The Sleeping Beauty. Jacqueline Navin
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those and the ubiquitous shadows clustering inside the house, he could barely discern what she looked like. All he could see was that she was thin, almost gaunt. A fine nose and a good chin impressed him as strong features in an otherwise frail mien.
Almost grudgingly, he acknowledged she was attractive. He was a man who enjoyed women, and he knew quality when he saw it. His objective observation of her good features disturbed him, for it was followed with a jolt of lust he found inexplicable. This girl was a hellcat. As a rule, easygoing misses with big bosoms were his favorite bed-mates.
The girl retreated, melting back into the shadows. She called, “Get out of here immediately before I call my…my master.”
“Call him then, I welcome it.” Adam crept closer to the darkness. Really, the little idiot was a silly bit. He would have words with the Lady Helena when—or if—he was ever able to speak with her. “Where have you gone? Why are you hiding?”
“I am not hiding, you jackanapes. Get out now, I say!”
“Why, you imperious little snipe. How dare you refer so to your betters. Your behavior is reprehensible.”
A snort was her response.
He went after her. She had him incensed. He had no idea what he planned to do when he got her in hand. He didn’t strike women, nor did he shake or manhandle them in any way. But still he stalked the shadows like an impatient predator.
“Where are you?” There was no answer. Perhaps she had grown frightened after realizing her wickedness, and fled. He straightened. He would just go and find her master himself, he decided.
Taking a few steps, he stopped, just now registering his surroundings. His eyes traveled in a slow circle and his breath came out in an appreciative whistle. The hall was a rotunda capped with what appeared to be a domed ceiling. Around him was artwork of magnificent proportion, all relief work in the neoclassical style that had become popular of late. Marble and painted wood and pure, white alabaster were all around him in various fashions of interior decoration. He walked about slowly, touching this and that, astounded by all that he saw.
He smiled. It was all he could do to keep from cackling and rubbing his hands together. The wealth displayed delighted him. He had come to the right place.
“Are you still here?”
He almost snarled. “I should say the same to you.” He whipped around, scanning the darkened corners for some sign of her. In this hollow place where their voices echoed, the disembodied voice seemed eerie.
Another voice sounded. “My lady? What is it tha’s goin’ on? Who is come?”
My lady? “Lady Helena!” Adam called. “Are you here?”
Frantic whispers led him to the two figures huddled in the shadows. “Lady Helena?” he inquired, more urgently.
A flare of light startled all three of them. A man had joined them, coming up behind Adam with an oil lamp held out before him in one huge, hamlike fist. He was large as a bear and featured in the same fashion, his great bushy brows drawn down in confusion. “Helena, what the devil is going on here?” he demanded.
Adam turned back to the other two in front of him, which he could see now with the aid of illumination. The girl stared at him. Her features, bathed in the torchlight, were startling. She seemed afraid, he noted. Well she should, for this man who had just arrived was likely her master. No doubt her atrocious behavior would win her a sound reprimand. Adam gave her a smug look before turning to her companion, whom he expected to be the Lady Helena herself.
A woman stared back at him, her full mouth pursed in irritation. She was at least two score and ten, her red hair caught under a mobcap, with frizzled strands sticking straight out from her head. Her face was lined, with a healthy spattering of freckles over every inch. Both her age and her obvious Irish heritage forbade her being the one he sought.
Not Lady Helena.
With dawning dread, he turned back to the other female. The servant who had taunted him. Lady Helena?
Helena blanched to see the look come over his face when he realized who she was—a subtle blend of shock and wariness and…disgust?
Why should it hurt? Vanity, she supposed. It hadn’t completely left her, despite the last five years.
This was a handsome man, after all. Dark eyes, dark hair, well-dressed in expensive clothes straight from Savile Row…A London dandy, no doubt. Although she tried to strike a scornful pose, her insides were quivering too much to make it effective. From the moment she had peered at him through the slit in the door, there had been something about this man that had her stomach fluttering with a vague sense of apprehension.
She could easily guess why he was here—that didn’t require any particular feat of brilliance. There was only one reason a man, any man, would travel to the northernmost regions of the country looking for her. A fortune hunter, then, ready with soft words and fawning praise. They had come before.
This one was different, however. He didn’t seem the sly type who thought to win her with simpering compliments and false affections. This man had an edge to him, a hardness that wasn’t completely tamed by his impeccable manners. He had dark hair, and eyes dark as sin that pierced her with incredulity, betraying his less than complimentary thoughts. His face was strong boned, with a square jaw and a straight, proud nose that gave him a certain presence. Not a pretty man, yet he exuded a virility that was indeed quite powerful.
That sensuously curved mouth said nothing, but she knew what he thought. Self-consciously she touched her wildly tousled hair and wondered if she had dirt on her face. The sudden anxiety over her appearance jarred her. It had been a long time since she had cared about such things.
Well, damn him! Dropping her hand, she told herself he was just a cheap swindler dressed in a nice coat.
“Father?” She forced out the words through a throat suddenly gone dry. “Please do not permit this man inside our home.”
George Rathford looked at her, puzzled. “But he’s already in, child. What are you about?”
“You can see I am in no condition to receive anyone,” Helena protested. “Look at me! We were at work in the cellars.”
The gentleman now turned to Lord Rathford and executed a correct bow. “My lord, I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Adam Mannion, Esquire. At your service.”
She narrowed her eyes critically as he paid respects to her father. Even as he bent at the waist in a cursory bow, he held his head at an arrogant angle. He had in him a reluctance to humble himself before a peer, as if there were a bit of a rebel residing behind those polite words.
She triumphantly awaited her father’s response. If she had guessed this Adam Mannion’s game, surely her father would be quicker to know it. George Rathford did not suffer fools.
“I have come to speak with your daughter—”
Her father cut him off. “My daughter? Helena, do you know this man?”
“No, Father. I was attempting to get him to leave when you came upon us.”
Swinging around, the old man groused, “It’s too damned dark in here. Why are all the windows shuttered? I can’t see the fellow.”
The Irishwoman spoke. “The sunshine makes dust motes, my lord. It is easier to keep the house this way.”
“Damnation.” Rathford peered again at Adam. “Want to see my daughter, eh?”
“If it is convenient,” came the bland reply.
Helena saw her father chewing on the inside of his lip. It was a sign he was thinking. His rheumy eyes focused on her for a moment, then shifted back to the man. “It doesn’t seem that the gel wants to see you.”
“I…I noticed that, my lord.”
“Women can be hard, Mannion. You know about women?”