Bella and the Beast

by Olivia Drake

  A ruddy color spread from his starched collar up into his sunken cheeks. Bella wondered if no one had ever praised him before. It was her belief that behind his vinegary exterior beat the heart of an old softie. She had arrived at the conclusion that very morning upon catching sight of him tossing scraps to a stray dog outside the kitchen door.

  Pinkerton cleared his throat again. “If I may also announce, you have visitors waiting downstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Grayson.”

  “There must be some mistake. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Mr. Grayson is the duke’s cousin and heir to the title.”

  “Oh.” Mystified, Bella cocked her head to one side. “But … why would they wish to see me and not Aylwin?”

  “It is not my place to speculate about my betters.” Pinkerton shifted his rheumy blue eyes back and forth, then lowered his voice to a raspy murmur. “However, I suspect they are curious to meet His Grace’s houseguest. Might I suggest tea in the morning room?”

  Bella had no desire to endure an hour of chitchat with nosy aristocrats. She had too much work to do. Perhaps they wouldn’t stay long if she gave them nowhere to sit. “No, send them in here, please.”

  “As you wish.” With a creaky bow, Pinkerton disappeared out the door, the entourage of footmen in tow.

  If only she too could disappear.

  Vexed by the interruption, Bella shook the dust out of her wrinkled blue skirt. Then she hurried to the large gilt-framed mirror on the wall, a vestige of the décor before the drawing room had become a storage facility. A heap of fragmented statues hid the bottom half of the glass, and she had to stand on tiptoes to view her reflection.

  Her hair looked a fright. Numerous wisps had fallen onto her brow and she puffed up a breath to blow them away. When that failed, she brushed at her face, but her fingers left a streak of dirt on her cheek that she had to scrub off with her sleeve.

  Oh, bother. She should have run up to her bedchamber to wash before receiving the callers. Then again, what did she care of their opinion? Her purpose here was not to win acceptance by polite society.

  Moments later, a gentleman and a lady swept into the drawing room. They stopped just inside the doorway and, with identical expressions of distaste, glanced around at the jumble of artifacts. Bella decided there could be no greater contrast to the clutter than this perfectly groomed couple. They looked as if they had never worked a single moment in their pampered lives.

  Leaning on a polished black cane, Mr. Oscar Grayson had dark wavy hair that was artfully combed around a rather ordinary face with muttonchop whiskers. As if to compensate for his bland features, he’d garbed himself in flamboyant clothing: a gold waistcoat beneath a jade-green coat, a cravat tied in grandiose loops, and black trousers with thin gold stripes. Beside him, his wife was willow-slender in a pale peach gown that enhanced her creamy complexion and fair hair. Those eyes of brilliant amber studied Bella in a critically assessing manner.

  Bella knew at once that she had little in common with the couple. But as relatives of her employer, they deserved common courtesy.

  Pasting on a smile, she stepped forward and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Miss Bella Jones. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Grayson.”

  Oscar Grayson shook Bella’s hand, though his wife kept her gloved fingers demurely folded at her waist. “Well, well,” he said in a jovial manner. “So you are the infamous Miss Jones. The moment Helen heard the news from her maid, who learned it from one of the footmen here, we decided to pay a call. I cannot remember the last time when Miles had a female houseguest.”

  Bella raised an eyebrow at his rambling speech. “Miles?”

  “My cousin, Miles Grayson, the fifth Duke of Aylwin.” Uttering a chortle of laughter, he turned to his wife. “You see, Helen? You were wrong. She didn’t even know his Christian name. So how can she possibly be his mistress?”

  Bella had been reflecting on the fact that the Duke of Aylwin had a real name. Miles. It somehow made him seem less fearsome. Then the meaning of what Oscar Grayson had just said broke through her reverie.

  “His mistress!” Aghast, she gripped the folds of her skirt in an effort to hold back her temper. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Aylwin hired me to catalogue his collection of antiquities. Ask him yourself if you doubt me.”

  “So we are to believe you are merely an employee,” Mrs. Helen Grayson said as she strolled around, careful to keep her pristine skirt from brushing against any of the grimy surfaces. “I certainly hope that Miles intends for you to clear out this drawing room. Then the place can be restored to its former glory.”

  “I’m afraid he gave me no such instructions,” Bella said in a chilly tone. “Where else would he put all these artifacts?”

  “Outside in the rubbish heap,” said Oscar, aiming a smirk at the miscellany of statues and pottery. “That’s where the whole lot will go someday when I am the sixth Duke of Aylwin.”

  His cavalier manner disturbed Bella. And not just because he would dispose of these ancient relics. He and Aylwin could only be in their thirties and already this man was anticipating his cousin’s demise? “Your plan seems a trifle premature,” she felt compelled to point out. “His Grace may very well marry someday and sire a son who will carry on with his work in Egyptology.”

  Oscar gave her a blank stare. “Aylwin, marry? What rot! Why, the fellow is leg-shackled to all this useless junk!”

  Helen, however, narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to Bella. “Let us be perfectly frank, Miss Jones. Do you have designs on Miles? Do you intend to entrap him into marriage and give him a son? Isn’t that the real reason why you’ve come here—to cheat my husband out of his rightful inheritance?”

  A flush of incredulity heated Bella’s skin. “No. No. And no! There, I have answered all your absurd questions.”

  “By what ruse did you convince Miles to hire you?” Oscar asked, mincing forward with the cane to take a stand beside his wife. “Surely there are men who are far better suited to this work than a mere female.”

  Bella compressed her lips to hold back an irate retort. Never in her life had she been so insulted. She itched to order these two busybodies out of the drawing room, but what if they had influence over Aylwin? What if they convinced him to dismiss her?

  Perhaps a little information would placate them. “My father was Sir Seymour Jones. He worked with His Grace’s father in Egypt many years ago. So you see, I have a connection to your family.”

  “Sir Seymour Jones?” Helen made a little flutter of her gloved fingers as to dismiss the name as a sham. “I’ve never heard of the man. Who are his people? From where does he hail?”

  “Oxfordshire. And I wouldn’t expect you to have known him. He—we—lived most of our life abroad.”

  “In France or Italy, I should hope.”

  “No, ma’am. Rather, we toured extensively through the wilds of Asia and the Near East.” Bella couldn’t resist the chance to needle the woman. “We traveled by camel or mule in caravans and often stayed for months among the tribal peoples along the way. My last real home was a stone hut in the mountains of southern Persia.”

  Helen and her husband exchanged a look of revulsion. “You’ve lived among savages?” Oscar asked.

  “Oh, but there is much to be learned even from those whom you consider barbaric. And it’s truly liberating to escape all the strictures of English society. You should try it sometime.”

  “No wonder your knowledge of civilized conduct is sorely lacking,” Helen declared. “It is a crime that a woman of your heathenish background should be living in the household of a duke!”

  Stung, Bella retorted, “That is not your decision to make. Now, there can be no purpose in continuing this inquisition. If His Grace is satisfied with my qualifications, then you should be, as well.”

  Lifting her chin, Helen looked down her perfect nose at Bella. “Whatever Miles does also reflects upon his family. And if you are indeed a blue blood, where is your chaperone? N
o true lady would reside under the same roof as an unmarried gentleman.”

  “Touché, my darling!” Oscar said with an admiring glance at his wife. He turned to ogle Bella. “It would appear you are indeed a fallen woman, Miss Jones. And what do you say to that?”

  His vilification of her character snapped the last thread restraining Bella’s temper. “I would say that you’ve overstepped your bounds, sir. Now do be on your way—lest I be forced to cast an ancient tribal curse upon the two of you.”

  Switching to the Farsi tongue of the Persians, she launched into a diatribe about the cold, callous nature of snooty English aristocrats. The tirade was harmless, but it had the desired effect on Oscar and Helen.

  The couple shrank back in horror at the sham curse. In great haste that had them half tripping over their own feet, they scuttled out of the drawing room.

  Chapter 9

  Only two hours later, Bella had to fend off another hostile visitor.

  Her blood boiling after the encounter with the Graysons, she was unable to concentrate on the task of sorting pottery. She paced the drawing room for a time, walking up and down the narrow paths between the heaps of broken artifacts while penciling notes in her journal about how to organize the space. Gradually, her temper cooled and she could think rationally again. Yes, she had taken great satisfaction in watching Oscar and Helen beat a rapid retreat.

  But what if those two snobs had run tattling to Aylwin? What would the duke think of Bella threatening his cousins? Would he use it as an excuse to dismiss her from his employ?

  Her fingers tightened around the leather-bound notebook. Oh, she ought not to have lost control over herself again! That particular failing of hers often had earned a chiding from Papa in her youth.

  She must not give vent to wild sentiments that might endanger her mission to fulfill his last wish. He had wanted to give her the means to provide for her brother and sister. Promise me, he had gasped out on his deathbed. Find Aylwin. Find the map. You have half the pharaoh’s treasure.

  Thinking about those words, Bella confronted the notion that had hovered at the back of her mind since her arrival at Aylwin House. Perhaps she was wrong to expect a trove of gold objects and brilliant jewels. By “pharaoh’s treasure,” had her father been referring to the many artifacts here at Aylwin House? Had he been trying to tell her that she was entitled to half of Aylwin’s collection of ancient Egyptian objects?

  Surely not. If that were the case, Papa would not have been so adamant about her finding the missing map. Somehow, that map was the key to her quest. Once it was in her possession, perhaps she would understand the nature of the treasure.

  She had only to exercise patience until then.

  With a sigh, she knelt down to catalogue a box of scarabs. According to her studies, these small stone beetles were used as amulets to signify rebirth or to ward off evil. Each one was different, some with carved pictures of animals or birds, others decorated with colored stone like lapis lazuli. As she worked, a ray of afternoon sunlight fell upon an item half buried at the bottom of the crate.

  Bella picked up a dainty alabaster jar that was somewhat larger than her fist. With the hem of her gown, she gently wiped away the layers of dust. The pale stone vessel had only a minor crack in the lip. Nearby lay the carved head of a woman that had been broken in two. Carefully matching the pieces together, Bella placed the head onto the jar and saw to her satisfaction that it was a perfect fit.

  Had Papa found this object—or others like it? Why had he never mentioned his work in Egypt—or written about it in one of his journals? If only he were here to answer all of her questions.

  A tightness in her throat, she imagined him working under the relentless heat of the Egyptian sun. Perhaps he had dug this very jar out of the sand, brushed off centuries of grime, and cradled it in his hands as she did now. So many times, in so many foreign locales, she had seen him treat ancient objects with great reverence …

  Heavy male footsteps sounded out in the corridor.

  Bella’s heart gave a wild thump. Aylwin. He must be coming here to address her maltreatment of his cousins. Dear God, if she hoped to keep her position, she would have to find a way to mollify him.

  She surged to her feet and turned toward the doorway. But to her surprise, a stranger stomped into the drawing room. He was a balding man of average height, sloppily dressed in a loose brown coat, saggy black trousers, and scuffed boots. With his jowly face and stocky form, he reminded her of an English bulldog.

  He stopped and scowled at her. “That is a canopic jar of the nineteenth dynasty,” he chided. “Have a care how you handle it!”

  Bella realized she was still holding the little alabaster vessel. She was about to ask his identity when Pinkerton entered at a measured pace. The stooped old butler stopped just inside the doorway and intoned with a sour curl of his lips, “Mr. William Banbury-Davis to see you, Miss Jones. I’m afraid he refused to wait downstairs.”

  “You know very well that Aylwin has given me carte blanche to study his artifacts at any time,” Mr. Banbury-Davis told him with undisguised irritation. “Now, run along with you.”

  The servant cast an inquiring gaze at Bella. Clearly, he would not depart without her consent, a fact that spoke volumes about his opinion of this visitor.

  She set down the jar and dusted off her palms, then gave him a nod. “Thank you, Pinkerton. I’ll ring if you’re needed.”

  The moment the butler was gone, she stepped forward and offered her hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Banbury-Davis. I presume you are a colleague of the duke’s.”

  Banbury-Davis glowered instead of shaking her hand. “Indeed, I am a noted scholar of Egyptology—unlike you. I could scarcely believe my ears when Mrs. Helen Grayson informed me that Miles had hired an assistant. And in particular the daughter of that scoundrel, Sir Seymour Jones!”

  Bella bristled despite her vow to guard her temper. Curling her fingers, she let her fist drop to her side. “Enough, sir! First you are rude to the servants. Now you are rude to me. If you cannot speak civilly, then you may as well depart at once for I have no interest in conversing with you!”

  He harrumphed and muttered something under his breath. Then he planted his hands on his hips and moderated his tone. “As you wish, Miss Jones. Tell me, have your parents returned to England, too?”

  “My father died last year of a fever. Mama passed away some fifteen years ago. Did you know them?”

  His pale blue eyes swept over her. “I attended Oxford with Seymour Jones. Tell me, where has he been all these years?”

  “We traveled extensively throughout Asia and the Near East. Most recently, we were in Persia, where Papa had been assisting in the excavation of the ancient city of Persepolis.”

  “And now here you are at Aylwin House.” He took an aggressive step toward her. “Did Sir Seymour tell you to come here? Perhaps he instructed you to claim some of these artifacts for yourself. Did he say that you have a right to them?”

  The accusation was perilously close to the truth. Nevertheless, Bella objected to his disdain for her father. What was the source of it?

  “That is the second time you’ve denigrated Papa. He was a fine father, a hard worker, and an honest man. I wish to know why you would call him a scoundrel.”

  “Don’t pretend ignorance. He abandoned Miles, that’s why.”

  She raised an eyebrow at the strange accusation. “Abandoned him? How so?”

  “The fourth duke hadn’t been cold twenty-four hours when Sir Seymour took you and your mother away in the dead of night. He vanished without a trace. Miles regarded Sir Seymour as a second father—until the fellow left the orphaned lad to fend for himself in Egypt.”

  Bella pressed her fingers around the edge of a wooden crate. She couldn’t believe such a thing of her father. “Did Aylwin relate these events to you? He was only thirteen at the time. Perhaps he had his facts wrong.”

  “No, Miss Jones. I witnessed it with m
y own eyes.”

  “Wait. You were in Egypt, too, back then?”

  “Indeed so.” As Banbury-Davis roamed in agitated steps between the rows of miscellany, he snatched up a scarab and rubbed it between his fingers. “I was the one who helped Miles in his time of need. I guided his decisions as to which artifacts were to be transported back to England. I provided him comfort and assistance—because your father had shirked his obligations.”

  Bella hardly knew what to think. But it would explain Aylwin’s hostility toward her, his probing questions about Papa and where they had gone after leaving Egypt. If this man’s narrative of events could be trusted, then Papa had ignored his duty to the young duke. He had departed at a time when the boy had needed him most. How distraught the duke must had been at the shock of his father being murdered by grave robbers. And then to be forsaken in a foreign country by a man he had trusted …

  No.

  No, she could not believe her father capable of such infamy. Certainly Papa had been self-absorbed at times, wrapped up in his pursuit of knowledge, even to the detriment of his family. But he had not been deliberately cruel or unkind. Banbury-Davis must be exaggerating.

  Crossing her arms, she stepped into the man’s path and stopped his pacing. “Perhaps my father needed to seek new employment. He had a family to feed. You can’t know for certain what was going on in his mind.”

  “Nonsense. Miles would have continued to pay his salary. I am sorry if this is news to you, Miss Jones, but your father was a cold, unfeeling villain. If you’ve any conscience at all, you will acknowledge that you do not belong here at Aylwin House!”

  His attack made her stiffen. “I will acknowledge no such thing, sir. His Grace offered me the position of curator, and I have accepted it. I will not be driven away by you or anyone else.”

  Banbury-Davis uttered a snort of contempt. “Curator, bah! What is your experience? Have you lived and breathed Egyptian history for more than thirty years as I have done? Did you study under the finest scholars? Have you any academic credentials at all?” He snatched up the little alabaster vessel and thrust it into her face. “Do you even know the purpose of a canopic jar?”