily as she perused the pages, and finally, when his patience wore thin, he stretched forth a hand to take them from her, motivating her to quickly skim downward. It was then that her eyes caught on the date beside Lydia’s signature, and with a start of surprise, she looked up at the man.

  “But this was written six years ago.”

  “That’s right,” Rudd replied, snatching the testament from her and rolling it up. “Nothing wrong with that. Plenty of people take care of such matters long before there’s a need. Very sensible of them.”

  “But that was before my parents were killed and Lydia became my guardian. Under the circumstances, it seems that she would have rewritten her will—”

  “To include you?” Alistair interrupted caustically. With an angry snort, he launched himself from his chair, nearly dumping Sybil onto the floor, and began prowling about the spacious room like some animal of prey, touching each piece of furniture, every costly knickknack, even the heavy damask draperies, as if driven by a compulsion to mark each article as his own. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Miss Kendall? You think my aunt should’ve left you something.”

  Though her animosity toward the man rose up within her like the taste of bitter gall, Cerynise forced herself to speak with carefully measured calm. “I believe your aunt was very methodical about her business affairs and, since that seemed her nature, I can’t help but believe that she would’ve taken the initiative to revise her will whenever a situation of any importance changed around her. At the very least, she would have allowed me time to make arrangements for my departure before giving everything over into your possession.”

  “Well, she didn’t!” Alistair declared hotly, thrusting his upper torso forward with an emphatic, angry movement. “She did enough for you while she was alive, and she damn well knew it! Letting you stay here all these years, catering to your every whim, clothing you in the best, putting out good money to sponsor those absurd exhibits for your paintings…Why, you should go down on your knees and thank heaven for my aunt’s generosity instead of whining that you weren’t given more time to waste my inheritance.”

  Cerynise gasped, highly offended by his words. “I certainly didn’t expect to fall heir to any portion of her assets, Mr. Winthrop,” she explained crisply. “I merely meant that it seems odd that your aunt made no mention of me at all, despite the fact that I’m still underage. She was my legal guardian, or have you forgotten?”

  Alistair smirked. “Perhaps dear Auntie thought she’d be done with you long before she passed on. She probably meant to marry you off to some wealthy gentleman and arrange for you to become someone else’s responsibility. I’m sure with her stamina, she really wasn’t expecting to die so soon.”

  The hazel eyes blazed with fire behind silken black lashes. “If you had known your aunt at all, Mr. Winthrop,” Cerynise gritted out, “you’d understand that Lydia sincerely cared for people and didn’t brush them carelessly aside just to be rid of them.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think!” Alistair barked, tightening his grip on a delicate porcelain shepherdess. Cerynise fully expected to see the fragile piece break in his hand as he gestured with it to stress his assertions. “All that matters is the will! You heard what was decreed. I’m master here now, and what I say is law in this house!”

  An elated titter erupted from Sybil, and she clapped her hands in eager delight, like a child enthralled with a puppet show. “That’s telling her, Al! Just oo’ does ’at chit think she is, anyway?”

  “Obviously Miss Kendall thinks she’s a lady of consequence,” Alistair mocked, setting aside the shepherdess and advancing upon Cerynise with gleaming black eyes.

  Instinctively Cerynise backed away. She didn’t know the man well enough to make any clear judgment as to what he might be capable of doing if angered, but she was certain he was no gentleman and would likely become violent if vexed. To her dismay, the settee halted her retreat, and she was forced to stand and meet his wildly gleaming eyes as he smirked at her.

  Recognizing her fear, Alistair felt a surge of power. “But Miss Kendall is wrong again,” he said almost softly. “She’s no one at all, just a little beggar who has been coddling up to my aunt all these years for the purpose of extracting whatever favors she could from the old woman, like this gown she’s wearing.”

  Reaching out, he grasped hold of the white lace lining the high ruff and gave it a jerk, wrenching a startled gasp from the girl as he ripped it free.

  “Take your hands off me!” Cerynise cried, her rage kindling her courage as she flung away his arm. “You may own this house, sir, but you most certainly do not own me!”

  Alistair’s lips angled upward in a confident leer as his dark eyes dipped caressingly to her bosom. She was, after all, such a tempting little thing. It would be a shame not to taste her. “That can change, my pretty little peach.”

  “Al?” Sybil was instantly alert to his prurient imagination. She wasn’t at all acceptive to the notion that she might have to share him with a young wench who made her feel like a dumpy toad, for there was always the chance that he’d come to prefer the fresher tidbit over the one that had grown stale from use. It wasn’t that she cared for the roué overmuch. She was far more interested in how rich he was going to be. She pranced across the room and, with a little wiggle, wedged herself between the dueling glares of the two who stood toe to toe. She snuggled up against Alistair, reminding him of her generous curves. “Don’t bother yerself with that scrawny li’l milkweed, lovey,” she cooed, her bright red lips curving invitingly. “Yer Sybil is here just itchin’ ta make ye happy.”

  Alistair chortled vindictively as he thought of a way to repay Cerynise for her haughty disfavor. Slipping an arm around his mistress, he smiled down into her heavily painted eyes. “How would you like some new clothes, Sybil?”

  Her elated squeal would have been answer enough. “Oh, Al, do ye mean ye’re gonna buy me some?”

  His bony shoulders slipped upward in a blasé shrug.

  “Why should I buy you any when there’s a whole wardrobe awaiting you upstairs in my lady Cerynise’s chambers?”

  Sybil’s face crumpled in disappointment. “But, Al! We ain’t the same size,” she complained. She couldn’t bring herself to openly admit that nearly everything about the younger woman, except her height, was either slimmer or smaller. “She’s too tall for li’l ol’ me.”

  “Well, find her room upstairs and see what fits,” Alistair urged. “Surely, with what my aunt spent on the chit, there has to be something in her chambers you can wear. Now go!”

  Accepting this logic, Sybil fairly twittered in glee as she flew out of the room. Her high heels clattered on the stairs, echoing throughout the house until the sound of doors being opened and slammed finally ended in an ecstatic screech.

  Alistair was rather pleased with himself for having conceived of the idea. That fact was blatant on his face as he faced Cerynise. “Why, I do believe Sybil has found your bedchamber, m’lady.”

  Cerynise gave him a coolly disdaining smile, the sort a mother might bestow upon a naughty child, deftly squelching his cocky arrogance. “When Sybil is done, may I be allowed to pack my belongings and leave? I’m sure I’ll be able to find a room at an inn until I can secure passage to the Carolinas.”

  “You have no belongings!” Alistair railed. “Everything in this house is mine!”

  “I beg to differ,” Cerynise replied stiffly, lifting her chin in growing obstinance. For all that s
he had led a sheltered life under Lydia’s supervision, she wasn’t without experience dealing with bullies. Her beloved father had been a schoolmaster, and while sitting in on more than a few of his classes, she had confronted a goodly share of immature males who had thought they could run roughshod over anyone younger, smaller, or weaker than themselves. Many had been spoiled by affluent parents and were wont to play mean, vicious pranks. Alistair Winthrop was definitely of that class. “My paintings are certainly my own and so is the money I earned from those that were sold.”

  Rudd interjected with the confidence of an attorney who had recited his arguments well in advance. “When you painted, young lady, you used materials that were purchased by Mrs. Winthrop. She enlisted the aid of an instructor to teach you all the nuances of that field, and no doubt paid a hefty price for his service. In short, you were living under her roof, she was your guardian, and you were underage. It was she who arranged to exhibit your paintings, argued for the best price, and banked the resulting funds. Why, the paintings weren’t even signed with your name, merely CK. I know, because the exhibitors refused to shed any light upon the artist’s identity when I went to see them, saying only that Mrs. Winthrop had arranged for everything.” He paused briefly to wipe his glistening brow before he summed up his arguments. “Therefore, the actual owner of the paintings, as well as any profits from them, was none other than Mrs. Winthrop.”