by Liz Carlyle
“Do not put words into my mouth, Helene,”
Cam answered in a voice that was suddenly low and rough. Swiftly, as if to force her to his will, his hand came down to cover hers, squeezing her fingers far too hard.
A wicked stubbornness took hold of her then and Helene moved to grab the books. Cam sprang like a cat, slapping his broad hands on top of the stack, and anchoring it to the desk.
“Stop it, Helene,” he said, a little too softly. “Look at me. Look at me, Helene!”
Helene lifted her eyes in a bold challenge, stubbornly locking them with his. “Let go of my books, if you please,” she coldly enunciated. “You are hurting my fingers.”
“I want you to stay,” he demanded.
“Do you indeed?” She lifted her chin a notch higher. “But what of my lax morals? My wicked French blood? And let us not forget that carefree Continental lifestyle I’ve been living!”
Cam looked at her coldly. “That is your business, Helene.”
As he leaned over her, Cam’s face drew so near that she could feel the warmth of his breath. In the implacability of his grip, she sensed a ruthless energy which she did not recognize. She did not know this man. And yet, if she looked back up at him now, her forehead would almost certainly brush his chin, and their lips would be far too close....
THE CRITICS LOVE LIZ CARLYLE!
A WOMAN SCORNED
“Carlyle delivers great suspense and several sensual love scenes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fabulous! Regency-based novels could not be in better hands than those of Ms. Carlyle.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“A fine historical romance. The characters, both primary and secondary, are interesting and appealing. The love scenes earned the R rating in spades. Carlyle’s first book was very, very good. Her second is as good, or maybe even better.”
—theromancereader.com
“Excellently written. The mystery will intrigue as the romance captivates.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
MY FALSE HEART
“My False Heart is a treat. Romance readers will want to read this one and remember her name!”
—Linda Howard, bestselling author of Mr. Perfect
“A stunning debut! Don’t miss this one or you will be sorry.”
—Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles and Beaux of Romance
“Liz Carlyle’s debut novel is a wonderful romance! Watch this new star rise on the horizon.”
—Kathe Robin, Romantic Times (a Romantic Times Top Pick)
“My False Heart is a spellbinding tale of betrayal, intrigue, and the healing power of love ... from one of tomorrow’s romance superstars.”
—AOL’s Romance Fiction Forum
“An exciting, stirring, suspenseful, and wonderful story of love and passion ... by a talented new voice ... a superb page-turner.”
—Romance Communications ( www.romcom.com )
“A delicious story you can immerse yourself in. I can’t wait to see what Liz Carlyle does next.”
—All About Romance
“A five-heart book means it’s a keeper. There’s no better description of My False Heart. It’s going on my keeper shelf because I loved it and I know I’ll want to read it again. I think you will too.”
—Romance Reader
“Ms. Carlyle has written an in-depth tale of extraordinary characters with layers of plot and emotion. Unbelievably well-done.”
—Rendezvous
“Fascinating stuff! Intriguing and well-written; a believable variation on a favorite theme—the transformation of an apparently unredeemable rake by a surprising and unexpected love affair. A new, original voice ... Ms. Carlyle is terrific; Georgette Heyer updated with heady doses of realism—and sex.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
Other titles by Liz Carlyle
My False Heart
A Woman Scorned
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Prologue
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18
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21
Epilogue
to all the Boadiceas in this world
who do not have
a warm hearth,
a soft bed,
or a kind master
and to all those
who so tirelessly give of themselves
on behalf of
homeless and abused animals
Prologue
In Which the old Devil comes to a Bad end
An early October mist still lay heavy in the vales of Gloucestershire when the Honorable Mr. Camden Rutledge rose before dawn to partake of his customary morning repast, black coffee and two slices of bread, lightly buttered. Therefore, by the time the blood-chilling screams commenced, he had been miserably but diligently occupied in reviewing the estate finances for well over an hour, whilst ensconced in what was—or only moments earlier had been—his father’s study.
As a matter of old-fashioned civility, the room had always been called “his father’s study,” despite the fact that the wicked old devil had never troubled himself to study anything save games of chance, and had certainly never gazed upon the inside of an account ledger. Indeed, Chalcote Court’s elderly housekeeper had often sworn that the Earl of Treyhern had never poked so much as a toe inside the room during her tenure—though he had reputedly poked a rather saucy parlormaid in the corridor just outside the door one raucous New Year’s Eve.
His father’s lack of scholarship aside, Cam’s rather formidable concentration was abruptly severed when the aforesaid screaming began at precisely a quarter past seven. The shrieking was unmistakably feminine in origin, for Cam found it loud, shrill, and unremitting. The racket echoed down the ancient corridors of Chalcote, bounced off the tapestried walls, and sent a bevy of curious servants scurrying up from the pantries and kitchens and cellars, all of them eager to see just what mischief the old lord had wrought this time. And all of them—or so it seemed to Cam—bolted past the study door en route to the commotion, their boots and brogans pounding on the hard oak floor.
Hopelessly distracted from an already impossible task, Cam jerked from his chair with a hiss of frustration, and started toward the door just as the butler floated in, looking rather paler than usual. “I fear it’s the new governess, Mr. Rutledge,” Milford explained without preamble. He knew that the young master preferred to take bad news the same way he took his whisky; smooth, neat, and infrequently.
Cam threw his new pen onto the desk
in disgust. “Good God—! What now?”
The ashen-faced butler hesitated. “She’s in the corridor upstairs, sir.”
Cam elevated one straight black brow. “As I plainly hear, Milford.”
“And she—well, she’s in a rather revealing state of dishabille, sir.”
Both Cam’s brows shot up. “Indeed? Cannot someone fetch her a wrapper?”
The screams were lessening a bit. Milford cleared his throat decorously. “Yes, Mr. Rutledge. Mrs. Naffles is seeing to it, but the more pressing concern, sir, is ... is his lordship. I greatly fear that ... well, the governess was in ... in his ... your father’s ... bedchamber and—”
“Oh, devil take it, Milford!” Against his will, Cam’s hands flew to his temples. “Please don’t say it—!”
“Oh, sir,” said the butler mournfully. “I fear so ...”
Blood pounded in his head as Cam tried to dredge up a measure of apathy. Given his father’s ribald predilections, this embarrassment had probably been inevitable. “Well, he’s a damned ugly sight, seen bare-arsed,” he remarked flatly. “I should scream, too, I daresay.”
“Yes—well, I mean no ...” Milford shook his head as if to clear his vision. “Indeed, Mr. Rutledge is—or I should say—his lordship is perfectly bare-ars—er, naked, sir. But in addition, I fear he’s ... he’s—”
“Christ, man! Spit it out!”
“Dead.”
“Dead—?” Cam looked at the servant incredulously. “Dead, as in ... ?” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“Ah ... just dead, sir. In the regular way. ’Twas overexertion, I daresay, if you’ll forgive the impertinence.” Milford looked obviously relieved that the news was out. “Mrs. Naffles says ’twas apoplexy for sure, since his lordship’s gone an even darker shade of red than usual, sir. Rather like bad burgundy. And the eyes are even more protruding than ... well ... never mind about that. Nonetheless, a man of his advanced years ... and the governess, Miss Eggers ... er, rather lively and all that—”
“Yes, and apparently possessed of exceptional lungs,” interposed Cam dryly. The screams had subsided into heaving, hysterical sobs.
“Yes, sir. Quite good ... lungs, sir.”
Cam picked up his pen and balanced it in the palm of his hand. “Where is my daughter, Milford? Dare I hope that she has been spared this debacle?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Miss Ariane is still abed in the schoolroom wing.”
“Good.” Cam sat back down. “Well, I thank you, Milford. That will be all.”
“Thank you, sir. I mean ... my lord.” The butler began to back out of the room, then paused. “By the way, my lord ... what, precisely, ought we to do now? About the, er, young lady? Miss Eggers?”
Cam scraped his chair forward and snapped open the next ledger. Without looking up from his task, he began to etch neat, uniformly shaped numbers into a perfectly straight column down one side of the page. “Precisely how long, Milford,” he finally replied, “had Miss Eggers been warming my father’s bed? And was she willing?”
The butler did not bother to feign ignorance. Hands clasped behind his back, the thin, angular servant looked up at the ceiling, calculating. “Above two months, the housekeeper says. And by all accounts, she had every expectation of becoming the next Lady Treyhern.”
“Well, that rather settles it then, doesn’t it? I certainly shan’t be marrying her, so best put her on the next mail coach to London.”
“Yes, my lord. And the ... the corpse?”
Elbows propped upon the desk, Cam heaved a weary sigh and dropped his head into his palms. “Just send for the priest, Milford. I can do no more for my father. He is in God’s hands now, not mine. And I do not envy God the task.”
Allowing a glint of a challenge to light her eyes, Helene de Severs lifted her chin and stared confidently across the burnished mahogany desk, studying the elderly gentleman who leaned back in his chair with such a condescending indolence. Outside the open window, the clatter of passing carriages and the rumble of drays in Threadneedle Street mingled with the strident cries of a morning costermonger as he made his way toward Bishopsgate and the old city walls.
By comparison, the bustling London traffic in the street below made the heavy, protracted silence inside the oak-paneled office seem all the more discordant. Finally, the elderly solicitor leaned forward, splaying his long, thin fingers upon his burnished desktop, as if perhaps he had decided to rise and escort his young visitor to the door.
Instead, the old man cleared his throat sonorously and began to tap one spindly finger as if to emphasize his warning. “Miss de Severs, you really must understand the full circumstance of this position,” he explained, his thick white brows pulled gravely together. “I am afraid Lord Treyhern’s child is, er, rather ... how shall I put it? Peculiar.”
Already remarkably rigid in her chair, Helene de Severs nonetheless managed to draw herself up another inch or two. She was a tall woman, not easily cowed, so the motion was usually effective. “I do beg your pardon,” she said archly. “You say the child is what—?”
“Peculiar. As in abnormal,” the solicitor returned coldly.
Helene suppressed her rising ire. “I am accustomed to challenging assignments, Mr. Brightsmith,” she said with a tight, uncomfortable smile. “I collect that the difficult nature of this assignment is precisely why I am here today, is it not? But peculiar and abnormal seem rather harsh words for any child.”
The solicitor shrugged. “In point of fact, I am given to understand that the girl may be hopelessly dim-witted. We simply do not know, and indeed, there may be little that you can do. But apparently, Lord Treyhern remains ... hopeful. He wishes to engage someone with special experience to work with the child.”
Helene held both her breath and her tongue for a long moment. Life in London had been abysmally dull since her return from abroad. Moreover, another three months of this indolence would severely press her meager savings. She needed this post rather desperately, and not just for the money. Given poor Nanny’s age and health, Helene needed to remain in England just now. But most of all, Helene needed the challenge, for try as she might, she had found that she could not be happy without her work.
Nonetheless, she most assuredly would not obtain the position by angering Lord Treyhern’s rather unenlightened solicitor. She was trained to educate children, Helene reminded herself, not pompous old men. So resolved, Helene tossed her neatly gloved hand dismissively, then bestowed upon old Mr. Brightsmith her most charming smile. It was a look, Helene knew, which could soften the most hardened of men, for she had seen her late mother use it often, and to merciless advantage.
“My dear Mr. Brightsmith, I have every confidence that I can be of help to his lordship,” said Helene. “Pray give me the benefit of any insight you may have regarding the child. Aman of your experience can but be of help in such a difficult situation.”
The solicitor seemed mollified. He shuffled through a few papers on his desk, then drew out a long sheet of foolscap. “Well, Ariane is about six years old. She resides in Gloucestershire with her widowed father, Lord Treyhern, who has directed me to find a ... a special teacher. Highly qualified, and experienced in these sorts of cases.” He faltered a little. “I fear, Miss de Severs, that I know little more than that.”
“And the child’s disorder—?”
“Her disorder?” The solicitor shot Helene an indeterminate look. “Well, the child cannot speak! She is mute!”
Her ire flashed again, and Helene forgot to simper. “Mute?” she archly replied. “Do you mean, sir, that she cannot speak? Or that she will not speak?”
The old man bristled a bit. “Indeed, Miss de Severs, is there some difference which escapes me? It is simple enough; the child cannot talk.”
There was often a great deal of difference, but Helene would not trouble herself to cast pearls before swine. Instead, she slumped back against her chair, unaware until that moment of how intently she had been leaning forward. “I see,�
� she said softly. “But has the child never spoken? Not even when she was younger?”
At this, the white brows shot up. “Why, er ... yes! Exactly so! The child did begin to jabber on a bit when she was a babe. But she no longer seems capable.”
“Ah!” murmured Helene knowingly. “I have studied a few such cases.”
“Have you indeed?” The old solicitor looked fleetingly impressed, then no doubt recollecting that she was a mere female, quickly squashed it. “The child looks well enough. I’ve seen her myself. But she does appear a bit ... wild about the eyes.”
“And are you at liberty to tell me what happened to her, Mr. Brightsmith?” she asked rather sharply. Then, seeing his haughty glare, she dropped her eyes deferentially. “You see, sir, I cannot very well help the child without some understanding of her circumstance.”
“Circumstance?” he answered vaguely.
“Indeed. You asked me here today because I have had some experience with children who have, as you say, difficulties. Moreover, I have read and studied many such cases. And in my opinion, such abrupt losses of speech, or similar aberrations in what have previously appeared to be normally developing children are often precipitated by some sort of accident or crisis.”
Momentarily absorbed in thought, Helene furrowed her brows. “It could, of course, be a cranial tumor bearing pressure on something... or perhaps there was a blow to the head? And of course, an emotional trauma can disrupt normal childhood devel—”
“Thank you, Miss de Severs!” interjected Mr. Brightsmith, his thin hand extended, palm out, as if to forestall her extemporary lecture. “Rest assured, the child has sustained no injury. Moreover, I am already convinced of your qualifications for this post. As you must know, the letter from your German baroness in Passau is glowing, as were your earlier references.”
Helene had been interviewed often enough to know when the dice had finished tumbling. “You are too kind, sir,” she said graciously, then settled back to wait.
