The Sleeping Beauty

by Jacqueline Navin

  Helena disliked leaving him with her father, but saw no reason why he couldn’t stay. Besides, she was exhausted, a condition she hadn’t realize until just now. With the news that her father was going to recover, the tension that had kept her taut as a tightly strung harp string drained out of her and she felt as if she could sleep for ages. She headed for her bedroom.

  “My lady,” said the maidservant, Cathy, who was just coming out of her boudoir, “I’ve turned down your bed. Do you want me to help you undress?”

  “No, thank you. Just make certain I’m not disturbed.”

  Once alone, Helena’s mind churned over the events of the past few hours. Only a single day had passed, and yet so much had happened. With her father well—and thank heaven for it—she soon settled on the subject of Howard’s letter. And Adam. He’d tried to get her trusts. He’d argued that she was mad….

  No. She wouldn’t believe it. Her first reaction had been defensive, true. It seemed very easy to blame Adam, think the worst, but she didn’t really think that now. Perhaps she should not have confronted him. Even if it were true, what proof did she have? And if it weren’t, then she had hurt him deeply.

  Oh, God, she’d even accused him of trying to make her believe she was going insane. What had made her say that? She hadn’t ever thought of herself as a victim of a plot. In the heat of the moment she’d blurted it out, but now…now she wondered if she hadn’t finally hit on something. It was finding there was laudanum in the house. It made the possibility that her “madness” had been staged, that she’d actually been being drugged all along, shockingly real.

  Sinking onto the window seat, she drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Yes, it was obvious. Now that she was able to think clearly and not be so afraid, she could see it. Someone was playing games with her mind. She refused to believe Adam had been behind it. If it made her a fool, than so be it, but it wasn’t Adam. It wasn’t.

  Someone else, then. An enemy who was unknown.

  As she rose to her feet, she found she was trembling. She could hardly believe what she intended to do. Going down to the library, she headed straight for the cupboard situated between two tall windows, and drew out a large box. Laying it on the desk, she opened it. Two elegant flintlocks lay on the blue-velvet-covered casing. She picked one up.

  Load that one. We’ll need it to finish him off. He’s not dead.

  The cold, curt voice of her mother, telling her to put in the powder, then the plug, then a lead ball. Helena had followed the orders while her mind was thinking that it really wasn’t happening, that it was some misunderstanding or a terrible jest.

  And then it had struck her that it was real. Her mother had fully intended to kill Chloe and Jareth and there was nothing to stop her.

  But Helena had. She’d stopped her mother.

  Now, holding these flintlocks in her hands was like touching fire.

  She knew where her father kept the powder and balls. She fetched them and loaded each pistol, then carried them upstairs in their box, removed them and slipped them under her pillow.

  Enough doubt remained to keep her from going to Adam tonight. She would wait and see, let the dust settle on all of this, and go to him in the morning if she was still of a mind to. Her emotional state, after the night of worry and the previous evening of high tempers, could hardly be trusted. If anything happened, she had the pistols. Just in case.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was just after tea that very afternoon when the magistrate came.

  Adam had given up waiting for Rathford to awaken. The man was doing well, he’d been told, and had roused from sleep briefly to eat some thin broth, but absolute rest was the best thing for him, and Mrs. Kent meant to see he received it. Seeing the gruff old bear in this unaccustomed weak state, Adam hadn’t the heart to go against the prescribed regimen of peaceful repose to tell him about Kimberly. Or ask about the ridiculous accusations Helena had made.

  By late that afternoon, however, he had tired of waiting and began to think that Rathford wouldn’t appreciate being coddled. This was a matter of murder, after all.

  That was precisely the moment the magistrate knocked upon the door. From his place on the landing, Adam watched as the man was shown into the center hall, heard the officious voice announce his name, followed by his title.

  They were here for Helena, then. The bottom fell out of his world and he gripped the banister for support as he watched the guests below shown to the parlor. Adam spied four men in all. All wore serious faces. One was carrying a length of rope he didn’t bother to conceal. Adam understood its purpose—to subdue anyone who might not feel inclined to be cooperative—

  They were not going to tie her, for God’s sake. He’d not let them do that to Helena!

  With a heavy tread, he went into the parlor, thinking it best to do this on a friendly basis and avoid an ugly scene. The introductions were made stiffly. “Mr. Mannion,” Theodore Tandy, the constable said. “I shall come directly to the point. There’s been a murder. A member of your staff here at Rathford Hall. Her name was Kimberly O’Banyon.”

  Adam looked from one dour countenance to another. The man with the rope twisted it restlessly. Another man moved to block the doorway.

  Returning his gaze to the magistrate, Adam felt his heartbeat begin to race. Could it be he had come to the wrong conclusion?

  The constable said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  It was some hours later when Cathy shook Helena awake with the frantic words, “They are arresting him, ma’am. Please wake up.”

  Helena sat up, alarm flooding her in an instant. “What is it?” She shot to her feet. “Who? Arrested? Who has been arrested?”

  “Mr. Mannion, ma’am. The constable says he murdered Kimberly.”

  “Kimberly…My God, Kimberly has been murdered?” She pushed her hair away from her face. “Mr. Mannion is with the constable, you say?”

  “Indeed, ma’am, they’re about to take him. He sent me to fetch you. He’s terrible frantic, he is. They…” The poor girl looked like she was about to cry. “They tied him, ma’am, because he kept saying he had to get to you, and he wouldn’t cooperate when they wanted to take him away. Oh, it was awful.”

  Deep cold flooded her in an instant, and she stood uncertain in the middle of her room. Why would the authorities believe Adam had killed Kimberly?

  In the clear rationality that comes after a refreshing sleep, she knew he was innocent of any wrongdoing. Her momentary doubts of the day before, fed by exhaustion and worry over her father, plus the shock of Howard’s letter, had calmed.

  And she had remembered something late last night, something simple and ridiculously obvious. When she had been speaking with her father, he had observed that the town surgeon was an idiot and that Adam had wisely kept him away from Helena during her “spells,” as he’d be likely to do her harm. It had occurred to her, then, that if Adam had been against her, why would he keep her from the incompetent surgeon, whose bumbling and painful methods would only have aided a nefarious cause?

  Adam had protected her from him, as he had from all danger. That was the reason he’d disliked Kimberly. But he hadn’t killed her. He’d had no reason to, for he’d succeeded in keeping the strange servant out of Helena’s way and nullifying her demented influence.

  So how could they possibly have any evidence whatsoever to accuse him of such a thing?

  Slipping swiftly in a gray morning gown, her hair undressed, her feet stuffed into slippers without benefit of stockings, she raced downstairs.

  But she was too late. John Footman—whom Adam had taken to calling Jack—stood in the hall, a stricken expression on his face. Helena skidded to a halt and stared at him. “Where—?”

  “They’ve taken him, my lady,” he said in a stunned monotone.

  “Oh, my God.” Helena rushed to him, forgetting propriety, and grasped his arm. “Why did they arrest him? On what grounds, Jack?”

  “They spoke
to the staff,” Jack explained. “They didn’t want to say anything to cast blame on him, madam, but it was no secret that Mr. Mannion disliked that woman.”

  “Kimberly had many enemies, any one of whom could have killed her.”

  “But they said there was a witness, that someone had come forward and said they’d seen Mr. Mannion do it.”

  Helena felt her knees weaken. “Who would tell such lies?”

  “They wouldn’t reveal who it was. The constable said the man was afraid for his life, that he’d be the next victim if he didn’t keep his identity a secret until the trial.”

  “Can they do that? I mean, is it legal?”

  “I don’t know, my lady.” He lifted his hand to indicate the drawing room, then let it fall. “They searched a bit, found a knife on your desk. They said that was the one he’d used to kill her. They found blood in the pocket of his coat. They say he carried the knife home in it, and it stained his clothes.”

  “I don’t care what they found. My husband would never kill anyone. Didn’t he tell them that?”

  Jack’s brows drew down. “That’s what has me so confused, ma’am. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t deny it. He just let them take him.”

  “That’s absurd.” Her head reeled. She had to blink several times to steady her vision. “He didn’t kill her, Jack.”

  “I know it, my lady. Then why…”

  But Helena knew.

  By the way, Helena, have you seen Kimberly lately?

  Her mind had been too clouded with useless suspicions to recognize the same in his tone. He’d watched her reaction closely, tension making his voice curt—a tension she had misread as goading.

  He believed she’d killed Kimberly. He’d somehow known the Irishwoman was dead and—

  Helena’s memory shifted. The knife! She’d seen him pick up the antique—but what if he’d been putting it back? He’d known it was hers. He’d taken it, placed it back in its regular place, to protect her—in his mind, he was taking the blame in her place. He thought she had murdered the woman!

  “Jack,” Helena began, trying to keep her voice calm, “was the knife they took the antique dagger I keep at my desk?”

  “Why yes, my lady. It was indeed.”

  “Then how would anyone know it was that precise knife used to do the murder?”

  “That witness, they said.”

  “No. Not a witness. The murderer himself, who has cleverly ensnared my husband to take the blame for it. And Adam won’t say a word against the accusations because he thinks he’s protecting me.”

  “I don’t understand, ma’am.”

  “Fetch the carriage and come with me to the constable’s office. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Adam found himself in the old gatehouse to Kennibank Abbey, a small retreat now in ruins and overrun with trees and brambles. The gatehouse, however, was used as the village jail. They put him in a small chamber with a thin pallet, a stool, and a table upon which sat a lamp, as well as a tray of congealed stew and a crust of stale bread. The constable apologized, muttering something about his wife not being a very good cook. This was difficult to believe, as the man had an impressive belly. However, Adam made no comment. He took the three-legged stool provided and sat upon it, politely replying that his appetite was not up to snuff tonight. The constable had nodded as if he understood, saying he’d leave the supper for him, in case he grew hungry later, and then he had left Adam alone.

  It wasn’t so bad a place. Adam supposed men had been incarcerated in far worse. But it felt like a slice of hell. His whole body rebelled with pent-up frustration when he thought of Helena. She was alone, unprotected…and a killer was on the loose tonight.

  No doubt she wouldn’t listen to him, even if he could speak with her. Already she regarded him as a malicious opportunist. Why not believe him a murderer?

  He stretched out on the pallet trying to think. He had the strangest nagging sensation in the back of his brain, a suspicion that he’d forgotten something.

  The rattle of the lock surprised him. He had supposed he would be left alone for the night. When a slender figure entered, he shot to his feet.

  Helena wore a cloak with the hood up. When she entered, she pushed the cowl off, and the pale shade of her hair caught the glow from the candle and threw it back with a flourish. He felt a knot in his throat, a momentary damming of joy and desire.

  She paused inside the doorway for an instant. “Oh, Adam,” she cried, and ran to him.

  The shock was pleasant, easing instantly into a wonderful warmth that drenched him all the way to his toes. “What’s this?” he murmured hoarsely, emotion nearly choking him. “I thought…well, I thought you were quite cross with me.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve done any of the things you’ve been accused of.”

  He closed his eyes for an instant, thanking God for her change of heart. “It’s about time we believed in each other.”

  She looked up at him. “You understand that it was someone else, don’t you, trying to make me appear mad?”

  “I believe you are as sane as I.” He considered the statement and cocked a speculative brow. “That’s not saying much from a man accused of murder.”

  “Falsely,” she amended. She lowered her voice. “You found Kimberly’s body, didn’t you? My dagger had been used to kill her, and you put it back. I saw you, although I didn’t realize what was happening at the time. You thought I’d done it.”

  “I thought…I’m sorry, Helena. I admit I thought the worst. It was wrong of me, but the facts…well, they seemed so logically to implicate you and only you. I thought perhaps in one of your spells you might have…God, I am so sorry.”

  “I’ve had my own moments of doubt about you. Whoever is doing this to us is manipulating us quite cleverly.”

  “Why have you decided to trust me?” He ran his hand along her arms.

  “I love you,” she said in a soft voice. “And I suppose that if I trust you enough with my heart, I should trust you with my life.”

  He was too stunned to speak. His hands stopped moving and he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  She smiled, tentatively at first. Reaching up and tilting her head to the side, she held his face in her hands, bringing it within reach of her mouth. Her kiss was sweet, searching, an offering as gentle and lovely as the lady herself. He took it, returning his ardor in lieu of an answer, holding her closer, tighter, and she reached up and wound her arms around his neck.

  The door opened. They broke apart, awkwardly pulling themselves together with an effort. “That’s all the time I can permit,” said the constable.

  “Please,” Helena said softly over her shoulder to the man, “we have hardly yet spoken.”

  “The magistrate will have my hide, my lady. I shouldn’t have let you in at all.”

  “Helena.” Adam spoke softly but in a firm voice. “Go ahead, love. We can talk tomorrow.”

  When she turned back to him, he could see the anguish in her eyes. “There’s so much I want to say to you,” she murmured. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you even a little part of what—”

  “I know. I…There’s much I have to tell you, too. God knows we’ve kept too much held back from one another, which is most of our trouble. But now isn’t the time.” He cast a meaningful glance at the hovering constable. “Go on. We’ll sort all this out on the morrow.”

  She took a moment to deliberate before giving a reluctant nod. “First thing in the morning, I will be back.” She paused and touched his cheek. “I’ll have Maddie pack you a fine breakfast.”

  Adam gave a baleful glance to the cooled dinner sitting on the table. “You are a wife beyond measure,” he said dryly. His face composed itself in sober lines. “Take great care, Helena. Someone has committed murder. Whoever it is isn’t done yet. There is danger. Great danger.”

  Wordlessly, she nodded. He kissed the back of both her hands before releasing her. She slipped through the door, past the uncomfortable c
onstable.

  After she’d gone, Adam was more restless than ever.

  She loved him—that was what he kept thinking about, and although the idea was thrilling, he had far more urgent matters to untangle. Still, it settled warm and right into his heart and made the uncertainty of their present circumstances all the more acute.

  He felt the danger around them, sensed it was going to strike. How much more neatly could the murderer have put Adam out of the way than he was right now? And Rathford was still ill, making his slow recovery. Helena was unprotected.

  Adam had to get to his wife—this he knew with the silent urgency of inflamed instinct. The very smell of threat, metallic and acrid like blood, curled in his nostrils and filled his head.

  He called for the constable. There was no answer. He called louder, kept at it for nearly an hour, until his voice was almost hoarse. Accepting the futility of such efforts, he settled down to sort through the facts.

  Kimberly…Why had she been killed? This puzzled him greatly. Had she been an accomplice in the plot against Helena, or an innocent bystander? Searching his mind, Adam went over everything he knew in fine detail.

  He remembered what Helena had said to him the night her father had taken ill, and shot to his feet. Pressing his thumbs to the bridge of his nose, Adam tried to recall Helena’s exact words.

  Oh, God. The identity of Helena’s tormentor came to him in a blinding flash of insight.

  How had he missed realizing it before? The madness—the madness should have been the key. He had been so afflicted by his own fears for Helena that he hadn’t taken the time to analyze how it fit in so strategically in a larger plan.

  Running to the door, he began pounding and shouting at the top of his lungs for the constable to come immediately. It was a matter of life and death!

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The storm rolled in around midnight, throwing rain savagely against the shuttered windows and whipping the wind into a frightening fury. Inside her room, Helena sat hunched on her bed, wishing it would stop.