“I do not wish to know you.”
“I see. You prefer your solitude. You like it here, moldering in this rotted out place—do excuse my frankness, Lord Rathford. You actually adore the dust and the dry rot and the mice.” To his future father-in-law, he inclined his head. “Again, my apologies, my lord.”
Helena spared her father a brief glance, to find he was fighting a smile. Amused, was he?
“Well, if the place is not good enough for you, perhaps you should leave.”
Adam frowned and tapped his finger against his pursed lips. “Now, there is something happening here that is causing me to suspect…can it be? Is it that you want me to leave?”
“Your sarcasm, sir, betrays your lack of gentlemanly manners.”
“In response to your appalling breach of hospitality, I believe it most appropriate.”
“You are a bore!”
“And you are a skinny, waspish, miserable female who is allowing her soup to get cold.” He nodded to the cooling liquid in front of her. “If anyone ever needed all the sustenance she could find, it is you.”
She nearly came out of her chair. “If you find me lacking, sir, then you may—”
“Leave,” he finished for her, and blithely downed another spoonful.
Breathless, wordless, she gaped, her mouth working as her mind tried fitfully to formulate a suitable reply. There was a dry, wheezing sound in the room and it drew her attention to her father, who was shaking uncontrollably with his hands over his face.
For one brief moment, she thought perhaps he was weeping. He had seen the awful truth about Adam Mannion, realized his terrible misjudgment and now he was weeping!
Vindicated, Helena reached for her father, full of concern and ready to forgive. At her touch, Rathford raised his face and she saw that tears were streaming down the man’s ruddy face, but he was not weeping.
He was laughing.
Dawning fury washed through her, leaving her electrified. She didn’t dare cast even the briefest glance at Adam, sure he would be gloating. Throwing her napkin onto the table, she leaped to her feet and fled.
Chapter Five
Adam had a difficult time falling asleep. This was unusual for him. He usually experienced no trouble.
He had certainly gotten the best of Helena at dinner. Sent her out in a huff, he had, and it had felt good for exactly one-tenth of a second. Then he had felt mildly ashamed. After all, it was graceless of him, when he had obviously won everything so completely, to be snide about it.
Besides, it troubled him that she had missed dinner. She was so damned thin. He hoped she had eaten later, but doubted it.
Sitting up, he turned on his side and punched the pillow. The nights were certainly cool up in this corner of England. Tonight, however, the sheets felt clammy and his skin dry and hot.
A sound reached his ear, causing him to still his arm in midpunch.
It was music. It was a pianoforte, being played by an expert hand.
Maybe it was the completely moonless dark, or maybe it was this tomblike place finally getting the better of him, but the hair on his arms stood straight up and cold fingers traced a chill across the back of his neck. It was a sensation that had nothing to do with the plunging temperatures.
The strains were lilting, but faint. Carefully, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his trousers as he tiptoed to the door. Pressing his ear to the crack, he heard the music better.
On the dressing table lay his watch and fob. He fumbled for them after he had secured his trousers, and retrieved a flint box and small candelabra. Striking a flame, he lit three tapers and checked his watch. Half past one.
Who was playing the pianoforte at this hour?
Quickly, silently, he undid the latch to the door and entered the hall. The candlelight threw up shadows along the wall. They looked like undulating wraiths that melted into the darkness as he passed. Fanciful nonesuch, he scoffed, and padded barefoot down the corridor.
He didn’t yet have his bearings in the house. Upon reaching the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to proceed to the corridor on the east end of the house, which looked to be a match of the one he had just come down, or descend. Taking a few tentative steps down the stairs, he judged the sounds to be growing louder and hurried on.
The piece being played grew bolder, harsher. Increased emotion built into a medley of light frolics offset with low undertones. Under the guidance of the magnificent piece, a vision unfolded in his mind, of a child playing alone, serving tea to her dolls on a clean, sweet lawn, while a slavering beast lurked just on the edges of the forest. And every so often a moment of disquiet entered the child’s consciousness as she became increasingly aware that she was being watched by a predator.
As he moved stealthily down the corridor, Adam marveled at the vivid picture in his mind. Never having been a man given to great contortions of imagination, he blamed the music. It was incredibly moving, incredibly passionate.
He paused, cursing himself for a clodpoll. Of course—the music room. The problem was he wasn’t certain where it was located. His wanderings that day had taken him all over the house, and he couldn’t rightly place it.
Trying a door, he winced at the long, agonizing protest of the hinges. The sound was like a wail of pain. The pianoforte music ceased.
In the darkness, he called, “Hello? Who is there?”
There was a silence, then a soft scrape and the light brush of footsteps retreating quickly.
Cocking his head, he tried to gauge their direction, but the vaulted ceiling and polished floors created a cavernous chamber where the untraceable sound echoed, then died.
It had to be her, of course. Helena. He couldn’t imagine the servants were used to making free with the musical instruments, and only one who had been subject to careful—and expensive—instruction could play with that combination of skill and passion. And yet it seemed impossible that thin, wasted waif who had scowled and screeched at him had so much within her.
But if there was one thing he was learning, and learning quickly, it was that Lady Helena Rathford was rarely what one would expect.
Helena spent the morning in the drawing room she often used, sewing with Kimberly. Their project was to alter the contents of her wardrobe, trying to transform the outmoded gowns into some semblance of current style. Inspecting their efforts, Helena held up a green silk. She could not say she was pleased. Not particularly talented with the needle and unskilled in working the delicate fabric, she had drawn the material into unsightly puckers as she stitched.
“I think I have no choice but to go to Strathmere and visit the seamstress,” Helena said, bundling up another botched effort and tossing it on the floor.
“If yer vanity must be appeased, so be it,” Kimberly replied darkly, not looking up from her own sewing.
“If I do not wish to go about with my bosom exposed, I must.”
Kimberly looked up. Helena stared back at the watery blue eyes. There passed between them a moment of shared astonishment. Helena did not speak this way to Kimberly. She simply didn’t.
Drawing in a nervous breath, she proceeded more calmly. “It is not conceit to wish to be dressed properly. I am, after all, a noblewoman, even if we’ve all forgotten that fact.”
Kimberly’s great irritation, which was clearly apparent on her freckled face, did not frighten Helena. Well, perhaps a little bit, but her mind was already made up. She simply would not allow Adam Mannion to see her in these rags.
“Are ye, now?” Kimberly purred.