Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (5 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Miranda is correct: You’re bossy and impertinent. You were raised to a much higher station, so you don’t grovel when you should. It’s obvious that someone paid for your education. Who was it? Where is he? Why are you so alone?”

“It was my grandfather, but he died.”

“How long ago?”

“Four years now.”

“You were only sixteen. He didn’t provide for you?”

“No.”

Helen could have spilled the entire sordid story, but what good would it do? She couldn’t change the past, and she wasn’t about to admit that her other relatives had disowned her due to her supposedly disreputable parentage. The facts were humiliating, and they weren’t any of his business.

“Well,” he mused, “it’s clear your attributes make you unsuitable for dealing with Miranda.”

“They do not!” she seethed. “
She
is the one who’s totally irrational. I’m perfectly reasonable—when I’m around reasonable people.”

“I’m sure you’re a veritable saint.”

There was a twinkle in his eye, and she was positive he was teasing her when she couldn’t fathom why he would. Why involve himself with her?

“She doesn’t want me here,” Helen explained, “so she’s being horrid, hoping I’ll quit or you’ll fire me.”

“I won’t let you quit. And I’m not about to fire you, but I can’t have Miranda pestering me, so what would you advise? How can we resolve this?”

“You could send me back to Mrs. Ford.”

“I could, but I won’t.”

She sighed. “I repeat: I don’t understand you.”

“You humor me, Miss Helen Stewart. You humor me, so you’ll stay on.”

“Until when?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“But why? When my presence is causing all this discord, it’s ridiculous to keep me.”

“Very likely, but no one has ever accused me of being exactly sane.” She was about to comment when he grinned and added, “And I don’t need to hear your opinion on my mental state—or lack thereof.”

He bent down and braced his hands on the arms of her chair, so he was very close. She could see the flecks of indigo in his blue eyes, could see a nick on his cheek where he’d cut himself shaving.

Deep inside, feminine desires stirred, and suddenly, she found herself craving things from him that she should never have. The realization scared her, and she wanted to push him away, to slip out and run down the street as far as she could go, but he was observing her so keenly that she couldn’t seem to choose the wiser course. She was too flattered by his heightened attention.

“Why don’t you wear any of the clothes I bought you?” he murmured.

“You know why.”

“I can’t abide your gray gowns.”

“It shouldn’t matter to you.”

“Oh, but it does, Helen. It matters very much.”

His beautiful mouth was mere inches away, and to her shock and amazement, he narrowed the gap between them and kissed her.

If she hadn’t been so stunned, she might have flinched away, but he caught her off guard.

His lips were very warm, and at the feel of them pressed to her own, butterflies swarmed through her stomach.

It wasn’t the most passionate kiss in history—he didn’t grope or fondle or clutch her to his chest—but it was her very first, and she couldn’t believe how sweet it was.

Much too soon, he drew away, and he buried his face at her nape, his soft breath wafting across her skin. For an eternity, they hovered there, barely touching, not speaking, not moving.

Then he pulled away, and he stared down at her, looking bewildered and a tad rattled, as if he didn’t know what had come over him.

“I’ll be at home for supper tonight,” he said. “Join me, and wear the green dress that was delivered this morning.”

He spun and left.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I’m exhausted.”

“So am I.”

Harriet followed her roommate—Abigail, another housemaid—down the dark hall, their two tiny candles giving off a dim glow, casting scary shadows on the walls.

“Will you attend church tomorrow?” Abigail asked.

“Of course,” Harriet replied.

She wasn’t a particularly devout person, but her employer, forty-year-old Bentley Struthers was a stern taskmaster who rarely let his servants have time off. Since he provided room and board, he expected his employees to be constantly on the premises, ready to cater to his every whim.

The sole exception was Sundays. His mother insisted that the staff go to church. Harriet always went. It was her only excuse to get outside, and if she was lucky, she’d see Helen. They would have a few minutes to chat after the service, although Helen hadn’t been there in several weeks, and Harriet was growing concerned.

Helen’s last position had ended, and Harriet knew that Helen had been seeking a new post, but what if something had happened to her? With their lives being so erratic, and their jobs frequently changing, tragedy could strike without warning.

If Helen was injured or ill, there was no one to remember that she had a sister who needed to be notified.

They reached the rear stairs and had started to climb, when Harriet stopped.

“Oh, blast it!” she said. “I left my brush in the kitchen. I have to run back and fetch it.”

“Must you?”

“I can’t lose it. I don’t have the funds to buy another.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

They stared down the unlit corridor, the walls seeming to whisper with menace as though they were in the middle of a frightening fairytale.

Abigail yawned, her fatigue clear, and Harriet shook off her childish fear.

“No, you go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It will just take a moment.”

“I’ll wait here for you.”

“No, no. Don’t be silly.”

The maids were allowed to bathe in the kitchen after the day’s labors were finished. There was always a basin of hot water behind the stove, so it was a luxury they never refused. However, they were careful, never daring to be caught in the house alone after Mother Struthers was in bed.

Though the elderly woman didn’t realize it, she was an unwitting barrier that kept her son’s worst inclinations in check.

Bentley was a fat, lazy, and cruel man, who had many bad habits, not the least of which was his penchant for ravishment. If he came upon a group of girls walking together, he was too gutless to act, but if he’d been drinking, if a maid was off by herself, there was no telling what might occur.

“You heard the butler,” Harriet said. “Bentley went to bed hours ago.”

Their nightly routine included the butler’s report on Bentley’s condition and whereabouts. Harriet stared again, gauging the danger, and she scoffed at her cowardice. She wasn’t afraid of anything, which was precisely the reason she’d been reduced to working for Bentley.

She couldn’t keep her mouth shut, so she’d been fired for insubordination more times than she could count.

“We’re behaving like a pair of ninnies,” she said.

“Yes, we are.”

“You go up. I’ll be there before you can say
Lord Wellington
.”

Abigail chuckled, then left, and Harriet hurried to the kitchen, her palm cupping the candle flame so it didn’t blow out.

The brush was on a table, right where she’d set it, and she grabbed it, eager to be away, when suddenly, lumbering footsteps echoed behind her. She whipped around as Bentley’s huge frame appeared in the doorway.

He was ugly, with beady eyes, heavy jowls, and pursed lips, and he was barely dressed, wearing only trousers, but no stockings or shoes. His shirt was off, and rolls of flab at his waist billowed like bowls of jelly.

He wasn’t that tall, but he was very obese, much larger than she in girth and weight, and she was all alone.

Though she prided herself on being brave and tough, an entirely new fear took root deep inside. It was an instinctual, feminine knowledge that something violent was about to transpire, and she couldn’t prevent it. The hair stood up on the back of her neck.

He swaggered into the room, growing like a specter until he loomed over her. She could smell alcohol and unwashed flesh, the combination making her gag. She stumbled away, as he murmured, “Well, well, what have we here?”

“I’ll just be going,” she said, determined to brazen it out.

She tried to skirt past him, but he moved too, blocking her way.

“Put your candle on the table.”

“No, really, I need to—”

“Put it on the table!” he hissed with such force that she immediately complied.

He studied her, starting at the top of her head, then roving down, his lecherous gaze pausing at her bosom, at the woman’s spot between her legs.

“What is your name?” he asked.

When Harriet didn’t respond, he snapped, “What is it?”

“Harriet, sir.”

“Harriet what?”

“Harriet Stewart.”

“Harriet...” He muttered it as if it were a flavor he was sampling. “I don’t believe we’ve met. How long have you worked for me?”

“Three months now.”

He emitted a low, throaty sound that sent chills down Harriet’s spine.

“I had my supper,” he jeered, “but obviously, I missed my dessert.”

More rapidly than she might have imagined possible given his size, he trapped her against a cupboard, his body squashing hers into the oak cabinetry.

His beefy arms encircled her like a vice as he fought to kiss her. His lips were sloppy and wet, and she was so disgusted that she worried she might swoon, but if she fainted, there was no telling what he might do.

She knew what happened between men and women. The other maids had educated her in the facts of life, and she had no illusions. Bentley would hurt and humiliate her, might even impregnate her, and then what would become of her?

Through every hazard and storm of the prior four years, she’d protected her virginity like the fussiest debutante. She’d presumed that someday, somehow, she’d return to the world into which she’d been born, that she would marry a man who loved her, that she would be a chaste bride.

Though she was cynical and jaded, she still had dreams, still pretended they could come true, and she wasn’t about to let Bentley have what wasn’t his.

She bit him as hard as she could, and he squealed like a pig and lurched back, lashing out with his fist and catching her alongside the head. She staggered into the baker’s table, pots and pans crashing as she fell to the floor, dazed, on her hands and knees and trying to crawl away.

Not this!
she seethed.
You will not do this to me!

He seized her ankle, wrestling to pull her to him, and blindly, she groped about for a weapon. Her fingers found a heavy frying pan, and she clutched tight and swung it at him with all her might.

The first blow merely grazed his shoulder, but it was enough to knock him away so she had more leverage. She swung it again, whacking wildly, causing him to yelp with pain and release her. Struggling to her feet, she smacked down again, not certain where the clout landed, but hearing bone crunch.

He collapsed in a heap, silent, bleeding, unmoving.

She tarried in the quiet kitchen, trembling, her heart pounding, her stomach roiling. Her dress was ripped, her torso bruised and battered, but she was very much alive while it was frighteningly apparent that Bentley might not be.

“Oh my God...” she wailed. “Oh my God...oh my God...”

She dawdled, terrified, her mind reeling over how to proceed.

“Have I killed him?” she inquired of no one in particular.

Was there no justice in the world? Was there no luck to be had? What had she ever done but work hard, try hard, do what she ought? Why couldn’t anything be easy? Why couldn’t anything go right?

She’d simply wanted to retrieve her hairbrush. Was it too much to ask that she be able to do it without being molested?

She was fatigued and angry and afraid, and she glanced down the hall, knowing she should awaken the butler, that she should confess her crime and take her punishment, but considering Bentley’s behavior, it seemed grossly unfair.

“I’ll be damned if I will,” she said aloud, her temper flaring.

She placed the frying pan on the counter, then tiptoed to Bentley, who was still as death. Squatting down, she fumbled through his pockets, delighted to find a purse of coins. Without hesitating, without a ripple of remorse, she clasped hold of it, turned, and ran out into the cold, dark night.

“Are you sure about this, Phillip? Are they the correct two girls?”

“Yes, Fanny.”

“You have no doubt?”

“None. When she was pregnant, their mother wrote Charles several letters, begging him to come back.”

“But he didn’t.”

“You’ve met our father. Of course he didn’t.”

Fanny Carrington Wainwright, Viscountess Henley, peered at her half-brother, Phillip Sinclair, and sighed.

She’d only known him a few months, having stumbled on him by accident on her rocky road to matrimony with her husband Michael. From the very first, her connection with Phillip had been potent and undeniable.

They were now so close that they might have grown up together in the same house. It was as if they’d been together since they were babies, and with their golden-blond hair and striking green eyes, there was no question as to their being siblings.