Helena made the presentation, biting back her reluctance and trying to appear as pleasant as she could.
Chloe was as delightful as always. Helena always had liked her and bore no ill will from the fact that she had married Jareth Hunt, the Duke of Strathmere less than two months after Helena herself had accepted the man’s proposal of marriage. And to her credit, the duchess traveled to Rathford Manor at least every season in tireless overtures of friendship, which was more than a woman of her social standing should have to do, especially given that her overtures were not reciprocated. Helena simply couldn’t bring herself to accept them, as much as she wished she could.
Every time she saw Chloe, Helena remembered that day at the inn, in that room at the top of the stairs. And the blood. When she saw Chloe, she remembered the rancid smell of the blood.
As if he sensed her tension, Adam intervened with a polite excuse. Chloe bade them goodbye with a promise to come to visit as soon as the dresses were delivered so that she could admire them.
As Adam and Helena strode to the cobblers, he said, “She is not at all what one would think of when one sees a duchess.”
“Oh, yes, Chloe certainly is an unusual woman.”
“Chloe?”
“I still address her by her given name.” Helena’s breathing was returning to normal. She heard the note of fondness in her voice as she spoke of the Duchess of Strathmere. “She insists on it. Once she scolded me soundly when, in private, I addressed her as ‘your grace.’ In a public place, she understands the necessity of such formality, but she’ll not tolerate it between friends.”
He was pensive. “Then she is your friend? By the way you reacted in there, I thought there was some kind of strain between the two of you.”
Helena took a careful breath, thinking how best to express this. “There was. It was…” Her courage deserted her. “It was a long time ago. A misunderstanding. There are no hard feelings, I’m sure, but it makes me feel awkward sometimes. Today has been a strain, in any event. I suppose my mood is poor.”
That was a bold-faced lie, and she knew it. Murder was hardly a misunderstanding.
She ignored the pull of her conscience. It was none of his business, anyway. What was he but a London dandy come hunting for a fat purse to bring back to his tarts and his gaming halls and his drunk, lascivious friends? He might be an amusing rake, but he was a rake nevertheless, and she’d be a fool to think differently.
Only a lack-wit would think his gentlemanly show today was anything more than him making the best of the situation. After all, he was a self-confessed opportunist. All the rest, even his passing curiosity at her many “secrets,” were just a momentary diversion until he could get back to London and his true interests. With her money!
She wondered if he had a mistress there.
The thought stiffened her spine, and her chin came up reflexively as she mentally retreated behind her icy exterior. At their stop at the cobblers, she dispatched her business with a no-nonsense air. Several pairs of slippers in kid and soft brushed leather were selected without much prevarication. The shoemaker promised he would confer with Mrs. Stiles to get the colors right for the dresses ordered. At Adam’s insistence, Helena purchased a pair of riding boots as well.
Out in the street, people were still milling about in a bad imitation of having some business for being there. They continued to stare openly when she and Adam emerged from the shop.
She was suddenly weary, although—surprisingly—not afraid any longer. She told Adam this and asked him to fetch the old coach to take them home. Upon pulling up the drive, she noticed that the sight of her home did not bring welcome relief as it had done in the past.
No. It gave her the strangest, most distinct feeling…as if she were returning to a prison.
Chapter Nine
Adam was sick of the questions. There were no answers anywhere, just questions that kept multiplying like proverbial rabbits. The afternoon spent with Helena a few days ago had left his head aching.
To ease his mind, he spent his days in the barn. Kepper was excellent companionship—no mysteries here—and happy for the help with the horses. It was just him out in the stables and carriage house, and Adam knew he worked hard.
Adam didn’t bother to ask why Kepper was alone with such a large stable. The head—and sole—groom was likely to shrug off any inquiries with which he wasn’t comfortable.
After his morning ride one day, Adam brushed down the chestnut mare he had taken out. She had proved to have a good spirit and a sensitive mouth. He had enjoyed himself a great deal and he now rewarded her with a slice of sugarloaf pilfered from the breakfast table, and a compliment whispered in her twitching ear.
“She’s a fine filly, she is,” Kepper said in admiration as Adam led the horse out to the paddock for a trot. “Got manners.”
Adam gave the horse an affectionate stroke on her muscled neck. “She’s a good girl.” He grinned at the stableman. “That is if she likes you. When I approached her too fast the first time, she let me know I was to keep my distance until we were better acquainted.”
Kepper returned the grin. “All the horses in this stables likes me, ’cuz I’m the one what brings ’em their suppers.”
A movement caught Adam’s eye. Kepper looked down, too, and grumbled when he saw what Adam did—a mongrel dog. He was a mottled shorthair, with huge ears that bespoke of hound in his undistinguished heritage, and soulful brown eyes. His tongue was hanging out the side of his panting mouth and his tail was wagging furiously.
“Damned bother!” Kepper groused. He stomped his foot. “Get! Get I say.”
Adam put a hand out to stop the man. “Whose dog is it?”
“Nobody’s that I know of. Just showed up one day and made himself at home. Very at home, especially with the master’s prime bitch. She don’t need a bellyful of worthless pups what’s just like ’im.”
The dog sat down, his ears cocked and the strangest expression on his face, as if he were perfectly aware he was being maligned. This he tolerated with fatalistic resignation.
Hunkering down, Adam stretched out his hand. “Hey, boy,” he whispered. The mutt rose, walked three steps and sat again—within reach, so as to allow himself to be petted.
His coat was coarse to the touch. He certainly wasn’t the most beautiful of dogs. But his eyes twinkled with intelligence. Liking the treatment he was getting, he lowered himself in small steps, his tail thumping a few times.
“He’s not the least bit wild,” Adam noted. “Must have been someone’s pet. Maybe someone in the village. Look how friendly he is.”
“Don’t encourage him. I almost got the master’s flintlock and put a ball in him more times than I can count, but then he looks at me with them eyes, all trusting and hopeful, and even an old curmudgeon like myself can’t do what needs to be done.”
“Let him alone,” Adam said, deeply disturbed. “Don’t think of harming him.”
Kepper looked at Adam. “Those dogs and bitches were some of the finest hunting hounds in these parts. But I guess there isn’t much harm this one can do, now. They’ve run off, some of ’em, and the rest left untended, all gone soft and lost their noses, anyhow.”
“Shame,” Adam agreed. He hated to hear it. Straightening, he looked to the horse he’d been tending. “Mind finishing up with my sweetheart, here?”
“Sure thing, sir.” Taking the reins, Kepper led the mare out of the barn and into the paddock.
Adam regarded the dog. “Are you hungry?” He laughed when the dog got immediately to his feet and looked expectantly at him, as if he understood perfectly. “You are a clever fellow. Come on then, I’ll see what I can coax out of Cook for you.”
He headed toward the house, the dog close on his heels. It gave Adam a ridiculous swell of pleasure to have it so, almost as if they were companions. He liked the idea of having a canine companion.
After giving the mutt instructions not to move from the garden door, he went into the kitch
ens.
The baking room was empty. In the pantry, Maddie was snoozing by the window in a big old rocking chair. The scullery girls were not about.
He walked into the large, vaulted preparation area. This was where he had found the sausages before, so he thought he might have some luck. Instead he found Helena seated at the scrubbed oak table, with her maid, Kimberly, hovering over her.
Something about the scene made him stop. Helena had her head bent. Kimberly was talking, saying something he couldn’t hear, but it was clear she was speaking vehemently. As he moved forward, their voices became audible.
“…fripperies and such nonsense,” the maid was saying.
“Please,” he heard Helena say softly, and it sounded suspiciously like a plea. Adam’s curiosity was piqued and his anger as well. He didn’t like the helpless sound in Helena’s voice.
Kimberly bore down on her. “What do ye think ye can do with a new dress and curls in yer hair? People will laugh at ye. They will always remember, ye know.”
Adam reached them and wasted no time in grabbing the servant’s arm, yanking her away from Helena. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t manhandle a woman, but every rule had exceptions. “What are you doing?” he demanded, glaring into the ruddy face.
After a brief flash of surprise, Kimberly donned a sneer. “I’m talking to Mistress Helena. Like I’ve always done. Her mother depends on me.”
What the devil was this? “You were being disrespectful. I heard you. You had better never speak to her in such a manner again or I will have you dismissed.”
The malevolent look Kimberly leveled at him was undiluted. “Ye think so, do ye, my fine stallion?”
“Do not address me like that,” he commanded, although he was feeling very much out of his element. He was not, as the saying went, to the manner born, and the open defiance of this impudent woman had him disconcerted.
“Ye’ve much to learn here. But I’ll not take offense at yer ignorance. I’m sure yer new wife’ll set ye straight, and right soon after ye tie the knot. Then ye’ll take care when ye speak to old Kimberly, won’t ye?”
“Get out of here. Go on now. Now.”
Kimberly’s eyes moved to Helena. “Ye tell him, girl. I’ll hold my temper this time, but not another.” She exited.
“You should not have done that.” Helena’s voice sounded small.
Adam turned. Helena wore a stricken expression—eyes wide, cheeks pale, bloodless lips tense and tight. He frowned in confusion. “Why in the world would you tolerate such insolence and disrespect? Helena? What is the matter with you?”
“Now she will be angry. You shouldn’t have scolded her.”
“Of course I should have. The woman was bloody threatening you.”
“She speaks for my mother.”
Helena seemed to be in some kind of shock. Adam leaned in closer, asking, “Is that why you let her treat you this way?”
“She was her…confidante. Her consultant.” She made a harsh, humorless sound. “In the Far East, sultans have viziers to advise them. Kimberly was like my mother’s vizier.”
“I still don’t understand why that gives her permission to browbeat you.” He pushed his fingers into his thick hair, puzzled. It was probable that since she missed her mother, Helena allowed this servant these liberties because of her close ties to the dead Lady Rathford. His gaze dropped to her plate, which was half-empty. “She disturbed your meal.”
“I…” She seemed surprised to find the food in front of her. “I suppose I was hungry…”
Adam took her hands. “It would be too much to hope that you are still hungry.” Helena shook her head. “Well, then, we have no choice but to work up an appetite. I was just about to take a mare out for a run.” It was a lie, of course. He had just come in. “Why don’t you take her, and I’ll get a chance to exercise my stallion as well.”
She tried to pull away. “No. I don’t feel up to it.”
“You do ride, don’t you?”
“I used to.” She hesitated. “I hardly know the first thing to do if I found myself back upon a horse.”
“It will come back to you. Come now, it will be a great help to me. I shall not need to tend both horses, and they need the exercise badly.” At her hesitation, he added, “You do not wish to see fine horseflesh growing fat and lazy, do you?”
“Very well,” she agreed with a degree of uncertainty. “I think one of my new dresses should do as a riding habit.”
“They’ve arrived, have they?”
“Some.” She was still hesitating. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Good, you’ll enjoy wearing something new and pretty. And bring a cloak. There is a chill in the air.”
Despite her initial misgivings, Helena thoroughly enjoyed the outing. Dressed in a crisp black skirt trimmed with camel ruching and a white blouson complemented by a light-brown redingote with a stand-up collar and voluminous folds, she felt smartly turned out and confident.
They didn’t converse much. When she had joined Adam in the stables, she had found him feeding biscuits to a wiry looking dog. The friendly creature had come snuffling about Helena’s skirts.
“No, Cain,” Adam scolded.
Helena looked at him. Defensively, he said, “Well, he had to have a name. He looks like an unfavored sort, doesn’t he?”
“Cain…killed his brother. Why would you give him the name of such a wicked man?”
Adam helped her mount, then sauntered to his horse. “I always thought he was a sad sort of case. I mean, God never was pleased with anything he did. That’s the reason he killed Abel, because Abel was always the one to get the approval from God, and Cain never could.” Adam paused thoughtfully. “He didn’t use a weapon, remember, but the jawbone of an ass. That means it was a sudden thing, as if he was overcome by the hell of the situation all of a sudden. A crime of passion. Maybe he was even driven to it.”
Her look was incredulous. “That is a very unique way to look at it.”
“Mitigating circumstances do change the way one views things that, at first glance, seem wrong. Anyway, when I saw this pathetic thing, I thought he might know how Cain had felt. See, he’s a mongrel, so that means no matter how good he is at anything, he’s worthless to his master. He may have a superior nose, or a great canine intelligence, but the worst purebred still has a higher value.”
The air was crisp, with that overripe tang of early autumn. Helena gnawed on her bottom lip. “Hmm. I do understand, but did it occur to you that with your name being Adam, you are carrying a biblical theme to rather an extreme?”
He laughed, astonished, as he swung astride. “I didn’t think of that. Damn. That will never do. Oh, well, boy, we’ll have to come up with something else for you.”
He tried out new names as they rode. The eager dog kept pace with them, wagging his tail at every suggestion. Apparently he had no preference, but Adam pronounced it useless. He was set on Cain, and no other name would suit.
For herself, Helena was taken with what Adam had said about circumstances changing the right and wrong of a situation.
Not many people recognized the fine shadings of gray in a matter, but dealt in black-and-white. Right and wrong. And murder, of course, was wrong. Always.
Adam had voiced a much different opinion. Was taking a life to save a life mitigating enough to redeem one of having murdered one’s own mother?
The thought brought on the unrest it usually did, so Helena pushed it aside. If she were too pensive, Adam would notice, and she didn’t want to draw his curiosity. Her sense of disquiet thinned without her being aware of it, and soon she relaxed in the saddle and took in the scenery around her.
Filling her lungs with moist, cool air, she smiled. The bracken that surrounded them on the wooded paths was gnarled and already browning. The trees were still cloaked in leaves, but they were dry and some had begun to fall off. The grass, when they came to a clearing, was a grayish green.
Nature was ready to sleep, and yet she felt in cur
ious opposition to the world around her. In her heart it was spring, and she was waking after the long winter, like Sleeping Beauty after true love’s first kiss.
A silly, frivolous thought from a woman who didn’t have many of those, but it made her smile just the same.
The parson and his wife came to dinner a few nights later in order to discuss the wedding. Lord Rathford had extended the invitation without Helena’s knowledge, informing her after it was done that they were to have guests and that she should be dressed and ready to receive them by half past six o’clock.
It was useless to protest his high-handedness. Her father was quite set on this marriage taking place as planned. He was also set, it seemed, on the dreary isolation of the past five years being revoked, and moving toward some semblance of a normal life.
Her solitary existence was being ripped from her without her having much say about it. Changes were taking place at an alarming rate. She didn’t even have time to resent it. It didn’t occur to her that she might not resent it, after all.
Several of the dresses she had ordered had already been delivered, mostly the simple styles that had been made up in a hurry to tide her over. She chose one that she thought rather elegant, taking great care with her toilette. She had to do it herself. The services of a ladies’ maid hadn’t been needed for a very long time. She wasn’t bad at it, however, even if her arms ached from the long brushing she gave her hair, but she didn’t stop until she saw traces of its previous luster. She piled it in large coils atop her head and heated the curling tongs. Carefully, she twisted spiral curls along her cheeks, forehead and down the back of her neck. She succeeded with the simple style without a single burn. Turning this way and that, she studied the results in the pier glass.
Not as well as her maid would have done, but not bad, either.
The dress she chose was a deep, dusky rose silk complemented by a single row of ecru lace and a wide satin ribbon under her breasts. She found a pair of old gloves that were almost the same off-white and put them on. Digging furiously among her belongings, she found a strand of pearls for her hair. It would have been better if she had a ribbon to match the one on her dress, but at least the creamy color was the same. An almost new pair of kid mules from the back of her wardrobe proved a perfect fit and complemented the ensemble.
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