To Beguile a Beast

  “I doubt it, but the faster we act, the less time it gives him to think about it,” Alistair muttered as he hustled her to the sitting room door.

  Helen’s gaze fell on the portrait of Lord St. Aubyn. “I should write Miss Corning a note.”

  “What?” He stopped and frowned at her.

  “Miss Corning. She’s Lord Blanchard’s niece and quite nice. Do you know she binds books by hand? She told me.”

  Alistair shook his head. “Good Lord.” He again started striding to the front door, so fast she had to trot to keep up. “You can write her a letter later.”

  “I shall have to,” she murmured as they got in the carriage.

  Alistair banged on the carriage roof, and they started forward with a lurch. “Did you tell her who you were?”

  “I was in her home,” Helen said. She felt heat invade her cheeks, because she knew that Alistair meant her connection to Lister. She tilted her chin. “It would’ve been rude to lie.”

  “Rude maybe, but there would’ve been less chance of you being thrown from the house.”

  Helen’s gaze dropped to her hands in her lap. “I know I’m not respectable, but—”

  “You’re plenty respectable to me,” he growled.

  She looked up.

  He was still frowning, scowling really. “It’s just other people.” He glanced away and muttered quietly, “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I came to terms with what I am—what I made myself—a long time ago,” she said. “I can’t change the past or how it affects me and my children now, but I can decide to live my life despite my terrible choices. If I was afraid of being hurt by others and what they say to me, I would have to live all my life in hiding. I won’t do that.”

  She watched as he thought that over, still not meeting her eyes. That was the problem still between them, wasn’t it? She’d made her choice about how she would live her life.

  He still had not.

  She glanced away, out the carriage window, and then frowned. “We’re not going to Lister’s house.”

  “No,” he replied. “I hope to catch Etienne’s ship still in the harbor. If we hurry and luck is with us, I might be able to.”

  But when they arrived at the docks a half hour later and inquired about the ship, a rather grimy fellow pointed to a sail disappearing down the Thames.

  “You’ve missed her, guv,” the fellow said, not without sympathy.

  Alistair tossed a shilling at the man for his help.

  “I’m so sorry,” Helen said when they’d once more entered the carriage. “You missed your opportunity to talk to your friend because you were rescuing my children.”

  Alistair shrugged, looking moodily out the window. “It couldn’t be helped. Had I to make the same decision again, I wouldn’t change my mind. Abigail and Jamie are more important than any information I could’ve gotten from Etienne. Besides”—he let the curtain fall and turned to her—“I’m not sure I would’ve liked the news he might’ve given me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Now, Princess Sympathy had long ago made it safely back to her father’s castle, but still she worried. Had her rescuer, Truth Teller, escaped the sorcerer? Worry for the soldier so filled her thoughts that in time she no longer ate or slept and spent entire nights pacing. Her father, the king, became concerned for her welfare and sent for all manner of healers and nurses, but none could tell him what was wrong with the princess. Only she knew of Truth Teller, of his bravery, and of her secret fear that he had not escaped the sorcerer’s clutches.

  So when a swallow flew in her window one night and presented her with the leaf from a yew bush, she knew exactly what it meant. . . .

  —from TRUTH TELLER

  “Do you think he’s really Sir Alistair’s friend?” Jamie whispered to Abigail.

  “Of course he is,” she said stoutly. “He knew Puddles’s name, didn’t he?”

  Abigail knew better than to go with a strange man. But when the tall man with the funny face had burst into the duke’s nursery, he’d seemed to know exactly what to do. He’d ordered the footmen to leave and had told them that he was Sir Alistair’s friend and that he would take them to Sir Alistair and Mama. Most importantly of all, he’d said that Sir Alistair had told him Puddles’s name. That had settled it in Abigail’s mind. Better to go with a stranger than to stay in the duke’s prison. So they’d followed the tall gentleman, sneaking down the back stairs and into a waiting carriage. Jamie had seemed happy for the first time in days. He’d nearly bounced out of the carriage seat as they’d driven away.

  Now they sat side by side on a satin settee in a very grand room. They were alone, since the gentleman had left for some reason, and only now did Abigail think about all the terrible things the funny-faced gentleman might do to them if he wasn’t Sir Alistair’s friend.

  She was careful, of course, to keep her fear from Jamie.

  Jamie squirmed now and said, “Do you think—”

  But he was interrupted by the opening of the door. The gentleman came in again, followed by a straight-backed lady. A small terrier dog rounded the lady’s skirts, gave one sharp bark, and raced toward them.

  “Mouse!” Jamie cried, and the little dog leapt straight into his arms.

  Abigail recognized him then. She and Jamie had met Mouse, the dog, and his mistress at Hyde Park. She rose and curtsied to Lady Vale.

  That lady stopped and inspected Abigail while Mouse bathed Jamie’s face with his pink tongue. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Abigail whispered, and a great weight lifted off her heart. It was going to be all right. Lady Vale would make it so.

  “We ought to send for some tea and biscuits, Vale,” Lady Vale said. She gave a very small smile, and Abigail smiled back.

  And then something even more wonderful happened. There were loud voices in the hall and Mama rushed in.

  “My darlings!” she cried, and went to her knees, her arms outstretched.

  Jamie and Abigail ran to her. Mama’s arms were so warm. She smelled so familiar, and suddenly Abigail was crying into Mama’s shoulder, and they were all hugging, even Mouse. It was wonderful, really.

  They stayed like that for a long time before Abigail saw Sir Alistair. He stood by himself, watching them with a small smile on his face, and her heart gave a happy hop at the sight of him, too. Abigail stepped back from Mama.

  She dried her eyes and walked slowly to Sir Alistair. “I’m glad to see you again.”

  “I’m glad to see you, too.” His voice was deep and gruff, but his brown eye smiled at her.

  She swallowed and said quickly, “And I’m sorry that I let Puddles make water on your satchel.”

  He blinked and then cleared his throat and said quietly, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Abigail lass. It was but a satchel.” He held out his hand. “Forgive me?”

  For some reason, her eyes filled with tears again. She took his hand. It was hard and warm and large, and when she held it, she felt safe.

  Safe and as if she were home.

  AN HOUR LATER, Alistair watched as Helen and the children said their farewells to Lady Vale outside the Vale town house.

  He turned to the viscount, standing and watching beside him. “Thank you for rescuing them for me.”

  Vale shrugged carelessly. “It was no trouble. Besides, you were the one who realized that if you and Mrs. Fitzwilliam went to the luncheon at Blanchard House, it would draw away your watcher and perhaps leave Lister’s town house with fewer guards.”

  Alistair nodded. “But it was still a risk. He might’ve had a much larger force guarding the children.”

  “Might’ve, but as it turned out, he didn’t. As it was, the only one who put up any fight was your old manservant, Wiggins.” Vale looked at him rather sheepishly. “I do hope you don’t mind that I knocked the fellow down the stairs?”

  “Not at all,” he replied with a grim smile. “I only wish he’d broken his neck in the fall.”

 
“Ah, but we can’t have all our wishes, can we?”

  “No, we can’t.” Alistair watched as Helen smiled and shook hands with Lady Vale. A lock of golden hair blew across her pink cheek. “In any case, I do owe you, Vale.”

  “Think nothing of it.” The viscount scratched his chin. “Any chance Lister will come after them again?”

  Alistair shook his head decisively. “I doubt it. He renounced them in the presence of the king—and his heir. If nothing else, it’s in Kimberly’s vested interest to keep his father from acknowledging his bastard children in any way. If the rumors are true, Abigail and Jamie aren’t Lister’s only children out of wedlock. I’m afraid Kimberly will have quite a chore on his hands, making sure his father doesn’t give away the unentailed parts of his inheritance to various bastard half siblings.”

  “Indeed.” The viscount grunted and rocked back on his heels. “By the way, I heard that Hasselthorpe was at the luncheon. I don’t suppose you got a chance to speak to him?”

  Alistair nodded, his gaze on the carriage. “I saw him and briefly spoke to him.”

  “And?”

  He hesitated only a fraction of a second. As Hasselthorpe had pointed out, St. Aubyn had been Vale’s greatest friend. And besides, the man was dead now. Let the dead take care of the dead.

  Alistair turned to meet Vale’s eyes. “He knew nothing pertinent. I’m sorry.”

  Vale grimaced. “It was always a long shot, anyway. Hasselthorpe wasn’t even there. I ’spect we’ll never know now.”

  “No.” The ladies had parted, the children and Helen turning to the carriage. It was time to go.

  “It’s just… ,” Vale said quietly.

  Alistair looked at him, at his long lined face, his wide, mobile mouth, his extraordinary green-blue eyes. “What?”

  Vale closed his eyes. “Sometimes I still dream of him, Reynaud. On that goddamned cross, his arms widespread, his clothes and flesh alight, black smoke rising in the air.” He opened his eyes, bleak now. “I wish I could’ve brought to justice the man who put him there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alistair said, because it was the only thing he could say.

  A moment later, he shook hands with Vale, bowed to Lady Vale, and entered the waiting carriage. The children waved good-bye enthusiastically as the carriage rumbled down the street.

  Helen watched them, smiling. She looked across the carriage to Alistair on the opposite seat, with the smile still on her face, and he felt it like a physical blow. She was so lovely, so loving. At some point it must occur to her that he was nothing but an ugly misanthrope with only an equally ugly castle to his name. He’d not even discussed with her whether or not she wished to accompany him back to Scotland. Perhaps once there she’d change her mind, see Castle Greaves for the provincial place it was, and leave him. He should discuss it with her, find out what her plans for her future were, but the truth was that he didn’t want to precipitate a heart-search on her part. If that made him a coward, so be it.

  The children chattered for the next hour or so as they bumped and rolled out of London proper. Jamie did most of the talking, describing their kidnapping and the long carriage ride to London with the perfidious Wiggins. Alistair noted that the boy hardly mentioned his father at all, and when he did, it was always as “the duke.” The children didn’t seem to hold any filial regard for their father. Perhaps that was just as well.

  Just outside of London, the carriage rambled into a small inn yard and halted.

  Helen leaned forward to look outside the window. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “A small bit of business,” Alistair replied evasively. “Wait here, please.”

  He jumped from the carriage before she could bombard him with any more questions. The coachman was just descending his box. “A half hour you said, sir?”

  Alistair nodded at the man. “That’s right.”

  “Juss enough time for a pint, I reckon,” the man said, and went into the inn.

  Alistair looked about the yard. It was a quiet little inn with no other carriages. Only a dogcart with a dozing mare stood on one side under the stable eaves. A gentleman came out of the inn. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and then caught sight of the carriage and Alistair. He let his hand drop, then walked slowly toward Alistair. The gentleman wore a gray bobbed wig, and as he approached, Alistair saw that his eyes were a bright harebell blue.

  The gentleman looked past him to the carriage. “Is she—?”

  Alistair nodded. “I’ll be in the inn. I’ve told the coachman we’ll stop for a half hour. It’s up to you if you want to use all of that time.”

  And without waiting to see what the man would do, Alistair strode to the inn.

  “WHAT IS HE about?” Helen muttered under her breath as they waited in the carriage.

  “Perhaps Sir Alistair has to use the necessary,” Jamie said.

  That made her eye her son suspiciously. Jamie was five years old, but apparently a five-year-old boy’s bladder wasn’t very large because—

  A single knock came at the carriage door. Helen frowned. Surely Alistair wouldn’t knock at his own carriage? Then the door swung open, and she entirely lost her thought.

  “Papa,” she whispered, her heart in her throat.

  She hadn’t seen him for fourteen years, but she’d never forget his face. There were a few more lines about his eyes and forehead, his bobbed gray doctor’s wig looked new, and his mouth was more pinched than she remembered it, but it was her papa.

  He stared at her but didn’t smile. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  He climbed in the carriage and sat across from them. His coat, waistcoat, and breeches were black, making him very somber. He didn’t seem to know what to do now that he was in the carriage.

  Helen put her arms around her children. She cleared her throat so that she might speak clearly. “These are my children. Abigail, who is nine, and Jamie, who is five. Children, this is my father. Your grandpapa.”

  Abigail said, “How do you do, sir?”

  Jamie merely stared at his grandfather.

  “Jamie.” Papa cleared his throat. “Ah. Well.”

  Papa’s Christian name was James. Helen waited to see if he’d say anything more, but he seemed a little stunned.

  “How are my sisters and brother?” she asked, her tone formal.

  “All married, Timothy just last year to Anne Harris. You remember her, don’t you? Lived two houses down, had a terrible fever when she was but two years old.”

  “Oh, yes. Little Annie Harris.” Helen smiled, but it was bittersweet. Annie Harris had been only five— Jamie’s age—when she’d left home to live with Lister. She’d missed an entire lifetime out of her family’s daily life.

  Her father nodded, on firmer ground now that he had something familiar to discuss. “Rachel is married to a young doctor, a former student of mine, and expecting her second child. Ruth married a sailor and lives in Dover now. She writes often and comes to visit every year. She has but one child, a girl. Your sister, Margaret, has four children, two boys, two girls. She had a babe stillborn two years ago, another boy.”

  She felt tears closing her throat. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  Her father nodded. “Your mother fears that Margaret still grieves.”

  Helen took a fortifying breath. “And how is my mother?”

  “Well enough.” Papa looked at his hands. “She does not know I’ve come to see you today.”

  “Ah.” What more could she say to that? Helen glanced out the window. A dog was napping in the sun on the inn doorstep.

  “I should not have let her send you away,” Papa said.

  Helen turned to stare at him. She’d never guessed that he hadn’t been completely in agreement with Mother.

  “Your sisters were not yet married, and your mother worried for their futures,” he said, and the lines on his face seemed to deepen as she watched. “Also, the Duke of Lister is a powerful man, and he
made it plain that he expected you to go to him. In the end, it was simply easier to let you go and wash our hands of you. It was easier, but it wasn’t right. I’ve regretted my decision for many years now. I hope you can forgive me someday.”

  “Oh, Papa.” Helen went to the other side of the carriage to hug her father.

  His arms were strong when they wrapped around her. “I’m sorry, Helen.”

  She pulled back and saw that there were tears in his eyes.

  “You can’t come home, I’m afraid. Your mother will not budge on that point. But I believe she’ll look the other way if you write me. And I hope that I can see you again someday?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded and stood, briefly touching Abigail’s cheek and the top of Jamie’s head. “I need to go now, but I’ll write you in care of Sir Alistair Munroe.”

  She nodded, her throat swelling.

  He hesitated, and then said gruffly, “He seems like a good man. Munroe, that is.”

  She smiled, although her lips trembled. “He is.”

  Papa nodded and then he was gone.

  Helen closed her eyes, her hand at her trembling mouth, on the very edge of breaking down in tears.

  The carriage door opened again and rocked as someone climbed in.

  When Helen opened her eyes, Alistair was scowling at her. “What did he say? Did he insult you?”

  “No, oh, no, Alistair.” And she got up for the second time and crossed the carriage to kiss him on the cheek. She drew back and looked into his startled eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Princess Sympathy gathered all the magical things she could—spells, potions, amulets that were said to convey power—for she knew that if she were to face the sorcerer, she would need to be armed. Then she set off at night, all alone and without telling anyone in her father’s castle. It was a long and dangerous journey back to the sorcerer’s castle, but Princess Sympathy had her courage and the memory of the man who had saved her to guide her.

  At last, after many weary weeks, she arrived at the grim black castle just as the sun rose on a new day. . . .