Too Hot For A Rake (20 page)

Monday, the Eleventh of May, 1818

The stolen key to the second cellar had cost Helena, what with Harry pawing her so mercilessly. She shuddered at the thought of his coarse hands on her breast, his slobbering mouth on hers. At the same time, she couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. She was rather pleased with her quick-witted response. It did the trick, all right.
I don’t dare tell Waverley. He’d murder Harry. Where has the marquis gone? Is he still angry with me?

She dressed herself, thankful that she’d given Amy leave to spend the night with her mother at the Ship Inn. Helena was prepared with an excuse should Cook ask why she was on her way to explore the cellar. To her relief, she didn’t need to tell another lie, for Emma was alone in the kitchen shelling peas.

Helena picked up a scone and took a bite. “Mmmm. Delicious. Morning, Emma. Where’s Cook?”

“She’s in the henhouse with Trudy, milady. Would your la’ship care for some chocolate to go with your scone?”

Helena laughed. “How clever you are. How did you guess that a cup of chocolate with my
second
scone is just what I need. I’ll have it here, if you don’t mind.”

“’Twould be an honor, milady.”

Amused, Helena took a seat at the servants’ table. “How is Lemuel, my dear? I hear he and Casper have become fast friends since he began to work in our stables.”

Emma blushed to the roots of her hair, for Lemuel was her beau. “Lem’s well enough, I suppose, milady.”

“You…suppose? Are you two on the outs?”

Emma served the chocolate to Helena, then put her hands on her hips. She was a pretty round-faced miss with plump cheeks and a rather large bosom. “He’s a stubborn one he is, your la’ship,” she burst out.

Helena curbed the urge to laugh. “He makes no secret of his feelings for you. What has he done to displease you?”

She hung her head, remembering her station. “I…I shouldn’t say to you.”

“It’s all right, dear. Go ahead. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m tired of just bein’ promised to him these four years and he says he ain’t ready to post the banns!”

Helena wondered if she ought to find a way to increase Lemuel’s wages. “Well, my dear, he’s probably frightened of taking on the responsibilities of marriage. I’d advise you to show more patience and less anger.”

“It’s true I’ve been powerful hard on him, milady. Mayhap you have the right answer for me.”

“Kill him with kindness, Emma. That’s what they say.”

Emma brightened. “I’ll try it, milady. Slap me silly, I’ll try it this very night.”

“Good girl.” Helena finished her chocolate and rose. “I’m glad we had this chat, dear. Thank you for a delicious breakfast. I’m off to inspect the cellar. I want to check on the progress the carpenters have made in repairing the damage. Cook certainly needs more shelves for preserves, even though she never complains. I’ll return shortly. Keep up the good work, Emma. I’m proud to have people like you and Trudy on staff.”

She reached up for a lantern filled with oil resting on a shelf, turned the latch to the cellar door and proceeded down the steps, noting that the cellar had been well cleaned since the last time she’d been there. The rotted shelves had been replaced, just as she had ordered. It warmed her heart to see the cellar decently restored at last. Cook now had all the space she needed to store vegetables and fruits, jams and condiments. Indeed, shiny well-marked jars filled with provisions for future use had already been prepared.

She reached the door of the old cellar and inserted the rusted key. To her surprise, the lock appeared to have been well oiled, for the key turned without a bit of trouble. The heavy oak door was another matter. She had to pull with all her strength before it gave way. She wondered why the hinges had not been oiled as well. They squeaked so loudly, they startled her enough to quicken her breath.

Once inside, she faced a set of ancient steps. She was forced to brush away the cobwebs before she could proceed. She trod gingerly, using her foot to sweep the debris on each step as she descended. There was no railing and the steps were worn. Why, she wondered, did Mrs. Trasker have the only key to this cellar? It appeared to have no use at all, except for spiders’ webs, and these served only to assault her mouth, her eyes and her hair. The lantern flickered and made her heart skip a beat.

Nothing to be afraid of here. Just some old cobwebs in this dust-filled cellar. Probably hasn’t seen use since the days of the Goths. Spiders have taken up residence. There’s air here somewhere. If there weren’t, the lantern would be of no use. There must be an opening somewhere. Else how would air find its way in?

When she reached the bottom step, Helena exhaled in an effort to banish the fear in her heart. She swung the lantern slowly to the right and to the left and saw nothing but uneven piles of straw, mouse droppings and thick layers of dust everywhere. She stepped still farther into the heart of the old cellar, wondering how far she ought to proceed before turning back. Cook was right. There was nothing of any value down here.

She spied an opening—an entryway into some sort of room—in the far corner to her right. She had more than enough light left to explore it, thinking to discover where the air was coming from. As she approached, she wondered idly why there was a cleared narrow path on the floor making her way easier. Who had made it? Where did it lead? Torn between curiosity and unease, she continued on with caution. The door at the top of the stairs banged shut.

Helena froze.

London

Waverley departed for Land’s End in low spirits. He’d already wasted enough time in coming to London, to no purpose, as it turned out. He might have known the duke would turn him down once he’d read of the fiasco at the Glynhaven ball. He had a good notion as to whom it was who wrote that anonymous letter to the duke.

It had to be Glynhaven, the sneaky sod. He’s bent on destroying me. He arranged for Saltash to bring Madame Z’evareau and her women to the ball. Damn the man! He continues to be a thorn in my side. But to what purpose? Glynhaven’s actions stem from nothing more than envy.

He took the road to Bristol, one of the better roads England had to offer, which wasn’t saying much. Most English roads were rutted and sadly neglected, causing many a stagecoach to overturn with disastrous effect, not to mention unwary riders whose horses step into deep holes. Waverley kept a sharp eye out for these, for he had no wish to take a tumble. His side was still sore from the flesh wound Saltash had inflicted.

What could he say to Helena? How could he explain it to her when he hadn’t even told her why he went to London? Should he confess that he was afraid she might be with child? What possessed her to dupe him? No matter, for the fault lay with himself. He should have been strong enough to resist temptation.

Would she accept her father’s harsh edict? Her father was a powerful man. Dare she disobey him? What then? There was always Gretna Green, he supposed.

No. He couldn’t deprive her of the joys of a family wedding. She’d already suffered enough over Darlington’s rejection and the vicious tongues of London gossipmongers. He couldn’t subject her to the shame of a runaway marriage. He couldn’t do that to the woman he loved. It would be better by far to give her up for her own sake.

He’d begged the duke to believe his wild ways were all in the past. Who was he fooling? His infamous past ended a mere three months ago when Darlington found him at the most well-known house of ill repute in all of Paris. Though Waverley lived at 12 rue Chabanais, it was not the only bordello he visited, to be sure, but it was his favorite nevertheless.

To satisfy an insatiable lust had been the opium of choice, for he found nothing else to mask his despair. Try as he might, he could not eradicate the burden of sixteen unhappy years spent in exile; an expatriate without a home. And when she didn’t answer his letters, he’d assumed his grandmother wanted nothing to do with him as well. It never occurred to him that his father would not allow his grandmother to receive his letters. How glad he was to find she still loved him. But his father was dead. Now the gulf between them would never heal.

He stopped at a stream to rest his overheated horse. Thank God his grandmother loved him. It was a solace but it wasn’t enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. Without Helena he faced a bleak future indeed, for she was the first, the last, the only woman he’d ever loved. He could never love another.

Waverley Castle

“No!” Helena shrieked and raced to the top of the stairs. She tried to open the door, shoving as hard as she could, but her efforts were futile. Instead, she placed the lantern on the top step, fumbled with trembling fingers for the skeleton key in her pocket, and found the keyhole. As she tried the key, she again met resistance. Petrified, she pounded on the door and screamed as loud as she could, a futile gesture. The old door was far too thick for noise to penetrate. Besides, the first cellar was not likely to be occupied. When her arms grew tired and her voice grew hoarse, she sat on the top step, engulfed in despair.

Keep calm. Think. Someone is bound to notice I am missing. If Amy were here, she’d be sure to look for me. At the very least, Emma will report that I have not yet returned to the kitchen, and that I am still down here somewhere. When they don’t find me in the new cellar, surely they will have sense enough to search for me here. Even without a key, strong men can break the door down. I’d better move away, so the door won’t crush me when they do. Dear God, I hope it’s soon. My wick is reaching bottom. This is no time to panic. Water! I hear the sound of water running. Yes! It’s coming from that corner of the room. Maybe it will quench my thirst. Smells damp enough.

Helena rose and held the lantern high. She started back down the steps, but when she was halfway down, she lost her balance. She tried to reach for the wall on her right for support, twisted her body in that direction, but she fell to the bottom, her face buried in a pile of rancid straw filled with rodent droppings. The lantern flew out of her hand and all was dark. She groped for the lantern, almost grateful it went out before it set the straw on fire.

She tried to stand, but her right leg buckled. Delicate French heels were not meant to traverse rickety wooden steps, she thought, disgusted with herself for not having worn the sturdy walking boots old Brindle had made for her. She managed to hop to the wall and lean on it for support.

Helena removed the offending shoe. The heel was wrecked. Brindle would fix it—if she managed to get out of this place alive, that is. She sighed and removed the other shoe, aware that she would be unable to hobble on one delicate shoe. She placed both on the lowest step. Had she broken her ankle? She wasn’t sure. Gently, she pressed her tender foot down, but the pain shot through her like a shaft of lightning. She raised it again, took deep breaths, and rested against the wall to gather her strength. She hoped she would reach the source of the water at the end of the wall, and quickly.

She slid against the wall, hopping on her left foot all the while. When she reached the opening, she heard a soft moan. Her heartbeat quickened.
Is that an animal? No. That sound is human.

“Who’s there?” Her croaking voice was one she did not recognize. “I…I have a gun!”

A keening moan, stronger this time, pierced the air. It was a groan of pain, she realized. “Who are you? Can you speak? Try. Please?”

“He…lp,” a weak male voice quavered.

“Make more noise so I can follow your voice. I have no light.” Her back to the wall, she found the opening. She sidled into what appeared to be a corridor and inched her way in the direction of the weak, but repeated sound.

“Help, hel, he…”

She heard a faint but continual tap. Water seeped down the wall behind her back, drenching her gown.

“Here. Over here,” the weak voice whispered.

“Where? Keep tapping.” Helena stumbled and nearly fell. She reached down and felt the head of a…a man? Yes. It was a man.

She slid down the wall and sat next to him. “Who are you? How did you get here?”

“Le Clair,” he gasped. “Captain of
Le Coq d’Or.
Shipwrecked. All dead. Murdered. Hid myself. Found cave. Crawled in here. Who…who are you?”

The man spoke only French, a language in which Helena was proficient. She answered in kind. “I am Lady Helena Fairchild and we are in the cellar of Waverley Castle. The door blew shut, but someone is bound to find us when they find that I am missing, for I am a guest of the Marquis of Waverley. How long have you been here, sir?”

“Don’t…know. Long time. Water drips down wall. Thank God.”

“The water kept you alive?”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve had no food? For how long?”

“Don’t know. Days…weeks.” His head fell forward, as if the effort to speak had taken all his strength.

“All right, Captain Le Clair. Try to rest while I see what I can find.” She wondered what it was she’d be able to do for the poor man. Indeed, she wondered what she’d be able to do for herself as well. The thought that neither of them would ever get out alive brushed her mind like a fever, but she thrust it away. She would not give in to her fears. Not now. Not ever. Surely help would come soon.

Helena reached down to touch her ankle. It had swollen, yet it did not hurt as much.
Not broken. Just bruised, thank heaven.
She grabbed the damp lace hem of her petticoat and pulled it taut with both hands until it ripped. She tugged at the stitches in order to remove them so she could tear the hem into strands of cloth. The task kept her mind from the terror lurking at the edge of her soul. When she judged she had enough, she wrapped the strands tightly around her swollen ankle and knotted it.

“C-cold. So…cold,” Le Clair whimpered in a whisper.

“I’ll try to fix that, Monsieur Le Clair.” Helena removed the shawl tied around her shoulders and covered him as best she could. She felt his thin bones as she did and wondered if indeed he would live long enough to survive this ordeal.