The Sleeping Beauty. Jacqueline Navin

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      Chapter Four

      George Rathford was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Maybe there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to take him to the oblivion he sought. Damnation, he was tired. Tired of the pain, tired of the hopelessness.

      He blamed Althea, though it did him no good. It was useless to fault someone who was dead for one’s problems. A cat chasing his tail was what he was—hating his deceased wife and helpless to do anything about the daughter whom he loved more than anything on this earth.

      Had he done the right thing today? It was so hard to know. One rarely acted wisely when one was desperate.

      There was little time left.

      The housekeeper, Mrs. Kent, came in. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

      “Instruct the servants that this man, this Mr. Mannion, is to be treated with all honor and courtesy. I want his room cleaned impeccably, his meals hot. I know there are precious little staff left, Mrs. Kent, but I must urge you to make the best impression possible.”

      “Will Kimberly also be expected to work, my lord?”

      Rathford paused. The old Irishwoman was a blight on the house. Everyone was terrified of her, of her superstitions and her “powers.” He considered it all foolishness, but he couldn’t quite work up the courage to get rid of her. She was just a part of life in this old place—not a pleasant part, but a part just the same.

      Perhaps Kimberly’s presence was Althea’s revenge on him for being happy she was gone.

      “Kimberly has her own duties,” he said, and swallowed a large gulp of whiskey to chase away his self-disgust.

      Mrs. Kent’s voice was stiff with disapproval. “Very well, my lord.”

      “One more thing. There is to be no…talk. That is, the reason for my daughter’s seclusion may be of interest to Mr. Mannion. This might cause him to ask questions of the staff. No one is to speak of the accident. I cannot be more firm about this, Mrs. Kent. Any gossip on this topic will result in an immediate dismissal and no reference.”

      “That’s harsh, sir.”

      “Indeed. So they will know how serious I am about this matter. My daughter’s secret is to be kept.”

      “Very good, then. I’ll tell them.”

      “And have Charles fetch another bottle, will you?”

      Her frown creased her face. “Yes, my lord.”

      Adam spent the better part of the afternoon in the stables, as his room had to be “aired.” Judging from the din coming from the house and the sight of several windows flung open to disgorge huge amounts of dust, the term “aired” was a euphemism for a full-fledged scrubbing.

      While they worked, he enjoyed the company of horses and was surprised to find some astonishing specimens of horseflesh housed in the stalls. There were the work animals, and two fine Arabians whose sagging bellies bespoke of overfeeding and no exercise. With nothing better to do, he took them out to the paddock and trotted them a bit, then brushed them down when a quick-rolling thunderstorm drove them inside.

      Tired and having worked up an appetite, Adam wandered into the house. The kitchens were deserted. Pilfering a smoked sausage from a string of links hanging on a peg, he munched as he sauntered out of the room and roamed the halls.

      He smothered the smug sense of proprietorship that came over him. The place was nothing short of magnificent—underneath the dirt. It would be his someday. It felt good, and this surprised him. After all, he didn’t even expect to be living in it, save those times he was obligated to visit.

      Yet his mind couldn’t help but create images of what the Romanesque busts would look like without their layer of grime, and just how brilliantly the gold leaf would glimmer if the filth-lined windows actually allowed in some light.

      His good mood dwindled, however, as he passed through room after room of moth-eaten draperies and dust-dulled furniture. The Sleeping Beauty…yes, he felt like he was in an enchanted castle, and it was starting to send creeping tremors of disquiet up his spine.

      The eerie effect was worsened by the loud patter of rain on the windowpanes. It sounded like bony fingers tapping, begging entry. It followed him as he wound his way through the house.

      There was a music room, a portrait gallery, a column-lined portico overlooking a large ballroom that was now used for storage, apparently. In a small parlor, a painting caught his eye.

      He moved closer, stopping when the sound of scurrying mice overrode the soft brush of his footsteps. Looking up, he studied the face framed above the fireplace.

      It was her—Helena. Squinting, he looked again. Wasn’t it?

      The woman in the painting looked like her, but the eyes were colder. Empty, maybe, and devoid of fire. Her face was perfect, however, with high cheekbones blushed just right with the color of roses, and that pouting mouth that was slightly overfull and far too lush for her otherwise serious face. Her nose was perfection, her brow flawless. Dressed in an elaborate costume more suited to the last decade than to this, she was looking haughtily off into the distance, as if the laboring of the artist were of no consequence to her.

      Oh, yes, this was Helena. That arrogance was unmistakable.

      He let his eyes wander over the painted bustline, pushed up and flowing nicely over the straight line of the stomacher. It was a daring dress. Her breasts were exposed nearly to the nipples.

      Low in his belly, a snake of desire stirred to life, coiling tightly like a cobra right before СКАЧАТЬ