A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) (27 page)

Belle opened her hand and showed him a tarnished silver button from the regimental coat of a cavalry officer. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out another, this one, with a purple ribbon laced through the shank. She held it out for Michael to see. “This one is mine,” she said. She offered the one in her palm to Michael. He took it and turned it between his fingers. “That one belonged to Archie,” she continued. “His father sent it to me.” Belle looked into his eyes, searching. “Don’t you see? These buttons were part of our pledge. We each took one to affirm our promise to always be there for one another. It was a tontine, though instead of investing capital, we invested in our own survival.” She rubbed the purple ribbon between her fingers as she stared bleakly at the button. “They chose me to receive the buttons of those of us who couldn’t...” She closed her eyes briefly as she struggled to continue. “Archie left a note asking his father to tell the rest of us he was sorry he broke his promise.” Michael felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t want to receive another button, Michael. Not from anyone, but especially not from Drew. You see, he came to me in Scutari,” She gave a small, hiccup of a sob. “They brought him to me first. I didn’t recognize him, not until I washed the blood and filth off him. Oh God, Michael, he was more dead than alive.” Her sobs began again in earnest.

Michael pulled her back into his embrace and she wrapped her arms around his waist. They held on to each other, bonded by their personal demons, their pain and by the love they both felt for Drew. Later, Michael couldn’t remember who began the kiss. Perhaps it was both of them. He kissed her as a man dying of thirst takes that first drink of water – reverently, yet, all the while struggling to control his desperation for another sip and then another, fearful the liquid will disappear before his aching thirst is sated. Her mouth was even sweeter than he remembered and she kissed him back as if she’d found her way home after a long and endless night. He deepened their kiss and she was there with him, driving out the fear, the anguish. Too soon the reality of their situation returned to them both. Belle stared at him her eyes wide as she brought her fingers to her lips. Michael wanted to take her in his arms again, kiss her, carry her to his bed and set the past firmly behind them.

“I have to go,” Belle whispered.

He knew she feared to stay, feared herself as much as his kisses. He watched her turn and rush to the safety of her room. Michael looked down at the button in his hand. It had belonged to a young man who’d become too haunted and worn down by his memories of a senseless war to continue living. Archie Pendergast had sent this bit of tarnished silver to Belle, partly in apology, partly in warning, but the button had also increased her burden. Perhaps there was something he could do to share it with her. Michael turned the small key in the door of the cabinet and carefully placed Arch Pendergast's silver button next to Drew's Victoria Cross, lest any of them forget the terrible price both young men had paid.

Chapter Nineteen

London

A mess, that's what he'd created by kissing her, a classic, bloody mess. Michael glared out the window of his hackney cab at the dark, rain-dampened streets. He'd spent the past week avoiding Belle and when Montgomery's message came requesting his presence in London, Michael had leapt at the opportunity to put time and distance between them. He curled his hand into a fist, bringing it to rest tensely against his mouth as he relived that moment in the gallery. Many sins could be laid at his door, but never trifling with females in his service. Michael considered blaming the incident on the wine they'd shared at luncheon, but that was a feeble excuse. What started as an innocent attempt to offer comfort quickly changed into something else entirely and it wasn’t as if she’d been an unwilling participant either. Damn it, he should have known better than to touch her. There had never been a strictly platonic moment between them. Why should now be any different?

He struck his fist against the carriage door, punctuating his frustration with himself, as well as with the circumstances. He'd arrived at his mistress' door within hours of reaching London, intent on spending the next two days hard at it in her bed, or anywhere else that caught his fancy, in hopes of irradiating his memories of Belle, her scent, her warmth, the feel of her in his arms and the first touch of his lips on hers in five long years. Instead of attempting to purge her from his mind and other more engaged parts of his anatomy, he'd abruptly given his mistress her conge´. The only woman he truly wanted in his bed was Belle. She filled his thoughts, his fantasies. He dreamed of her at night and awoke with his cock throbbing for her. No matter how much he tried convincing himself that Belle was the last female with whom he should begin a love affair, the fact remained that she was the only one he wanted. 

Their history together precluded him from ever considering marriage to her, of course, and even if it didn’t, his own requirements in a wife certainly did. He needed a wife of irreproachable character, one who could act as a gracious hostess and who would be welcomed into the homes of the highest members of society. Belle, though her lineage was impeccable, worked as a nurse, a fact that not only placed her in the servant class, but to smaller minds, also cast suspicions on her moral character as well. Where Michael had been forgiven his own disreputable, even criminal past because of money and a title, society demanded complete purity from its women and hers, rightly or wrongly, was immediately suspect due to her occupation. Many doors in London would remain closed to Belle and in effect, her husband.

Openly taking her as his mistress, though, no matter how well he compensated her, would destroy her chances of ever holding a respectable nursing position again. Whatever else he ever questioned about Belle he knew that nursing was her life and that she would never jeopardize something so important to her for the sake of passion. No, if he wanted Belle in his bed he'd have to entice her into a discreet and short-lived affair. He would leave the choice up to her, of course, but he intended to use every weapon he had to convince her. As his carriage stopped in front of his club Michael had to ask himself one last question. Was a discrete liaison with him in her best interest, or merely convenient for him? He feared he knew the answer and his conscience continued to prick him as he walked up the steps of his club.

Rafe Kingsford haled him with a waive as soon as Michael stepped into the dining room. Most members had long since dined and were now either off to other engagements, or scattered around the club consuming large amounts of brandy as they discussed current intrigues or bygone glories. He noticed that Rafe had chosen a secluded table tucked against the wall. He was not a man given to fine sensibilities. The club made him uneasy even though he'd been approved for membership three years ago. Both Jules and Michael had sponsored him, though Michael believed Rafe only acquiesced to membership to please his sister.

Neither man indulged in meaningless pleasantries. Michael sat down in the chair across from his friend and immediately came to the point. “Have you learned anything more about her?”

Rafe eased back in his chair, stretching out his long legs beneath the table. He studied Michael, drawing out the moment as though he were reaching some private conclusion. “Nothing we didn't already know. I've decided to start investigating Dr. Gillian though.”

“Gillian?” Michael looked at him sharply. “Why? It's Belle Winslow I want to know about. Gillian's an open book.”

“Yes, he is,” Rafe nodded, reaching out to toy with the stem of his wine glass, “until you ask him about her. Then he snaps shut and locks up tighter than your maiden aunt’s qui....” He looked around sheepishly. “Diary,” he amended. “I thought by tracing Gillian’s background I could discover where and when they met. I did learn one new fact – a quite surprising one. Gillian wrote her a letter of recommendation to join Miss Nightingale's company of nurses. That means he knew her before he left for the Crimea. I have an appointment to meet him at the Harley Street Hospital tomorrow. It turns out that Duncan Gillian practiced there as well as at a charity clinic in the East End before he headed off to war.”

Michael pondered this new information. “So it's likely he witnessed the metamorphosis of Lady Arabella Winston to Annabelle Winslow.”

“Precisely.” Rafe continued to turn his wine glass by the stem. One of the clubs efficient footman brought another bottle of wine and took their requests for a meal. Rafe waited until the man left before continuing his train of thought. “I've no love for Arabella Winston, as you know, but there's a mystery here. No one recalls seeing her more than a day or two after the Malberry’s ball. It would be easier to learn the truth if I could speak with Lady Katherine, or should I say, Mrs. Rutledge, but that could prove difficult given her new living arrangements.”

Michael held his gaze for several moments. Finally he said what both of them were thinking. “Something happened to her because of what we did,” he said flatly.

“Yes, though, exactly what, I can't be sure. She reportedly left London for the country and then within the month her stepfather stated she'd gone abroad for health reasons. Normally, I would suspect the entire story was developed just to cover up her humiliation at losing Iredale, but only a week or so after her supposed departure, her mother died and her stepfather fled the country only a step or two in front of the bailiffs.”

“Do you suppose he followed her? Perhaps he abandoned her somewhere on the Continent leaving her to get back to England as best she could. That would have forced her to find some way to support herself.”

“Perhaps, but why wouldn't she appeal to her uncle for help?” Rafe queried.

“Maybe she did and he didn't want the shadow of her family’s fall tainting his household,” Michael countered. “The man is a self-righteous twit. Still, we don't know if she really went to the Continent at all. That could all simply be some faddle her stepfather put about to obscure the fact he was deep in Dun territory. I think we should also investigate Seaton more thoroughly – locate him, learn something of his movements during the past five years. Clearly the broken engagement led to a financial crisis for her family.” Michael tried to detach the nagging claw of guilt that had latched onto him since the day he’d fetched her back to the abbey, but it clung persistently to him, demanding answer before it would turn him loose. “I keep coming back to the fact that Arabella still had enough devotees among the lesser families that she could easily have secured her future by a quick marriage to a baronet, or to a knight.”

“Agreed, but the little brat always did have more pride than common sense.” Rafe tossed back the rest of his wine, then poured another glass for each of them. “I spoke with one or two people who swear they received letters from her while she was touring. Of course, not a single one of them remember any details such as what countries she visited and when they received these alleged letters.” Rafe paused for a moment. “No, I agree with you. We set something in motion that night. I've never been able to shake the idea that Lord Ambrose ran a game of his own design that we knew little to nothing about.”

Michael nodded. “He had his own reasons for wanting to see those young women punished and most of it had very little to do with Damaris, I'm afraid. I knew at the time he was a dangerous man to slight, let alone insult. He and my father were two of a kind that way.” Michael took a deep drink from his glass before continuing. “Ambrose set out to ruin three silly, nineteen-year-old chits and he picked his lieutenants well. We were both so eaten up with rage we ignored some very important questions to which I’m certain he knew the answers. I wish he were still alive,” he said grimly, “because I'd enjoy shaking those answers out of him.”

“I'd help you,” Rafe murmured as he studied the glass in front of him.

Michael took stock of the man seated across from him. Circumstance and proximity had forged a friendship between them and he knew the burden Rafe shouldered. “You'll never forgive yourself, will you?” Michael asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No,” he answered, his voice short and hard. “Sarah was just a girl. She wasn't even part of the abduction, but I didn't care. I chose to ruin her because she was one of the Furies and I knew her family wasn’t powerful enough to do anything about it once I’d succeeded. They had no true standing in society other than what Sarah’s cachet gave them.”

“Ambrose encouraged you to seek revenge, Rafe. He groomed you and fed you a steady diet of hate.”

“True, but I must still bear the weight of my own actions. I had a choice.” He leaned forward in his chair, his manner intense, almost urgent. “Don't tell me you won't feel the same if we find something just as ugly at the bottom of Belle Winslow’s story. I know you better than that.”

Michael nodded. He’d already begun regretting his actions at the Malberry’s ball, but there was little he could do to change matters now. Ten or fifteen years ago he'd have shrugged and quickly brushed aside any real remorse he felt, tossing coins where they needed to go to assuage any pangs of guilt, but it was no longer that simple with Belle. “I'm afraid we may both learn that we have much to answer for before all the puzzle pieces fit together, my friend,” he returned.

They finished their meal and Michael left Rafe staring broodingly into a glass of brandy. He retrieved his hat and cane from the footman and prepared to set out for his townhouse. The evening drizzle had given way to a softer night that held the promise of the summer to come. It would be a crime not to take advantage of such an upturn in the weather, Michael thought. The evening could be better appreciated on foot. He stood back to let a gentleman enter the club and was taken aback when he realized the late arrival was none other than Leo Crispin, the Marquess of Branfel. Both men assiduously avoided one another for obvious reasons and Michael could count on one hand the number of times they'd encountered each other socially during the past five years. They had certainly never met face to face as they were now. Michael dipped his head in deference to the other man's superior title. A few seconds passed and then Branfel stiffly acknowledged him. As the marquess past him Michael spoke quietly.

“I beg pardon, my lord, but if I could have a moment of your time.”

Branfel gave him a cold look – not that Michael blamed him. “I sincerely doubt we have anything worth discussing, Lassiter. Good evening,” Branfel stated with quiet force.

Using Michael’s family name instead of his title, Stowebridge, was a blatant insult, but Michael chose to ignore it. Frankly, he felt things were going better than he expected. “A lady we both know has returned to London,” Michael persisted, “and in greatly reduced circumstances.”

Branfel stepped to one side of the large entrance hall and waited for Michael to join him before speaking. “I assume you refer to Miss Winslow. Her circumstances, reduced or otherwise are not my concern. The lady is not a subject I care to discuss and most certainly one I will never discuss with you.”

“I'm afraid I must belabor the point, my lord. You see...” Michael faltered as something occurred to him. “You called her, 'Miss Winslow.' You've spoken to her. You know that she's....”

“A nurse? Yes, and a damned fine one,” Branfel said in clipped words that dared Michael to disparage her. “Miss Winslow cared for my cousin during his recovery after the war. However, past that the lady is not my concern, nor is she yours.”

“I'm sorry to disagree, my lord.” Before Branfel could dismiss him, Michael quickly explained how the woman they'd both known as “The Incomparable Araby,” had suddenly reappeared to care for his brother. Branfel said nothing at first, as if he were combining what few facts Michael had of her with his own knowledge and observations.

At length he said, “Neither my aunt nor my wife were very pleasant to her, I'm sorry to say and it had little to do with our broken engagement. They considered her no better than an adventuress even though my cousin, gravely ill at the time, made astounding progress under Dr. Gillian and Miss Winslow's care. He owes them his life.” The marquess stared across the hall as if studying the wall intently. “Odd, isn't it? The lower classes, whom we view as so inferior to ourselves work harder and die younger than most of us and yet, they have the insight to view nurses as something akin to angels while we judge them through our privileged sensibilities and find them lacking.” He returned his focus to Michael. “Miss Winslow has not had an easy time of it since her return to England. People are perverse creatures and they frequently like seeing their idols toppled from their pedestals. The Furies made their share of enemies and many in society have enjoyed seeing them brought low. I have not. I kept my silence about that night,” he added, as if sensing Michael's unspoken question.