Rexanne Becnel (11 page)

Meanwhile, Helen continued to sob. “I won’t stay here. I won’t! He can’t make me.”

“Helen. Helen.” Phoebe drew the shivering child into her arms, trying to understand. “Hush. It’s all right now. I’ve got you.”

The girl curled into a terrified ball in Phoebe’s arms, and for a moment Phoebe’s panic turned to confusion. Why was Helen so upset? Surely this wasn’t all on account of Izzy’s fury. And why should Izzy be so angry? “What on earth is going on, sweetheart?”

“I won’t leave you.” The little girl sobbed as if her heart were broken. “I hate her. She can’t make me leave you.”

Phoebe could make no sense of that. “Helen. Listen to me. You know Izzy won’t really hurt you. Whatever she’s angry about, you mustn’t let it frighten you like this.”

“Not Izzy.” The words came out wet and muffled against Phoebe’s chest. “Not Izzy.”

Somewhere downstairs a piece of pottery crashed. A door slammed. Phoebe tried to think. It must be the housekeeper, that horrible, unfeeling tyrant of a housekeeper. If Izzy was raging and Helen was weeping, it could only be on account of Mrs. Gatling.

“You just hush your crying, Helen. I’ll take care of everything. Just let me get up and get dressed.” Untangling herself from the child’s clutches, Phoebe clambered from the bed and threw on her clothes. Helen hid under the covers. Meanwhile Izzy’s tantrum echoed from somewhere on another floor. Though she couldn’t decipher the exact words, Izzy’s fury was unmistakable.

Good for her, Phoebe thought. As she followed the sound of the tirade, she strode down the hall, pinning up her hair as she went. Phoebe meant to take up right where young Izzy left off. She was tired to death of adults belittling children for matters not of their making.

At the bottom of the stairs the ancient butler stood blinking, the absolute picture of bewilderment. Two maids huddled together in the niche beneath the stairs, while the housekeeper hauled two carpetbags furiously to the door. The woman gave Phoebe a venomous glare as she stalked by.

“Two of a kind,” she muttered. “Sluts all.” Then she slammed the door behind her.

Phoebe started after her, determined to lambaste the hateful old biddy before she could escape. But the butler shook his gray head and with a trembling hand pointed toward one of the parlors. “I believe you’re needed more urgently in there, miss. Please.”

Phoebe halted, staring from the pleading butler to the front door to the parlor and back. What was going on in this household? She swung around when she heard Izzy.

“—and you’re the worstest of all! I hate you!”

The parlor door crashed open and Izzy barreled out, a wiry knot of rage and frustration. Not even sparing Phoebe a glance, she bolted for the rear of the house.

From inside the parlor Lord Farley’s voice carried. “Bloody hell. Izzy? Come back here! Bloody, bloody hell!”

But it was a woman’s laugh that raised the hair on the back of Phoebe’s neck. A woman laughing? A new form of disorientation rooted Phoebe in her spot. Surely not one of the maids. Then a horrible thought occurred to her. Horrible to the point of nauseating. Could it be that Lady Catherine from the newspaper? The one he’d been betrothed to?

“My, my,” the woman continued. “It seems, my lord, that you’ve been quite a busy man. But I’m not complaining. In fact, I was thrilled when your man of business contacted me. At least now my little girl will have two sisters to grow up with.”

Not Lady Catherine, Phoebe thought with a sinking heart, but someone else. Izzy’s mother—but no. The woman referred to her little girl having
two
sisters. Something inside Phoebe’s chest turned to lead. This must be yet another of his women.

She swallowed the absurd disappointment that clogged her throat. The gossips were right. He
had
been searching for another of his children, and it seemed he’d found her. Or rather, the child’s mother had found him.

Phoebe’s first instinct was to turn around and leave, just like Helen had done. To leave and go home and try to pretend she didn’t care that another of his many women had just landed on his doorstep.

When he appeared in the doorway, however, one arm outstretched to close it, she froze. When he saw her, he did the same.

He looked utterly done in, was her first thought. Weary beyond the telling. But there was more, a shock in his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe the woman was here. And when he continued to stare at Phoebe, a dark flush, as of shame, covered his face.

She wanted him to feel ashamed. Yet a fair part of her knew that this was none of her affair. His past was his own business. It was his present and the future that she was concerned with, and then, only insofar as it applied to her.

But that fell under the purview of logic, and Phoebe was far from feeling logical.

“Are you listening, James?” came the woman’s voice. Then, “Is someone out there?”

Again Phoebe felt the strongest urge to run, especially when she heard the light, tapping footsteps crossing the parlor. She wanted to run, but even more, she wanted to hold her ground.

This means nothing to me,
she told him with the stiffening of her spine and the lifting of her chin.
Your messy life and the women in your past are your business. I’m going home.

Then an enormous hat sheltering a wealth of blond curls poked past Lord Farley, and a pretty face peered out at her. “Why, it’s Phoebe,” the woman said, throwing Phoebe completely off kilter. How did this woman know her name?

“I was hoping it might be you,” the gorgeous creature continued, sidling past Lord Farley with her arms stretched open and a smile on her obviously painted lips. “Oh, but it’s been ages, Phoebe. Come, give your sister a hug.”

For a moment the world seemed to stop. Louise. Phoebe blinked, only belatedly recognizing her sister. Louise was here? But that made no sense. She’d obviously come in response to the letter about their mother’s death. But how would Louise know to find them at Farley House?

Phoebe started forward, a confused but welcoming smile on her face—until the full impact of her sister’s conversation with James hit her.

Like a vicious blow it struck, hurting her as no mere physical blow could ever do. For it struck at her heart, a dagger of ugly truth tearing into the only part of her still vulnerable.

What had she said? “My little girl will have two sisters…”

Her little girl. Helen. Sweet, fatherless Helen who had been Phoebe’s child in every way except by her actual birth. Izzy and Leya were her sisters?

Which meant…Lord Farley was Helen’s father.

Louise had created this child with…with
her
Lord Farley?

Phoebe stumbled back a step, reeling from the hideous realization, yet unable to escape it. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t!

But of course it was. As the silence in the foyer stretched to the breaking point, she knew it was horribly, insanely true. Helen was Lord Farley’s child, the one he’d been looking for.

And if Louise had come back to Yorkshire, it must be to give Helen to him—and to take Helen away from
her.

“Let me explain,” James said, advancing into the foyer. But Phoebe retreated, her horrified gaze darting from him to her sister and back. Then with an anguished cry she turned, and fled up the stairs.

He started to follow her, to try to make her understand. But at the foot of the stairs he stopped. Understand what? That many years ago he’d made a child with her sister? Unfortunately for him, she already understood that now. Only too well.

From the doorway to the parlor Louise laughed, the same amused laugh that had charmed him so easily when he’d been a young man about town with only one thing on his mind.

It didn’t charm him now. If anything, it raised the hackles upon his neck. Louise LaFleur, she of the golden hair and golden voice—and golden aura of sexual promise—was actually Louise Churchill, sister to Phoebe. Son of a bitch!

He should have made the connection. He’d met Louise in London, at a party given after a play she’d been in. He’d overheard her saying she was originally from Yorkshire and he’d used his own birth in that shire as a reason to approach her. It had worked, and for a few months they’d been frequent companions—until she’d announced her pregnancy, and the next comely woman had turned his head.

Had he truly thought the money he’d thrown at his peccadilloes could fully absolve him of the selfish choices he’d made as a cocky young rooster strutting through town?

He shook his head, disgusted at his own perversity. He was reaping the results of those days now. Louise was Phoebe’s sister. God, had ever a man been so cursed?

“Really, James,” came that golden, laughing voice. “You must not understand women very well if you expect my prudish little sister to tolerate any explanations from you.” Louise came up beside him in a cloud of some overwhelming musky scent. “I expect she’s even angrier at me than at you. But she’ll get over it. She always does.”

James glared at her, wanting to strangle her as much for her careless selfishness as for her spectacularly bad timing. But there were servants watching, and anyway, the damage was done. Phoebe didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Izzy had stormed off in a rage; Helen had fled in terror; and Leya—

He started up the stairs, taking them three at a time. In the confusion of Louise’s arrival he’d forgotten about Leya.

“You don’t know Phoebe like I do,” Louise continued, mincing up the stairs behind him. “She’ll have to pout and sulk a long while before she comes around. But it will all work out. You’ll see. My little sister is nothing if not dependable. You can hire her to be Helen’s governess. The situation will hardly be any different than it already is. In fact—”

“My youngest daughter has a fever,” he broke in. “Some contagion the doctor has not yet identified.” He turned on her at the top of the stairs, and drew a grim satisfaction that she halted mid-breath. “I know you don’t want to risk becoming infected and perhaps ending up with pockmarks on that face of yours.”

Hastily she composed her expression into one of maternal concern. “Oh. The poor dear.” She backed down a step. “I hope my darling Helen hasn’t already been exposed?”

“I hope not also.”

He left her there, a beautiful but soulless creature come to capitalize on the child she’d obviously neglected for years. He strode for the nursery. How had he ever admired her?

But he had more important problems to solve than that. Leya. Phoebe. Izzy and Helen. Every female in his life from infant to girls to women was a problem right now. Each one required his immediate attention. But Leya had to come first.

He stepped over the two girls’ abandoned bedding and into the warmth of the nursery. Phoebe stood in the window, holding the whimpering child and swaying back and forth.

She was nothing like Louise. Like a cudgel to his head, that fact struck James. He halted in the doorway. Phoebe was slimmer than her sister, taller and not as fair. But it wasn’t those physical differences that most impressed him. Few women could compete with the physical beauty of the actress Louise LaFleur. Inside, though, where caring and goodness and selflessness resided, that’s where Phoebe outshone her older sister. That’s where she outshone any woman he’d ever known.

He closed the door silently behind him. He wanted to make love to her again. Right now. Here, with the rest of the world shut out.

It was insane, of course, and not least of all because now she hated him.

“Phoebe?”

She shook her head but didn’t turn around. “Don’t try to explain any of this to me. I don’t want to hear it. Just tell me the truth: is Helen your daughter?”

He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yes.”

He saw her shoulders sag, just a little. But as if to negate that, her chin tilted up. “How long have you known?”

“I just found out. I mean, I always knew I had a child. With her,” he added, hating the pain his every word inflicted on Phoebe. He raked one hand through his hair. “But I didn’t know Helen was that child. Nor that you were Louise’s sister.”

Slowly Phoebe turned to face him. He braced himself to see tears. He’d never dealt well with women’s tears. But Phoebe wasn’t crying. She looked shaken, but not undone, as if, perversely, holding the vulnerable Leya gave her strength.

“All these years you neglected her—you and Louise. And now the two of you want to take her away from
me,
the one person who has always cared for her.”

“I didn’t neglect her. She had a generous monthly allowance—” He broke off when an ugly suspicion occurred to him. “Have you and Helen not been receiving that money?”

Phoebe shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. “It seems Louise has lived very well at your expense, Lord Farley. I suppose she’s here now to demand even more of your largesse.”

Leya startled, then began to cry. At once Phoebe turned her attention to the baby, saving James from answering. He moved closer. “How’s she doing?”

Phoebe shrugged. “Less fever, but more blisters.” She began to sway and make soft shushing sounds to comfort the child. “I suppose that’s a good omen.”

He nodded, relieved on that score. He’d just found his third child; he didn’t want to lose this one. “Do you think she’ll eat?”

“I don’t know. We can try.”

“I’ve had someone go milk your goats.”

She looked up and for a long moment their eyes held. Then she broke their gaze and turned back to Leya. “That’s a good idea, but even goat’s milk may not agree with her. First I’ll try water, then milk. If she tolerates that, we can try a thin gruel.”

James consoled himself that at least they were united in their concern for Leya. For now he would have to be satisfied with that. So he rang for a maid and sent orders to the kitchen, while Phoebe changed Leya’s clothes and checked the spread of the pustules.

“You feed her,” Phoebe said when she handed him the lethargic baby. “I need to find Helen. She was awfully upset.”

He nodded. Phoebe was so calm, so organized. Perhaps Louise was right: Phoebe just needed some time to get used to Helen’s new situation. Then everything would be all right. “Will you talk to Izzy too?”

“Of course.” She paused at the door, glancing at him, then away. “Why was Izzy so enraged by Louise’s arrival?”

He clenched his jaw. “Izzy was there when Louise arrived. It seems that Louise thought Izzy was Helen. Of course, Izzy set her straight. When Louise saw Helen though, she told her that I was her father and she could—” He broke off. “She told Helen that she could live here all the time now. That’s when Helen got scared. She said she wanted to live with you, but Louise said no, that she had to live with me now. Helen started to cry, and that’s when Izzy jumped to her defense.”

Finally Phoebe met his gaze. “Izzy was protecting Helen?”

James nodded. “She’s got a streak of loyalty—at least to her younger sisters.” He stared down at Leya and stroked her dark, sweaty hair. “She’s back to hating me, though.”

Phoebe stared at Lord Farley’s head, bent over Leya. She wanted to hate him too, for luring her in, for making her admire him, for making her want him.

For giving her last night.

She gritted her teeth against the memory. She wouldn’t think about last night. And she wouldn’t console him about his daughter either. He’d made this mess; let him find his way out of it.

So she turned away, silently leaving him in the nursery. Helen and Izzy might hate Lord Farley; certainly she wanted to hate him. But what was the point? What had occurred between him and Louise had happened a long time ago. It had nothing to do with her. Nothing.

But Phoebe couldn’t dismiss her pain with logic. Just knowing he’d done with Louise what he’d done with her…

She bit down on her lip, forcing her foolish emotions away, folding them up, never to examine again. She’d be better served seeing the man for what he was, by realizing that she meant no more to him than Louise had, no more than any of the many other women he’d seduced. It was time for her to end this stupid, romantic vision she’d created of him. Her bailiff. Again she shook her head.

The truth was, Lord Farley was very good at this business of lust. Very good. Sad to say, but her mother was more right than she’d guessed. Instead of being angry, though, Phoebe told herself that she should be relieved. At least she’d learned the truth about James Lindford, Viscount Farley, before she could be
entirely
taken in. She may have given him her innocence, but at least she hadn’t handed over her heart.

Her most important task now was to concentrate on Helen. Nothing else. Phoebe had always known her sister was a negligent mother. But it was plain now that Louise cared about Helen only insofar as the amount of money she could pump out of the child’s father. It infuriated Phoebe to even think how poor Helen must feel. For so long she’d idolized her absent mother, and Phoebe hadn’t tried to stop her. But now the ugly truth was exposed. Not only had Louise deprived Helen of the mother she’d pined for, she’d stolen the money meant to benefit her own child.

A cold, shaking fury gripped Phoebe. How could anyone be so selfish and cruel?

She fully intended to have an answer. Once she found the two little girls and reassured them, she would go after Louise. Phoebe had too many years of repressed disappointment and disgust and rage pent up inside her. She didn’t intend to repress it anymore.

It was cold and they hadn’t taken the time to grab their cloaks. But running kept Izzy and Helen warm.

“Come on,” Izzy called when Helen began to lag behind.

“I can’t run anymore. I’m too tired.”

“Well, I’m tired too. Come on.” She grabbed Helen’s hand, dragging her along.

“But my side hurts,” Helen wailed. “I have to rest.”

Disgusted with Helen—angry at the world—Izzy stopped. She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“I am not.”

“I’m doing this for you, and you don’t even cooperate.”

“What do you mean? Where are we going anyway?”

Izzy planted her fists on her hips. They’d crested the windswept hill and were out of sight of the big house and its multitude of window eyes. But they were still exposed in the open field where anyone might see them. “We’re running away from there until we get what we want.”

Helen blinked her damp lashes and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “What
do
we want?”

Izzy opened her mouth, then closed it. What
did
she want? After a moment she said, “What I want is for people to stop always ordering me about. Everybody telling me what to do, where to live. Isn’t that what you want?”

Helen nodded. “I just want to live with Phoebe at Plummy Head.”

Izzy gnawed on her lower lip. “Me too. And we have to bring Leya with us. Once she’s well, anyway.”

For a moment the two girls stared at one another. “Are we really sisters?” Helen asked, her voice small and timid.

Izzy looked her over. Helen wouldn’t last ten minutes in Seven Dials. But…She shrugged. “I suppose we are. I mean, if he’s
your
father and he’s
my
father…” She paused. “Your mother’s a bitch, you know. You should be glad you never had to live with her.”

Helen gave a little sniff. “I used to want to live with her in London. But now I’m glad I always lived with Aunt Phoebe right here. Do you have any aunts?”

“No. Well, yes,” Izzy amended. “My father—
our
father—he has two sisters. At least, that’s what he says. So they’re my aunts and they’re your aunts too.” On impulse Izzy grabbed Helen’s hand. But this time it wasn’t just to drag her along. She smiled, a little shyly. “We’re sisters, all three of us. That means we have to look out for each other. All right?”

Helen smiled back and squeezed her hand. “All right.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go.”

They started for the forest, but stopped when they heard a high-pitched bark. “Bruno!” Helen shouted as the valiant puppy labored over the hill. “He followed us.”

“I forgot to tell you, someone brought him to Farley Park last night after they milked the goats,” Izzy said, scooping him up, with no complaints from Helen. Then together they trudged down the faintly greening hill. “I have a secret hideout,” Izzy said. “We can go there.”

“All right. Or we could go to Plummy Head,” Helen said, her teeth chattering. “There’s a fireplace and a stove, and wood. And food too. I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

“Good idea,” Izzy said, changing direction. She cast Helen a small, approving smile. “Good idea, little sister.”

“How could you?”

After a frantic search of the house and grounds didn’t turn up either of the girls, Phoebe had returned, looking for her pitiful excuse of a sister Louise. She faced Louise now in the second parlor, a grand room warmed by a roaring fire. But no amount of heat could melt the icy rage that encased Phoebe’s heart.

Louise glanced up smiling from her comfortable perch on a gold damask settee. She had the gall to look perfectly at home in the handsomely appointed receiving room, as if she deserved to be served tea and biscuits, and be brought pillows and lap throws, and otherwise be attended to by the butler and the parlormaid. A beautiful, feckless creature who lived to be admired and complimented.