LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Five

      Adam had a difficult time falling asleep. This was unusual for him. He usually experienced no trouble.

      He had certainly gotten the best of Helena at dinner. Sent her out in a huff, he had, and it had felt good for exactly one-tenth of a second. Then he had felt mildly ashamed. After all, it was graceless of him, when he had obviously won everything so completely, to be snide about it.

      Besides, it troubled him that she had missed dinner. She was so damned thin. He hoped she had eaten later, but doubted it.

      Sitting up, he turned on his side and punched the pillow. The nights were certainly cool up in this corner of England. Tonight, however, the sheets felt clammy and his skin dry and hot.

      A sound reached his ear, causing him to still his arm in midpunch.

      It was music. It was a pianoforte, being played by an expert hand.

      Maybe it was the completely moonless dark, or maybe it was this tomblike place finally getting the better of him, but the hair on his arms stood straight up and cold fingers traced a chill across the back of his neck. It was a sensation that had nothing to do with the plunging temperatures.

      The strains were lilting, but faint. Carefully, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his trousers as he tiptoed to the door. Pressing his ear to the crack, he heard the music better.

      On the dressing table lay his watch and fob. He fumbled for them after he had secured his trousers, and retrieved a flint box and small candelabra. Striking a flame, he lit three tapers and checked his watch. Half past one.

      Who was playing the pianoforte at this hour?

      Quickly, silently, he undid the latch to the door and entered the hall. The candlelight threw up shadows along the wall. They looked like undulating wraiths that melted into the darkness as he passed. Fanciful nonesuch, he scoffed, and padded barefoot down the corridor.

      He didn’t yet have his bearings in the house. Upon reaching the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to proceed to the corridor on the east end of the house, which looked to be a match of the one he had just come down, or descend. Taking a few tentative steps down the stairs, he judged the sounds to be growing louder and hurried on.

      The piece being played grew bolder, harsher. Increased emotion built into a medley of light frolics offset with low undertones. Under the guidance of the magnificent piece, a vision unfolded in his mind, of a child playing alone, serving tea to her dolls on a clean, sweet lawn, while a slavering beast lurked just on the edges of the forest. And every so often a moment of disquiet entered the child’s consciousness as she became increasingly aware that she was being watched by a predator.

      As he moved stealthily down the corridor, Adam marveled at the vivid picture in his mind. Never having been a man given to great contortions of imagination, he blamed the music. It was incredibly moving, incredibly passionate.

      He paused, cursing himself for a clodpoll. Of course—the music room. The problem was he wasn’t certain where it was located. His wanderings that day had taken him all over the house, and he couldn’t rightly place it.

      Trying a door, he winced at the long, agonizing protest of the hinges. The sound was like a wail of pain. The pianoforte music ceased.

      In the darkness, he called, “Hello? Who is there?”

      There was a silence, then a soft scrape and the light brush of footsteps retreating quickly.

      Cocking his head, he tried to gauge their direction, but the vaulted ceiling and polished floors created a cavernous chamber where the untraceable sound echoed, then died.

      It had to be her, of course. Helena. He couldn’t imagine the servants were used to making free with the musical instruments, and only one who had been subject to careful—and expensive—instruction could play with that combination of skill and passion. And yet it seemed impossible that thin, wasted waif who had scowled and screeched at him had so much within her.

      But if there was one thing he was learning, and learning quickly, it was that Lady Helena Rathford was rarely what one would expect.

      Helena spent the morning in the drawing room she often used, sewing with Kimberly. Their project was to alter the contents of her wardrobe, trying to transform the outmoded gowns into some semblance of current style. Inspecting their efforts, Helena held up a green silk. She could not say she was pleased. Not particularly talented with the needle and unskilled in working the delicate fabric, she had drawn the material into unsightly puckers as she stitched.

      “I think I have no choice but to go to Strathmere and visit the seamstress,” Helena said, bundling up another botched effort and tossing it on the floor.

      “If yer vanity must be appeased, so be it,” Kimberly replied darkly, not looking up from her own sewing.

      “If I do not wish to go about with my bosom exposed, I must.”

      Kimberly looked up. Helena stared back at the watery blue eyes. There passed between them a moment of shared astonishment. Helena did not speak this way to Kimberly. She simply didn’t.

      Drawing in a nervous breath, she proceeded more calmly. “It is not conceit to wish to be dressed properly. I am, after all, a noblewoman, even if we’ve all forgotten that fact.”

      Kimberly’s great irritation, which was clearly apparent on her freckled face, did not frighten Helena. Well, perhaps a little bit, but her mind was already made up. She simply would not allow Adam Mannion to see her in these rags.

      “Are ye, now?” Kimberly purred.

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