Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  As if he had read her mind, the old solicitor pushed a sealed letter across the glossy desk. “I must say, Miss de Severs, you do come rather dear for ... for a governess, or for whatever it is you are.”

  “Indeed, a governess,” echoed Helene compliantly.

  “Yes, well. Against my judgment, his lordship has agreed to your extraordinary salary demands of £90 per annum, half payable in advance. However, I shall require a signature here,” he paused to thrust forward another document, “to signify your intent to remain in Treyhern’s employ for the duration. He has had difficulty retaining staff, and he wishes for consistency in his daughter’s life.”

  “That is both wise and fair.” Helene scribbled her signature, and with a little prayer of thanks, picked up the envelope. This advance was enough to repair her ancient cottage, and keep Nanny supplied with coal for the coming winter.

  “Moreover, if it eases your mind at all, sir,” she added, tucking the envelope into her reticule, “I am perhaps just a little more than a governess. His lordship shall have no cause to regret this.” She spoke with more confidence than she felt.

  “A bold claim, Miss de Severs.” Brightsmith took up his quill and began to scratch out an address.

  Helene smiled again. “I have always thought Virgil said it best,” she answered crisply. “Fortune favors the bold. I think I have the translation aright, do I not?”

  “You do indeed,” he answered dryly, folding, then sliding the paper toward her. “Your traveling directions, ma’am. You are expected in Cheston-on-the-Water, Tuesday a week.”

  Helene felt her throat constrict. “Ch-Cheston?”

  The solicitor’s keen eyes flicked up at her from his desk. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Helene swallowed hard, tightly gripping the paper. “Not at all.”

  “Excellent.” Brightsmith stood. “And Miss de Severs?”

  “Yes?” she answered, glancing up a little uncertainly.

  “Do take your black fripperies. Ribbons and such. His lordship’s household is in deep mourning.”

  Helene nodded dumbly, and as if in a trance, walked out of Mr. Brightsmith’s office, through the reception room, and down the long flight of stairs which led to the street below. Weaving her way through the late morning pedestrians, she braced an unsteady hand against the door of her hired carriage, oblivious of the driver who leapt forward to assist.

  Blindly, she stared down at the folded slip of paper Mr. Brightsmith had pressed into her palm. Surely not Cheston-on-the-Water? So very near to Chalcote ... It could not possibly be so, could it? Over a decade had passed. Gloucestershire was a vast county; its wolds scattered with fine estates. Moreover, Helene had never heard of the Earl of Treyhern.

  As she tried to reassure herself, an empty tumbrel spun past, crowding her carriage and spraying a filthy arc of water across her hems. “Hey, look lively, miss!” insisted the driver. “I ain’t got all day.”

  Helene finally flipped the paper open to scan the crabbed, sideways scrawl. Camden Rutledge, Lord Treyhern. Chalcote Court, Cheston-on-the-Water, Gloucestershire. Adeep buzzing began somewhere inside her head.

  “Miss? What’s all this? You ill?” The driver’s voice, urgent now, came as if from a deep, black well, and Helene was only dimly aware that he had jerked open the carriage door and was pressing her into its shadowy depths. Camden Rutledge, Lord Treyhern ... the words began to whirl through her mind.

  “Best get you back up to Hampstead quick-like, aye?” added the driver uneasily, slamming shut the door.

  “Y-yes,” agreed Helene. But the driver was already climbing onto his seat.

  1

  Miss Middleton goes Home to Gloucestershire

  The newly invested Earl of Treyhern stood at his bedroom window, absently sipping tepid coffee, and pondering the state of his life, when his black traveling coach spun merrily into the long drive, returning from its errand in the nearby village of Cheston. An ancient dray, which the earl did not recognize, rumbled along in the coach’s wake. Lord Treyhern gazed wearily across the perfectly manicured lawns of Chalcote Court, watching as the faint November daylight reflected off the carriage roof, and wondering what next he ought to do.

  He did not care for life’s uncertainties, for he was a precise, controlling sort of man. And yet, the preceding month had been a difficult one; harder somehow than he had expected. It had brought home to him the stark realization that while his father’s death had removed an undeniable burden from his life, it had been by no means the only one.

  Indeed, following the sudden departure of her most recent—albeit incompetent—governess, Ariane had crawled ever deeper into her dark silence, and he was at a loss as to what should be done for the child. In all of his twenty-nine years, the earl had never felt so alone, nor so old.

  As his valet moved quietly about, neatening his room, Camden studied the carriage, its yellow wheels spinning inexorably toward the front door as it trundled beneath the blazing oaks which lined the drive. And as his eyes followed its progress, Cam began to fervently pray that it held at least a part of what his life so desperately needed right now. Oddly enough, he had the most fanciful feeling that it did, and he was not a man much given to optimism or prognostication.

  He could hear the crunch of gravel as his coachman neared the steps which led down into the sweeping circular drive. In a flash, a liveried footman trotted dutifully down to open the door, a second following to unload the luggage. Through the open carriage door, Cam saw an arm extend gracefully; saw the flash of white skin just where her cuff met her glove. Surprisingly, both sleeve and glove were a deep, rich shade of purple, like a well-cut amethyst viewed by candlelight. Subdued, but nonetheless opulent.

  At a glance, neither her attire nor her bearing looked quite like that of a governess, and yet, Cam could not have said precisely why that was so. She stepped down into the drive, her burnished black tresses swept tightly up in what Cam always thought of as “governess hair.” But once again, on this woman, the arrangement looked strangely paradoxical, particularly so when topped by a dark purple hat, trimmed with a rakishly tilted black feather.

  The footmen were unloading her luggage now as she stood beside the dray, gesturing her instructions to them in a decidedly bold, Gallic way. Good God! Had the woman come to stay forever? A veritable heap of boxes and trunks seemed to be accumulating in his driveway. Cam was taken aback; he had never known a governess to own so many things, let alone to travel with them.

  Somehow, it seemed inappropriate. This was the country, and she would have little need of such fripperies and fineries, if that was what her luggage held. Indeed, what else could it be? Cam recollected that Miss de Severs’s decidedly French name had initially given him pause when Brightsmith recommended her. Perhaps his hesitation had been justified. What Cam had wanted was a sturdy, stoic Englishwoman, yet as the pile of baggage grew, he began to be very much afraid that was not at all what he’d got.

  Damn his luck to hell.

  “Crane!” the earl called sharply to the valet who was busily brushing his frock coat. “What sort of luggage do you make that out to be, eh?”

  The portly valet stepped up to the glass and peered down at the drive. “Well, my lord ... ’tis mostly packing crates, I should say. Four o’ them.” He squinted mightily. “Aye, with two trunks, a dressing case, a small leather valise, and a portmanteau. All trussed up with a length of rope, that one is.”

  “Good eye,” mumbled Lord Treyhern. His gaze left the mountain of luggage to study his new employee. He could not help himself; Helene de Severs was fascinating, even at a distance. She was a tall woman, yet she moved across the drive with an almost athletic grace. Not the mincing steps and rigid hips of most women, but a leggy, confident stride, her shoulders back, and her chin up.

  Her cloak was of the severest black, her gown suitably trimmed for a house in mourning, and yet she seemed to glow with inner radiance. He could not help but wonder at the color of her eyes. Som
ething exotic, most likely.

  Then, just as Cam lifted the lukewarm cup to his lips, the new governess looked up to smile beatifically at the helpful footman, and Cam sucked in his breath with an audible gasp, very nearly choking on his coffee.

  Bloody hell, it was Helene!

  Not Helene de Severs. Helene Middleton. What the devil was she doing here? Despite the passage of eleven barren years, and the utter destruction of all his youthful fantasies, Cam truly believed that he would have known her anywhere. His first thought was that his elderly coachman had taken up the wrong passenger; that somewhere in the dust and disorder of the Rose and Crown stood a bewildered and abandoned governess. The real governess. A plain, sensible, middle-aged woman in proper, wrenlike attire. But there was no mistake. He knew it with a certainty.

  Dear God! Cam had prayed hard for a miracle, advertised repeatedly for a governess, and yet what had the Good Lord and old Brightsmith conspired to send him? Helene! The unusual name had immediately drawn his eye when first he had skimmed her letter of introduction, the very sight of the word submerging him in warm memories of his nascent sensuality. Inexplicably, he had not slept well since. Perhaps his subconscious had held fast to those same memories this sen’night past. Perhaps he had even been hoping to see her.

  Hoping?

  Oh no. He had hoped never to see Helene Middleton again.

  Helene found herself ushered into a vast but simply furnished gentleman’s study, then offered refreshment, which she summarily declined. Left alone to await his lordship’s pleasure, she cast her eyes about the room, taking in its obviously masculine warmth. In one corner, a fat ginger tabby snoozed peacefully, her impressive breadth taking up the better part of a stout leather armchair, one white foot hanging over the edge.

  “Ah, le chat botté,” murmured Helene, kneeling down. “Bonjour!”

  The desultory cat greeted her with a wide, toothy yawn, extended one leg in a tremulous stretch, then returned to her nap, leaving Helene to her own devices. She strolled through the room, which was broad and deep, and filled with sturdy, simple furniture. This was a room she had never seen before, of that she was certain. More of a library, really, for a huge desk sat in its center, and massive bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three walls. In the center of the rear wall was a deep, Jacobean window with a tattered cushion laid across its seat.

  It was the first tattered thing she had seen at Chalcote Court, beginning with the elegant stone gateposts which flanked the drive, to the obviously new Turkish carpets which warmed the massive entry hall. Quite a contrast to the crumbling manor house she remembered from her youth. Obviously, the new Lord Treyhern had gotten the whip hand on his dissolute sire before the place collapsed into the pile of Cotswold rubble from whence it had sprung.

  Helene’s gaze traveled across the walls as she paced the room’s length. Books of every type were methodically shelved, apparently by subject, then size. Adjacent to the window seat, one entire bookcase had been given over to poetry, some of it of very recent origin. She pulled a well-worn volume from one shelf, and it fell easily open. To her surprise, the poem was one of her favorites, “Beauty Like the Night” by Lord Byron.

  Thoughtfully, she slid it back and let her eyes skim across the titles. How very odd it was. The late, and probably not too lamented Randolph Rutledge had never given the impression of having literary inclinations. But then, if Helene’s memory served, his lordship had inherited Chalcote Court from his Camden in-laws, hence his eldest son’s name. Perhaps these finely bound books were theirs? Perhaps they were even Cam’s.

  Inwardly, Helene laughed at her foolishness. Of course, they were Cam’s. The new Lord Treyhern had always been heir to Chalcote, under the terms of his mother’s marriage settlements. But somewhere along the way, old “Randy” Rutledge had got himself an earldom, then passed it along to his eldest, too. The title had come from an ancient great-uncle, or so Nanny had learned. But Rutledge had held it less than two months before keeling over—probably from celebratory excesses, Helene did not doubt. Oddly enough, Helene had no recollection of a title hanging about in the Rutledge family tree, but she would have bet her last sou that Maman had been keenly aware.

  Despite the passage of time, however, Gloucestershire, and indeed Chalcote itself, seemed very much the same, and Helene was struck by how ... well, how comfortable it felt to return. Not at all as she had feared. And why should she be afraid? She had been only seventeen when last she had come to Chalcote. Cam had been young, too. And they had been the best of friends. He would be glad, perhaps, that she had come.

  Yet that optimistic thought had barely taken root when the study door flew open as if propelled inward by an unholy power, squashing all of Helene’s tenuous hopes against the wall as it jarred the adjacent picture frame. The tabby sailed off her perch and pattered across the carpet with a throaty trill of greeting.

  And suddenly, there he was. Aman grown. And a fine specimen of manhood, at that. Not that Helene had harbored any doubt whatsoever on that score. As a boy, he had been lean and graceful. As a man, he was large and overpowering. Indeed, even her sudden fear could not obliterate the sheer physical presence of Camden Rutledge in a foul temper. And unless she missed her guess, such was his mood. Well! C’est la vie! Helene gave him a muted smile.

  Clearly dressed for the country, Cam paused to stare heatedly at her for a moment, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His long, booted legs were set wide; his stance rigid. Obviously, Lord Treyhern had come down in some haste, for he had not paused to don his frock coat, and stood before her now in his rolled linen shirtsleeves and plain waistcoat. He looked for all the world like an irate young squire who had just discovered a vagrant poaching his pheasants.

  The effect of this intimidating entrance was somewhat diminished, however, when the ginger cat began to purr resonantly, twining herself sensually back and forth around his topboots in a gesture which clearly belied his cruelty.

  “Welcome to Chalcote, Miss de Severs,” he said, ignoring the cat. “Or is it not Miss Middleton? You look so very much alike, I vow, I cannot make it out.”

  “You were ever a wit, my lord.” Helene gave a light, casual laugh as she dropped into a smooth curtsey. “Can you forgive the confusion? For in truth, I have always been Helene de Severs.”

  “Indeed?” he replied, strolling into the room. “I never heard you called so.”

  “Maman’s first husband, my lord—? That rather obscure Frenchman who lost his head in the September massacres? I’m given to understand that he was my father, but perhaps Maman thought the pretense made her seem younger. Too many husbands, you know ... not very bon ton.”

  “Ah!” he answered sharply. “And your mother ... ?” Cam lifted one hand in the barest gesture of civility, then flicked it toward the desk to show that she might sit down. “Mrs. Middleton is, I hope, w—”

  “Dead, my lord,” interjected Helene, sinking gratefully into the proffered chair. “After the war she died in Paris. Cholera. Since then, I have rarely come back to England. Which is to say, only if Nanny needed me.”

  Cam took a seat behind the wide mahogany desk and laid his hands flat against the desktop, pressing down as if the act might restrain his own emotions, which were plainly in turmoil. “I knew none of this,” he said at last. “I’m sorry for Mrs. Middleton’s death. I am sure you feel her loss very deeply.”

  “Yes, much to my amazement, I do,” Helene admitted. “And allow me to extend my condolences on the death of your father, my lord. I pray your brother and sister are well?”

  Something which looked like exasperation flared in Cam’s eyes. “Catherine married too young, and Bentley is floundering at Oxford,” he answered with a curt half-nod. “But I suppose they are well enough.”

  Helene bowed her head deferentially, pausing to gather her scattered wits. Despite the fact that she had had ten days in which to prepare herself, it was difficult to maintain the semblance of professionalism while in the presenc
e of this man. This man.

  The word shocked her still. For Cam was more than a man grown; he had a hint of silver glinting at his temples. The boyishly attractive face was gone, too, the skin now drawn taut and closer to the bone, and darkened by the shadow of a heavy beard. No less handsome, but far more intimidating.

  In her own mind, Helene supposed, she had irrationally fixed him forever in time. There, in her daydreams, and sometimes in her nocturnal fantasies, Cam would always be her gentle, laughing beau. Nonetheless, it took but one quick glance at the harshly drawn lines of Cam’s face, and just a scant few moments of conversation, to see that the love of her life had grown dour, distant, and humorless.

  “It has been rather a long time, my lord,” she said quietly, lifting her eyes to his. “I feel the passage of it most keenly.” And there, for the briefest moment, she saw his gaze soften.

  “Yes, a very long time,” he murmured, then set his hands firmly down on the desktop again. Surprisingly, her heart lurched when he then absently lifted one up again, raking his fingers through his thick, black hair in a boyish, achingly familiar gesture. The awkward cowlick which had always plagued him was still there, she saw. Inwardly, she smiled at the memory, and tried not to permit the familiar wave of bitterness to surge forth.

  He stared at her blankly for a long moment. “I—well! Indeed, Helene, I cannot think how this has happened.”

  “How what has happened, my lord?”

  “Your returning here. To Chalcote. After so many years.”

  “It is a rather simple matter, I collect,” she answered dryly. “I am a particular sort of ... of governess. And you required a teacher of children who are—”

  “You, Helene?” he interjected. “A governess? I vow, I never could have dreamt such a thing.”

  “Really, Lord Treyhern?” she asked archly, emphasizing his title. “Whatever did you fancy would become of me?”

  She watched the muscle in his jaw harden and twitch. “Why, I am sure I had no notion,” he said at last.