Beauty Like the Night

by Liz Carlyle

  Unsteadily, Helene rose from the armchair by the hearth, paced toward the table, and seized an empty tumbler from the pewter tray.

  Bentley cast her the merest flicker of surprise, then reached across the table to shove the brandy bottle toward her. After sloshing the glass half full, she looked at it disdainfully, then nudged it away again with the back of her hand. She sank into the chair beside him.

  “Why, Bentley?” she said softly, her voice piercing the uneasy silence.

  He refused to look at her. “Why what?” he asked dully.

  “This morning, why did you do it? Shoot Lowe, I mean? Did you doubt that your brother would ...” Lamely, she let her words trail away.

  Bentley put down his glass with a thud and gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, not for one moment,” he answered. Suddenly, his gaze snapped toward her, and his chair clattered forward onto all four legs. “Indeed, I watched him fondle that damned dagger of his all the way from Marlboro!”

  Helene winced, and Bentley smiled sardonically. “Oh, admit it, Helene. Between the two of us, my brother is by far the more ruthless. And he was but a hair’s-breadth from proving it. He wanted to slit that bastard’s throat.” His voice was hollow, even a little haunted, but there was no accusation in it.

  For a moment, his fingers hovered over the glass, trembling. Despite his youthful bravado, Helene knew that Bentley was badly shaken. “Then why, Bentley? Why bloody your hands with a man’s death?”

  “A dozen reasons,” he said dismissively. He tipped back the chair again and took a generous pull from his glass.

  “Such as?” Helene leaned intently forward, staring at him.

  He shrugged ambiguously. “Perhaps I saw his trigger finger flex? Perhaps I feel I owe my brother some pathetic sort of restitution? Or mayhap I just found Lowe annoying. Have your choice, Helene! I daresay there’s truth enough in all of them.”

  Helene reached across the table and snared his trembling hand in hers. “I think you meant to take the burden of killing a man from your brother’s shoulders,” she softly challenged. “That was it, was it not? You know—as do I—that Cam would never willingly harm anyone. But he was going to kill Lowe because he had no choice. Because of me.”

  Bentley jerked his fingers from hers and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, as if his head ached. “I think it possible that Lowe could have gotten off a shot first,” he finally responded, staring out the window.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Bentley’s head whipped around again, his flat, black stare catching hers. “Damn it, how do I know? But I do know that the guilt would have eaten at my brother. Saint Camden—our brother of perpetual responsibility!” Bentley gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Yes, he is perpetually responsible. And I am infinitely unreliable. So what is one more sin on my slate, Helene? Damned little, I daresay.” He ran his hand through a shock of dark, disorderly hair, then leaned across the table to refill his glass.

  Helene smiled a little bitterly. “I think you are unfair to yourself, Bentley. However, we shall reserve that fight for another time, and another place.” Smoothly, she rose from her chair and turned the corner of the table to stand behind him.

  Her heart ached for the boy he should have been and was not, the boy who had never known a mother’s love. Just as she hurt for the man who had struggled to be both a mother and a father to him.

  Lightly, she set her hands on his shoulders and bent to drop a kiss on top of his head. “I thank you for saving my life, Bentley. There is no question that you did so.”

  “Helene—” Bentley crooked his head to look up at her uncertainly. For a long moment he hesitated, his jaw set at a tight angle. “Look here—there is something else. Something I know but Cam does not—not yet.” He swallowed hard, his eyes bleak with surrender. “It has to do with why Lowe took Ariane. I daresay you’ve guessed what I mean?”

  Mutely, Helene nodded, and Bentley continued. “When Ariane grows up, her life may not be easy. She may ... hear things. Cruel things. But there is one cruelty that she should never have to hear—” He shook his head, unable or unwilling to say the words.

  “That the man who loved her and raised her as his beloved child also murdered her father? Is that what you mean?” Helene’s sudden comprehension left her knees weak. She sat back down abruptly. “My God, I never thought of it. How exceedingly wise you are, Bentley. Not precisely what I would call infinitely unreliable.”

  Before Bentley could utter another self-deprecating remark, the parlor door swung wide. Cam strode in, his heavy boots thudding slowly across the wooden floor, his weary gaze holding Helene’s as he came toward her. Low in his right hand, he carried a bulging saddlebag, which he promptly dropped onto the table.

  Bentley moved as if to rise. Still looking at Helene, Cam laid a staying hand on his brother’s shoulder. “The magistrate has gone,” he said quietly. “An inquest must eventually take place, but I am assured that it will be a mere formality. There will be a few papers to sign later today, and then we may all go home tomorrow. Together. To Chalcote.”

  Helene exhaled on a sharp sigh, and laid a reassuring hand over Bentley’s. The young man still stared blindly down the length of the table. Softly, Cam spoke again. “Go upstairs, Bentley. Take the bedchamber next to Ariane’s. You need some sleep. Soon this will all be over.”

  Helene tore her gaze from Bentley’s face to look anxiously up at Cam. “Miss—er—Queenie is still watching Ariane?”

  With a crooked smile, Cam nodded.

  At that moment, Bentley shoved back his chair with a harsh scrape. “Indeed, I believe that I will leave you,” he said, with feigned nonchalance. “I could do with a bath and a nap.” Without another word, he strolled casually from the room, seeming very much his old, arrogant self.

  As the door clicked shut, Helene rose from her chair, only to find herself dragged up into Cam’s powerful arms. And yet, she could feel him tremble inside as the dam of his emotions cracked, then collapsed. “Oh, God,” he whispered hoarsely, burying his face into her hair. “Oh, God, Helene! I feared I’d lost you.”

  She pushed away a little, looking up into his eyes to see that every pretense, every layer of tight control had been stripped away, leaving him vulnerable and desperate. It was a look of unguarded pain, one which she had not seen since the night they had been torn apart by their parents.

  On that dreadful night, they had been inexorably joined by a parting gaze which had been rich with need and fear and the promise of undying love. And that love had not died, had it?

  Had she harbored any doubt about Cam’s feelings for her, they were crushed by his lips which came down hard upon her own, drawing her into a kiss which was both bold and unyielding. Eagerly, Helene let her hands slide beneath his coat and up the taut, powerful muscles of his back, reveling in the intoxicating strength of him.

  For long moments, Cam kissed Helene, deeply, thoroughly, and in a way which claimed her as his own, brooking no opposition. And when he had finished, he set her gently away, turned to the table, and began to unbuckle one of the bulging leather bags.

  Carelessly, he jerked out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and ripped it open. A length of emerald silk slithered across the table, cascading into Bentley’s empty chair.

  Helene was confused. “What on earth—?”

  “I meant it for your wedding dress, Helene,” he answered, his voice grim and stubborn. “I always wished you to have green silk, you know. And it will look particularly splendid when worn with this.” Quietly, he lifted her left hand and slid an ornate band set with a half-dozen emeralds onto her finger.

  Helene knew it at once. The fine, filigreed pattern was as familiar to her as a dear friend. Slowly, she wrapped her fingers about his hand, staring at the ring.

  Cam curled his thumb over her fist and lifted it to his mouth. The lines carved into his face and around his eyes were deep with fatigue. “If you no longer have the necklace, Hellie, don’t fret, for we can have a c
opy made at—”

  “I have it.” The interruption came swiftly, but with a tiny, choking sound.

  Cam sighed with obvious relief. Undoubtedly, the significance was not lost on him. The necklace would have roofed her ramshackle cottage a hundred times over. “I’ve also brought a special license from London, Helene,” he added softly. “I know I said I would not press you, but I lied.”

  Helene lifted her gaze to his, trying to see past her misty eyes.

  “We’re to be wed at once,” he firmly continued. “Before we leave Salisbury. I won’t wait. I cannot bear the strain. So we’re to do it tomorrow morning in the cathedral. I’ve already made the arrangements, do you hear? My mourning bedamned. The green silk—well, I’m sorry. You’ll simply have to wear it later.”

  The press of tears only increased. Forcing them away, she opened her mouth to agree.

  But Cam hushed her with another kiss, and curled his arms about her waist. “No more words, Helene, do you hear?” he said gruffly, lowering his forehead to touch hers. “I’m just too bloody tired to argue over something which was writ upon our hearts long ago. Our only mistake was to doubt one another. Do not doubt me now, Helene. Whatever new challenges life may fling at us—and I daresay there are going to be a few—we will go forward together. And you will have the protection of my name. So just be quiet about it.”

  “Am I to say nothing, then?” she asked, tucking her head beneath his chin. “No more words at all?”

  Softly, he laughed, a low, resigned rumble above her ear. “I am not to be obeyed for one instant, am I? Very well, Helene! Say it!”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “There! One word only.”

  Epilogue

  Here we come a-wassailing!

  In the Great Hall of Chalcote, the servants and tenants gathered amidst thick garlands of greenery and row upon row of trestle tables laden with a sumptuous buffet. On the balcony above the grand staircase, a quartet of musicians from the village fiddled out country jigs and Christmas carols, while in the peaceful world outside, two inches of newly fallen snow lay like a luxuriant white carpet across the fields and forests of Gloucestershire.

  On the table nearest the entrance, an assortment of gifts—warm woolen scarves, sturdy leather gloves, and all manner of toys and sweetmeats—lay in neatly arranged piles. Behind the table stood Milford who, with Ariane’s assistance, was engaged in rummaging through the piles in order to present just the right gift to every new arrival as they came through the door, laughing and chattering and stamping the snow from their boots.

  To Helene, it felt as if she had truly come home at last. Two old Tudor chairs had been dragged from the yellow parlor and placed upon a hastily constructed dais near the conservatory door. From this lofty vantage point, Helene and Cam had been exchanging season’s greetings with their visitors for the better part of two hours. But throughout the whole of it, Helene noticed that Cam’s watchful gaze had never left Ariane.

  Helene felt herself glow with contentment. Ariane stood at Milford’s elbow, smiling shyly at all who approached her. Though she said little beyond the occasional timid greeting, pleasure shone in her eyes as she passed the packages across the table.

  Cam leaned back in his chair and lifted his goblet of mulled wine, gesturing discreetly in her direction. “Look at Ariane,” he said softly. “She seems so ... happy. So normal. My dear Helene, you cannot possibly know how grateful I am to you.”

  The crowd had drawn away from them to stare up at the musicians who had begun a rousing version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Seizing the privacy of the moment, Helene turned to kiss him swiftly on the cheek.

  “Oh, Ariane is normal,” she quietly agreed. “But Cam, my dear, you must know that I had little to do with it. Ariane was never truly ill, simply confused and frightened. She was just a worried little girl trying very hard to do what she believed to be was the right thing. She was trying to keep her mother’s secret, as she’d been asked to do.”

  Cam was silent for a long moment. “Helene ... do you think Ariane remembers?” His voice was laced with just a hint of his old pain.

  Slowly, Helene shook her head. “No, Ariane has nothing but vague recollections. I believe she remembers that there was a fire, and that it had something to do with Lowe. But the only clear memory she seems to have is that she was forbidden to talk of it—and indeed, she hardly understood what it was.”

  “You refer to the relationship between her mother and Lowe?” he said grimly.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Do not worry, Helene,” he whispered reassuringly. “It does not trouble me. Not in the way you mean. I merely hope that all of Ariane’s memories will someday fade away.”

  Gently, Helene patted him on the knee. “They very nearly have, Cam. And together, we will ensure that they never return to trouble her. We will provide her with a family that is a bastion of strength and comfort.”

  “Dear Helene!” Cam reached out to cover her hand with his own, squeezing it tightly. Suddenly, a ghost of uncertainty passed over his face. “But do you not think that Ariane has seemed a little solemn these last three weeks?” he asked. “I confess, it has worried me.”

  Lightly, Helene laughed. “Oh, Cam! You are determined to worry, aren’t you? Ariane is just moping over Bentley. You must know that she misses him dreadfully.”

  “Good heavens, you are right!” Cam seemed to relax in his chair. “And speaking of Bentley, I wonder where the devil that boy has got to.”

  “Oh, he is still in Paris, I do not doubt! I know he meant to go on to Italy by New Year’s, but I do not think he will give up Paris quite so easily once he has seen it.” Helene squeezed her husband’s hand again. “But Bentley is very much on your mind, is he not?” she asked softly. “Perhaps, my dear, you miss him as much as Ariane does?”

  At that, Cam threw back his head and laughed. “I cannot fool you for a minute, can I?” he complained again. “Yes, I miss the scamp. But mostly I just worry for him.” His voice dropped to a more solemn tone. “It was bad enough, Helene, what he went through in Salisbury. And I know why he did it, too. And what did I do to reward him? I gave the living of Saint Michael’s to Basil! It is a wonder Bentley does not hate me for that. Indeed, perhaps he does.”

  “Your brother does not hate you, my love,” Helene softly insisted. “And in truth, Bentley has grown up a vast deal. Still, we simply cannot expect him to live with Joan on his doorstep. Not until his heart has mended just a bit.”

  Cam turned fully to face her, lightly brushing the back of one hand across her cheek. “I did do the right thing by old Basil, didn’t I? I mean, I know it was a hard one for Bentley to swallow, but I must take care of Joan.”

  Slowly, Helene nodded. “Yes, love. You did precisely the right thing, and Bentley understood. This trip abroad will be just the thing, you shall see. No doubt he will fall in love with some pretty mademoiselle before the year is out.”

  “Now that I can heartily recommend!” said Cam softly, his gaze rich with meaning.

  “I love you, too,” she returned. “And I always shall. Moreover, just look at all we have to further bless us this Christmastime.” Helene lifted her hand to gesture at the crowded room. “Our dear friends, our healthy family. And trust me, Cam, when I say that Bentley, too, will make something of himself someday soon.”

  “Yes,” Cam said slowly. “But precisely what that something will be, I dare not guess. I merely pray he does not die in a horse race or dawn appointment betimes.”

  “Really, Camden!” Helene gave a light laugh. “I think you have no faith in Bentley at all. Besides, he’s quite a good shot.”

  The reminder was not lost on Cam. “Well, we’ve not heard a word out of him these last two months,” he returned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “So I suppose we must assume that no news is good news.”

  Suddenly, Helene smiled, looking uncharacteristically shy. “Well, as to news, my love, I have some. And it is very good indeed!”
She drew her hand away, and lightly brushed it down her belly.

  Cam stared at her for a long moment, and then suddenly, his face lit up with joy. “Oh, my dear! You cannot mean it! I mean, I had hoped—that is to say, it is my fondest wish—but I had not expected this so soon.”

  “But do you know, my dear, I think it could not have happened soon enough for me. Indeed, we have wasted so many, many years. For my part, I do not mean to waste a moment of those we have left.” And then, very gently, Helene bent forward to brush her lips lightly over his cheek.

  But Cam’s strong hands went around her shoulders, and at once, the kiss on the cheek turned to something just a little different.

  Long moments later, the lord and lady of the manor were roused from their diversions to find that the crowded room had lost complete interest in “The Twelve Days of Christmas” somewhere near the “ten lords a-leaping.”

  Then Camden Rutledge, the terribly solemn and ohso-proper Earl of Treyhern, blushed three shades of red as his Great Hall erupted into a thunderous round of applause.

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  Liz Carlyle

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  Woman of Virtue....

  The incorrigible Henrietta Healy

  February 1824

  The Countess of Walrafen—who in a long-ago life had been known as Cecilia Markham-Sands—was newly possessed of an elegant villa in Park Crescent. Mr. Nash’s latest architectural creation boasted every modern convenience, including flushing lavatories, an elegantly stuccoed façade, and yellow paint so sumptuously applied it looked like butter running down the walls.

  There was nothing of the old or the venerated about Park Crescent, though the earldom of Walrafen was both. In fact, to her ladyship’s way of thinking, the Walrafen title was so old and stuffy it was well nigh to mouldering. She could smell the musty self-righteousness drifting all the way across Marylebone.