Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  Suddenly, Thomas was urging Helene forward from the crowd and introducing her. Mrs. Belmont snapped open a silver lorgnette, and peered at her with a few cool words of acknowledgment, while Joan seemed to almost shrink into the background. The girl’s eyes had widened with what looked like true fear, and as Helene took her hand, a look of almost pleading desperation sketched across her face.

  Her meaning could not have been more plain. Joan Belmont was afraid that Helene had recognized her, and might mention having seen her in the churchyard. Indeed, had she not gone to great lengths in order to avoid Helene that day?

  Despite her own loss, Helene could not find it in her heart to be cruel. “I have long desired to make your acquaintance, Miss Belmont,” Helene answered in a clear, carrying voice. “I regret that we could not have met sooner.” And then, she forced herself to smile at the girl—at Cam’s wife-to-be.

  Suddenly, a knot of sorrow caught in her throat, robbing her of speech, but she need not have worried. Mrs. Belmont had turned her attentions to Thomas Lowe, and a look of weak relief had spread across Joan’s face.

  Helene chose that moment to slip away from the group, and move toward the table on which Milford had placed several bottles and glasses. Bentley stood there, his eyes as black as thunderclouds, refilling his glass as he looked over the swelling crowd. His jaw was rigid, his feet set wide apart, and as his eyes lit on the women near the door, there was no misinterpreting the darkening glower on the young man’s face. He set down the wine bottle with an unsteady clatter. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  Helene drew up beside him, and touched him lightly upon the arm. Bentley’s head jerked around, and he stared down into her eyes as if she were a stranger.

  As his gaze took in the unfolding scene, Cam lifted his glass, and with an abrupt motion, tossed back the contents. From one corner of his eye, he could not help but see Helene as she laid her hand on his brother’s arm, then stared up into Bentley’s face with an expression of such sweet concern it tied Cam’s stomach in a knot.

  Worse, in her eagerness to reach Bentley, Helene had failed to note that the besotted rector was on her heels like a trusty hound. Already he had escaped the Belmonts, and was crossing the room to return to her side. But Helene was urging Bentley away from the crowd and toward an empty corner.

  It was more than Cam cared to watch. He would have given half his fortune to have had this evening alone with her. So much had been left unsaid. Though in truth, Cam hardly knew what he should say. But if he could just have been alone with Helene, the right words would have come. Only with Helene had he ever been able to be himself. And so often, words had simply been unnecessary.

  Cam watched as Lowe interjected himself into Helene’s rather intense conversation with Bentley. He let his cold gaze drift down Lowe’s length. Indeed, it had shocked him to learn this afternoon from Milford just how frequently Lowe had called at Chalcote during Cam’s absence.

  His only consolation, and a weak one at that, was that it had been Thomas, and not Bentley, to whose charms Helene had apparently succumbed. He used the term succumbed, because surely Lowe would not have baldly suggested a courtship without encouragement from Helene. Would he?

  Lowe was laughing cheerfully now, and thumping Bentley on the back. The rector had strategically placed himself between Helene and Bentley in what seemed a very proprietary way. Something akin to hatred burned in Cam’s belly at the thought of Thomas Lowe enjoying Helene’s companionship. Had he perhaps enjoyed something more? If so, that would explain a great deal. Thomas was a rector, yes, but he was a man. And a man had only to brush his lips over Helene’s, and all judgment was lost.

  Cam crossed the room and refilled his own glass. Yes, Thomas Lowe was a fine sort of fellow, he thought, slopping a healthy measure out of the bottle. The rector was handsome and polished, with an easy sort of charm that Cam could never hope to possess. Socially, it would not be the most prudent of matches, since Cam supposed Helene would bring little to the marriage save her cottage in Hampstead, and her mother’s reputation, which sooner or later would come out.

  Nonetheless, Thomas’s position within the Church hierarchy was solid. His living was unassailably linked to Chalcote, and despite the rector’s fears, Cam could never bring himself to remove the man out of spite. A marriage with Helene might impede Thomas’s advancement, but it would hardly ruin him. And from it, he would have much to gain. His life would never be devoid of light. Or fire.

  Cam returned his gaze to Helene and asked himself honestly if he could blame her for being flattered by Lowe’s attentions. What further had she to look forward to if her life continued as it was? Years of working for low wages, in the homes of strangers who would never truly care for her? People who might not appreciate her skill and warmth and honesty?

  Helene must once have wanted a normal life, a family of her own. Indeed, she was still young enough to have one, if only she could settle down with more success than her mother had. Was Thomas Lowe the first man on earth who’d been willing to overlook her less than circumspect upbringing?

  Suddenly, Cam felt a rush of heated shame. He, of all people, had no right to look askance at Lowe’s offer. Despite the conclusions he’d recently reached, what had Cam offered her? Almost nothing. No—worse. An insult!

  Instead of courting her gently as Lowe had apparently been doing, he’d torn at her clothing and pawed at her body like an overeager schoolboy, then gratuitously offered to make her his mistress. His mistress! It was a wonder she hadn’t left on the first mail coach. That was most certainly what he had deserved.

  But perhaps he deserved something worse, he considered, watching Helene move through the room with her fluid grace. Perhaps he deserved to watch Thomas Lowe walk down the aisle of St. Michael’s with Helene clinging to his arm. The thought of having to sit across the aisle from Helene every Sunday for the rest of his life seemed more like hell on earth than a religious experience. It would be more than Cam could bear.

  He watched as Helene drew Bentley toward a pair of armchairs, the dark blue silk of her gown clinging to her curves in a way that was graceful yet alluring. Somehow, she had gotten rid of the rector. He wondered what she was thinking. What she had thought of when she had first looked across the room and caught his eye? Had she missed him at all? He could not guess.

  Yes, Helene would undoubtedly lead the rector a merry dance, but in the end, they might make a match of it. Nevertheless, as Milford arrived to announce dinner, Cam realized that, by God, he did not have to make it easy on Thomas. With an abrupt toss of his hand, he sent the butler away, then pushed through the crowd toward Catherine.

  Just as Milford appeared in the doorway to call them in to dinner, Helene saw Cam approach his sister and speak a few low words into her ear. Appearing a little nonplussed, Catherine nodded, then began pairing the group for seating. To her surprise, Helen found herself being taken in to dinner by Mr. Rhoades, the quiet curate, and seated next to Catherine’s husband. She had seen Catherine’s seating chart, and Cam had clearly asked her to alter it at the last minute. Why?

  Helene was to have a great deal of time in which to consider it, for dinner was interminable. Despite Helene’s best efforts, the curate answered her questions only in stuttered monotones, while Will Wodeway’s banter was limited to crops, the weather, and the already much-belabored topic of hounds and hunting.

  Several courses and a vast deal of wine passed through the room as Catherine’s health was toasted a half-dozen times. By the time the meal had ended, and the ladies had risen to remove to the parlor, all the gentlemen save the curate were more than a trifle deep. Bentley’s habits came as no surprise, but Helene had been a little taken aback watching Cam and the rector match the brawny Will glass for glass.

  The gentlemen did not linger long over their port, and what followed should have been a typical evening of rural entertainment. Miss Belmont was asked to demonstrate her skills at the pianoforte, and began to play quite prettily, if a little t
imorously. After sending the curate to turn Joan’s pages, Catherine began to solicit players for a game of whist. A sullen Bentley resisted her challenge, but Catherine’s husband, along with Thomas Lowe and his sister, were soon persuaded to make a foursome. Helene joined Bentley on the long leather sofa and again attempted to engage the young man in conversation.

  His back turned toward the fire, Cam stood unsociably alone at the end of the room, his arms crossed casually over his chest, one heel propped behind him on the brass fender. As the card players settled into their chairs, Cam let his foot slip slowly from the rail and turned toward his aunt. Despite the distance, his quiet words carried.

  “It would appear, ma’am, that all of my guests are otherwise engaged,” Cam said, in a voice that was remarkably steady given the quantity of alcohol he had consumed. “Would you be so obliging as to step through to my study, so that we might speak in privacy?”

  With a rather smug smile, Mrs. Belmont rose, and the two of them disappeared through the service pantry. At once, Joan’s playing faltered rather badly. Bentley sat down his empty glass with a force that snapped off the stem. In the distant corner, the card players seemed not to have noticed the sudden tension in the air. The curate diligently flipped another page. Joan picked up her melody and went on.

  “One may well guess what that is all about,” hissed Bentley, jerking his head toward Cam’s study. He picked up the broken stem and began to toy with it rather carelessly.

  “For my part, I do not care to guess,” insisted Helene, abruptly plucking the glass from his fingers and laying it down beside the broken bowl. “And it’s none of our concern.”

  Bentley’s dark eyes narrowed, and he looked surprisingly sober. “Is it not?” he asked, his voice a raw undertone. “Is your heart indeed made of stone, Helene?”

  As she stared across the length of the sofa at Bentley, the final chords of Joan’s sonata ground to a halt. Helene was dimly aware that the girl got up from the pianoforte and left the room in some haste. In the distant corner, Catherine squealed and took another trick as the card table roared with laughter. Mr. Rhoades walked quickly toward the fire. The ticking of the mantel clock grew louder and louder. Unable to bear the tension any longer, Helene turned to face Cam’s brother.

  “Very well, then, Bentley,” she heard herself say, to her unending shame. “Just what do you imagine that is all about?”

  “My beloved brother is finalizing his wedding plans,” he answered, choking out the words. “And he cares not one whit for Joan’s feelings. She cannot possibly love him! Indeed, I am persuaded that she does not. I have known her all my life. She would have told me if she cared for Cam! I tell you, Helene, I won’t stand for this! And neither will Joan!”

  But in truth, the young man sounded as though he sought to convince himself, and not Helene. Was this the source of Bentley’s bitterness? Was Cam about to wed the girl his younger brother loved? Suddenly, it seemed to Helene that she was far too near the hearth. The atmosphere inside the parlor seemed close, almost airless.

  Could Bentley’s words be true? Was she to be compelled to live under the same roof with Cam and his new wife, at least until her obligation to Ariane was ended? To watch Cam and his bride begin their life together? To even, perhaps, watch Joan Belmont grow round with the child of the man Helene loved more than life itself? It would be too much to bear. Her head swam uncertainly.

  Abruptly, Helene jerked from her seat. “I beg you will excuse me, Bentley,” she managed to murmur. “I find I am in need of a little air.”

  Before Bentley could offer to accompany her, Helene bolted from the room and down the darkened corridor to the ladies’ retiring room. As she darted through the door, however, she was taken aback by Miss Belmont, who leapt from the vanity table in a rush of muslin, the corner of something white slithering down between the folds of her skirts.

  “Oh—! Miss de Severs!” Joan’s fingers flew to her mouth. “You quite startled me.”

  Despite her own distress, Helene could not but notice that Joan’s hand shook pathetically. It was obvious the young woman had been crying. However, before Helene could reply, Joan had pushed past her, and through the door. It seemed she believed her fate was sealed, and was none too happy about it.

  Torn between sympathy for the fleeing young woman, and pity for herself, Helene studied her too-pale face in the mirror and surrendered, sinking into the seat Joan had just vacated. Slowly, she bent forward, lowering her forehead onto her arm, which rested across the vanity, and forced herself to draw in deep draughts of air. The retiring room was blessedly cold, and the blood slowly returned to her head.

  Bentley, it seemed, had been right in his guess. Clearly, poor Joan agreed. And given both their rather distressed reactions to Cam’s meeting with Mrs. Belmont, there was little doubt in Helene’s mind as to just what had brought Joan to St. Michael’s churchyard that fine autumn day. It was but a short walk through the church’s rear gate and into the orchards of Chalcote Court. Once inside the estate, there were a hundred romantic trysting places. And who would know that better than Helene?

  A bitter, self-deprecating smile pulled at her mouth as a warm tear slid down her nose. Shamed by her lack of control, Helene jerked up her head to dash away the tear, and it was only then that she saw the scrap of white paper beneath the vanity. Without thinking, she snatched it up, and immediately the words caught her eye.

  My dearest Joan—

  It must be tomorrow. I beg you. We dare not delay. All will be in readiness at the appointed time & place. Your mother must simply forgive us. My eternal love— B.R.

  The paper was tattered, the masculine writing splashed untidily across the page as if the author had scrawled his note in great haste. The implication was all too damning, and Helene had no doubt as to whom the writer was. Bentley intended to elope with Joan Belmont—probably to Scotland, since neither was of age.

  Good God! He meant to deliberately snatch his brother’s bride from beneath Cam’s nose, and perhaps forever damn both himself and Joan to society’s censure, and to her mother’s endless fury.

  Cam would surely kill him. Still clutched in Helene’s hand, the letter trembled like a leaf. She recoiled at the thought of what she must do. If she approached Bentley, he would simply deny it all. Helene skimmed the note again. It must be tomorrow night. Thank God she had some time in which to think.

  Perhaps she could reason with Bentley tomorrow when he was fully sober. Perhaps she could persuade him to confide in her. If she could not—well, there remained but one choice. She would give the note to Cam. Would it wound him to discover how cruelly his brother and his cousin had plotted against him? No matter what had occurred between them, Helene suddenly realized that she had no wish to see Cam suffer. Life had dealt with him harshly enough.

  Yes, approaching Cam must be her last resort. And in truth, Helene had more than a little sympathy for star-crossed lovers. Cam’s unleashed wrath was a horrible thing to behold, and Bentley would no doubt take the brunt of it, for he was hardly in his brother’s good graces. Yes, Helene would throw Bentley to the wolves only if no other alternative was left to her. As much as she loved Cam—and she did, all too much—she would not stand idly by while Bentley ruined his life, and that of an innocent, impressionable young girl.

  So resolved, Helene slid one hand down her dress and muttered a sudden oath. The blue silk gown was one of the few she possessed with no pocket slits at all, and because they were dining at Chalcote, she had rejected its matching reticule as unnecessary. Carefully, Helene folded the note and concealed it in the palm of her hand, unnerved to hear the clock strike eleven. She had been gone from the parlor far too long. Anxiously, her eyes darted about the retiring room for a secure nook, to no avail.

  And then Helene remembered. Earlier in the evening, she had seen Mrs. Fane and Catherine go into the study to fetch a volume of poetry from Cam’s bookshelves, apparently to settle some debate that had arisen over dinner. The book now lay forg
otten upon a side table.

  Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Helene pushed open the door and reentered the corridor. A gust of frigid air assailed her. In the Great Hall beyond, she could hear footmen beginning to stir, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone’s carriage being brought around from the stables. Thank God. This horrible, interminable evening would soon be over.

  Ariane leaned across the second floor railing to peer down into the milling servants in the Great Hall below. Watching the different colors of livery was like watching fish dart about in a pond. Footmen ran to and fro. On the cobblestones outside the door, she could see Aunt Belmont’s carriage coming ’round from the coach house. By the arched entranceway, Milford was handing Larkin a heap of coats and cloaks.

  Good! It was over.

  She had thought and thought, very carefully. And for a very long time. She was certain, almost certain, that he was near. The memories were no longer clear. The words had slipped away, hushed by a thousand whispers in her mind. But in her sleep sometimes, she could remember them. Until the very moment when she awoke. Alone. In the darkness. Waiting for Helene, who knew her secret—or part of it, anyway.

  Helene wanted her to talk. But what had Mama said? Don’t tell. But Mama had not known Helene. If she had, surely she would have understood? Yes, she would have. Helene was not like the others. Quietly, Ariane crouched down behind the railing to watch the guests as they departed.

  14

  In which Mrs. Belmont sets her Cauldron a’boil

  The violent sound of ripping paper tore through the silence of the earl’s study. With an agility which belied her age, Agnes Belmont leapt to her feet and stalked toward the hearth, pitching what was left of Cam’s quickly penned document onto the blazing fire.