To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(76)

He went to the fire and kindled a taper. With it he lit several candles in the room. “Etienne says there are rumors in the French government, but he does not want to commit them to paper—for his safety and for mine. He has accepted a position on an exploratory ship, though. It docks in London the day after tomorrow before leaving to sail around the Horn of Africa.”

He threw the remainder of the taper into the fire. “If I can talk to Etienne, then perhaps this mystery will be solved.”

“I see.” She watched him a moment more, then sighed. “Do you want to go down for supper?”

He blinked and looked at her. “I’d hoped to have something brought up.”

She began unlacing her stays, and his gaze immediately dropped to her bosom. “I had some food and wine delivered earlier.” She nodded to a covered basket on a chair. “It’s over there. If you think it’ll do, we can stay here and not bother with anyone else.”

He crossed to the basket and raised the cloth that covered it, peering inside. “A feast.”

Helen straightened the bodice of her chemise over her breasts, rose from the bed, and crossed to him. “Sit here, before the fire, and I’ll serve you.”

He frowned quickly. “There’s no need.”

“You didn’t object to my service when I was your housekeeper.” She rummaged in the basket and found a small plum. She offered it to him in the palm of her hand. “Why demure now?”

He took the plum, his fingers brushing against her palm and sending shivers down her arm. “Because you’re no longer my servant; you’re my…” He shook his head and bit into the plum.

“What?” She knelt at his feet. “What am I to you?”

He swallowed and said gruffly, “I don’t know.”

She nodded and turned her face to the basket so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. That was the problem, wasn’t it? They didn’t quite know anymore what they were to each other.

Chapter Sixteen

At Truth Teller’s words, the evil sorcerer flew into a terrible rage. He raised his arms and laid a terrible curse on the soldier, turning him into a stone statue. The sorcerer placed Truth Teller in his yew knot garden, among all the other stone warriors. There he stood, day by day, month by month, year by year as birds came to rest on his shoulders and dead leaves settled at his feet. His still face stared, unblinking, at the garden, and what he thought about I do not know. His very thoughts had turned to stone. . . .

—from TRUTH TELLER

Helen wasn’t precisely respectable. This thought only occurred to Alistair as they stood on Lord Vale’s front step. He really shouldn’t have brought her along on an early afternoon call to a viscount and viscountess. But then again, she’d said that she was friends with Lady Vale, so perhaps the point was moot.

Fortunately, the butler chose that moment to open the door. After collecting their names, he bowed and showed them into a large sitting room. Very soon thereafter, Vale himself burst into the room.

“Munroe!” the viscount cried, bounding up and seizing Alistair’s hand. “Good God, man, I thought it’d take explosives to pry you out of that dratted drafty castle of yours.”

“It very nearly did,” Alistair muttered, squeezing Vale’s hand hard to keep from having his own appendage crushed. “Have you met Mrs. Helen Fitzwilliam?”

Vale was a tall man with hands and feet that seemed too large for his body, like an overeager puppy. His face was long, incised with deep vertical lines that in repose made his countenance look perpetually mournful. In contrast, his habitual expression was almost foolish, jolly and open, which lulled many a man into a false sense of superiority.

Right now, though, Vale’s expression had gone curiously flat at Alistair’s introduction of Helen. Alistair braced himself. He needed Vale’s help, but if the other man chose to insult Helen, he’d defend her and damn the consequences. The tensing of his muscles was instinctive.

But a quick smile flashed across Vale’s face, and he leaped forward to take Helen’s hand and bend over it. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

The viscount straightened just as Lady Vale entered the room behind him. Despite the quiet of that lady’s step, Vale seemed to sense his wife’s presence at once.

“See who has come to visit us, my lady wife,” he exclaimed. “Munroe has abandoned his depressing moors and skipped away to bonny London. I think we should invite him to dinner.” He swung on Alistair. “You will come to dinner, won’t you, Munroe? And you as well, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I shall expire of disappointment if you don’t.”

Alistair nodded curtly. “We’d be pleased to dine with you, Vale. But I’d hoped to discuss a matter of business this afternoon. It’s pressing.”

Vale cocked his head, looking like an intelligent hound. “Is it, indeed?”

“May I show you my garden, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Lady Vale murmured.

Alistair nodded his thanks at Lady Vale and watched the ladies leave the room.

When he turned, he found Vale’s too-perceptive eyes regarding him.

Vale smiled. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam is a lovely woman.”

Alistair bit back a blunt retort. “Actually, it’s on her behalf that I’d like to talk to you.”

“Indeed?” Vale ambled to a decanter of liquor and held it up. “Brandy? A bit early in the day, I know, but your expression suggests that we might need it.”