Ravished Page 3

  “Good day, Miss Pomeroy.” He clamped his hat very firmly down on his head.

  “Good day, my lord,” she called after him. “And thank you for coming so quickly in response to my letter. I really do appreciate your help in this business. I think you will work out quite well.”

  “I am delighted you have found me a suitable candidate for the position you evidently wished to fill,” he growled. “We shall see how appreciative you are when I have completed my assignment and am ready to collect my pay.”

  Harriet winced at the chilling sarcasm. She watched as he went through the open door and out into the March sunshine. He did not give her a backward glance.

  Harriet caught a brief glimpse of a giant bay stallion waiting patiently outside. The horse was a truly massive creature, not unlike its master, with huge feet, powerful muscles, and an obstinate curve of nose. There was nothing the least bit refined or elegant about the stallion. He looked big enough and mean enough to carry an old-fashioned knight in full armor into battle.

  Harriet listened as the viscount rode off along the cliffs. For a long moment she remained very still on her knees beside the fallen housekeeper. The hall of the cottage seemed comfortably spacious once more. For a while there, with St. Justin standing in it, the hall had seemed quite cramped.

  Harriet realized with a start that St. Justin’s scarred, savage features had burned themselves into her brain. She had never encountered a man like him.

  He was incredibly large. Like his horse, he was tall and solidly built, with broad, sleekly muscled shoulders and thighs. His hands were massive and so were his feet. Harriet wondered if St. Justin’s glovemakers and bootmakers were obliged to charge extra for the additional materials that must have been required in every pair of gloves and boots.

  Everything about St. Justin, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was hard and strong and potentially fierce.

  His face reminded Harriet of the magnificent lion she had seen in Mr. Petersham’s menagerie three years ago. Even his eyes recalled those of the wild beast. They were wonderful eyes, Harriet thought, tawny gold and filled with a compelling awareness and cool intelligence.

  St. Justin’s coal-black hair, broad cheekbones, bold nose, and forceful jaw added to the leonine look. The scar only served to heighten the impression of a powerful, predatory beast, a creature who was no stranger to violence.

  Harriet wondered where and how St. Justin had acquired the wicked-looking scar that slashed across his jaw. It looked old. The terrible wound had probably been inflicted several years ago. He was fortunate it had not taken his eye.

  Mrs. Stone stirred again and moaned. Harriet forced herself to pay attention to the immediate problem. She waved the little bottle under the woman’s nose. “Can you hear me, Mrs. Stone?”

  “What? Yes. Yes, I can hear you.” Mrs. Stone opened her eyes and gazed up into Harriet’s face. She frowned painfully. “What on earth? Oh, dear God. Now I remember. He was here, was he not? It was no nightmare. The Beast was here. In the flesh.”

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Stone. He has taken himself off.”

  Mrs. Stone’s eyes widened in renewed alarm. She clutched at Harriet’s arm, her bony fingers closing like a vice around Harriet’s wrist. “Be ye safe, Miss Harriet? Did that foul hellhound touch ye? I saw him looming over ye like a great monstrous serpent.”

  Harriet restrained her irritation. “There is absolutely no cause for concern, Mrs. Stone. He merely put his hand beneath my chin for the barest moment.”

  “Lord preserve us.” Mrs. Stone’s eyes fluttered shut again.

  At that moment Harriet heard the clatter of shoes on the front step and an instant later the door, which had been so firmly closed by the departing viscount, opened to reveal Euphemia Pomeroy and Harriet’s charmingly windblown sister, Felicity.

  Felicity was acknowledged by everyone in the neighborhood of Upper Biddleton to be a spectacular beauty, and with good reason. In addition to being extraordinarily lovely, she had a natural air of style and elegance that shone even in the financially reduced circumstances the Pomeroy sisters were obliged to endure.

  Today she was an enchantingly vivid sight in a flounced walking dress of bright green and white stripes. A dark green pelisse and a green, plumed bonnet completed her attire. She had light green eyes and golden blond hair, both of which she had inherited from her mother. The cut of her gown also underlined another asset that had been bequeathed by her maternal parent, a gloriously full bosom.

  Euphemia Pomeroy Ashecombe stepped into the hall first, stripping off her gloves. She had been widowed just before the death of her brother, the Reverend Pomeroy, and had landed on her nieces’ doorstep shortly thereafter. She was nearing fifty and had once been an acknowledged beauty herself. Harriet thought her still very attractive.

  The silver in Aunt Effie’s once dark hair was revealed as she removed her bonnet. The distinctive turquoise blue of the Pomeroy side of the family characterized her fine eyes, just as it did Harriet’s.

  Effie gazed at the fallen housekeeper with acute alarm. “Oh, dear. Not again.”

  Felicity came into the hall behind her aunt, closed the door, and glanced at Mrs. Stone. “Good heavens. Another bout of the vapors. What on earth caused it this time? Something more interesting than last time, I trust. On that occasion I believe she was felled by nothing more than the news that Lady Barker’s oldest daughter had managed to secure herself a wealthy merchant for a husband.”

  “Well, he was in trade, after all,” Aunt Effie reminded her. “You know very well that Mrs. Stone has a nice appreciation of the importance of maintaining one’s proper station in life. Annabelle Barker descended from a very good family. Mrs. Stone was quite right to feel the girl could have done better for herself than to marry a cit.”

  “If you ask me, Annabelle did very well indeed,” Felicity declared in her typically pragmatic manner. “Her husband dotes on her and has given her an unlimited allowance. They live in a fine house in London and have two carriages and lord only knows how many servants. Annabelle is set for life.”

  Harriet grinned as she held the vinaigrette under Mrs. Stone’s nose again. “And in addition to all that, one hears that Annabelle is also madly in love with her rich merchant. I agree with you, Felicity. She has not done so badly. But do not expect Aunt Effie and our Mrs. Stone to ever see it from our point of view.”

  “No good will come of that alliance,” Aunt Effie predicted. “It never pays to allow a young girl to follow her heart. Especially when it takes her straight down the social ladder.”

  “So you have frequently told us, Aunt Effie.” Felicity considered Mrs. Stone. “Well, what did happen this time?”

  Before Harriet could respond, Mrs. Stone blinked and sat up with a painful effort. “The Beast of Blackthorne Hall is back,” she intoned.

  “Good lord,” Effie said, amazed. “What on earth is she talking about?”

  “The demon has returned to the scene of his crime,” Mrs. Stone continued.

  “Who in the world is the Beast of Blackthorne Hall?” Felicity asked.

  “St. Justin.” Mrs. Stone moaned. “How dare he? How dare he come back here? And how dare he threaten Miss Harriet?”

  Felicity glanced at Harriet, eyes wide with interest. “Good heavens. Viscount St. Justin was here?”

  “Yes, he was,” Harriet admitted.

  Aunt Effie’s mouth fell open. “The viscount was here? Right here in this house?”

  “That is correct,” Harriet said. “Now, Aunt Effie, if you and Felicity will kindly restrain your astonishment, perhaps we can see about getting Mrs. Stone back on her feet.”

  “Harriet, I do not want to believe this,” Aunt Effie said in a horrified voice. “Are you telling me that the most important landholder in this district, an actual viscount who is in line for an earldom, paid a call upon us and you received him dressed as you are now? Wearing that filthy old apron and that ghastly gown that should have been redyed months ago?”


  “He just happened to be passing by,” Harriet explained, trying for a blithe tone.

  “Just happened to be passing by?” Felicity burst into laughter. “Really, Harriet, viscounts and the like never ‘just happen to be passing’ our little cottage.”

  “Why not?” Harriet demanded testily. “Blackthorne Hall is his home and it is not all that far from here.”

  “Viscount St. Justin has never even bothered to come to Upper Biddleton, let alone pass by our house, in the entire five years we’ve lived here. Indeed, Papa said he only met St. Justin’s father, the earl himself, a single time. That was in London when Hardcastle appointed him rector and gave him the living of this parish.”

  “Felicity, you must take my word for it. St. Justin was indeed here and it was a simple social call,” Harriet said firmly. “It seems perfectly natural to me that he would pay a visit to his family’s estates in this district.”

  “They say in the village that St. Justin never comes to Upper Biddleton. That he hates the sight of the place.” Aunt Effie fanned herself with her hand. “Good heavens. I do believe I feel a bit faintish myself. A viscount here in this cottage. Just imagine.”

  “I would not be so taken with the notion, if I was ye, Mrs. Ashecombe.” Mrs. Stone gave Effie a dark, woman-to-woman look. “He put his hands on Miss Harriet. I saw him. Thank the good Lord I walked into the study just in time.”

  “Just in time for what?” Felicity’s interest was obviously piqued.

  “Never ye mind, Miss Felicity. Ye be too young to know about that sort o’ thing. Just ye be thankful I weren’t too late this time.”

  “Too late for what?” Felicity demanded.

  Harriet sighed.

  Aunt Effie frowned at her. “What did happen, Harriet, dear? We were not out of tea, or anything terrible like that, were we?”

  “No, we were not out of tea, although I did not think to offer him any,” Harriet admitted.

  “You did not offer him tea? A viscount came to call and you did not think to offer him refreshment?” Aunt Effie’s expression was one of genuine shock now. “Harriet, whatever am I going to do with you? Have you no social graces at all?”

  “I want to know what happened,” Felicity interrupted swiftly. “What is all this about the man putting his hands on you, Harriet?”

  “Nothing happened and nothing at all was going to happen,” Harriet snapped. “The man did not put his hands on me.” Belatedly she recalled her chin perched on the edge of the viscount’s huge fist and the grim look of warning in his tawny eyes. “Well, he may have put a hand on me, but only briefly. Nothing to speak of, I assure you.”

  “Harriet.” Felicity was clearly enthralled now. “Do tell us everything.”

  But it was Mrs. Stone who responded. “Bold as the devil, he was.” Her work-worn hands twisted in the folds of her apron as her eyes glowed with righteous indignation. “Thinks he can get away with anything. The Beast has no shame at all.” She sniffed.

  Harriet scowled at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Stone, please do not start crying.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Harriet.” Mrs. Stone made another little snuffling noise and wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “’Tis just that seem’ him again after all these years brought back so many dreadful memories.”

  “What memories?” Felicity asked with avid curiosity.

  “Memories of my beautiful little Miss Deirdre.” Mrs. Stone dabbed at her eyes.

  “Who was Deirdre?” Aunt Effie demanded. “Your daughter?”

  Mrs. Stone gulped back tears. “No, she weren’t my kin. She was much too fine to be related to the likes of me. She was the Reverend Rushton’s one and only child. I looked after her.”

  “Rushton.” Aunt Effie reflected briefly. “Oh, yes. The previous rector of this parish. The one my dear brother replaced.”

  Mrs. Stone nodded. Her narrow mouth trembled. “Miss Deirdre was all the reverend had after her sweet mama died. Miss Deirdre brought joy and sunshine into this house, she did. Until the Beast destroyed her.”

  “Beast?” Felicity’s expression was similar to the one she wore when she read one of her favorite novels of gothic horror. “You mean Viscount St. Justin? He destroyed Deirdre Rushton? How?”

  “That lecherous monster,” Mrs. Stone muttered, dabbing at her eyes again.

  “Gracious.” Aunt Effie looked stunned. “The viscount ruined the girl? Really, Mrs. Stone. One can hardly credit such a notion. The man is a gentleman, after all. Heir to an earldom. And she was a rector’s daughter.”

  “He weren’t no gentleman,” Mrs. Stone stated.

  Harriet lost patience. She turned on her exasperating housekeeper. “Mrs. Stone, I believe we have had quite enough of your dramatics for one day. You may return to the kitchens.”

  Mrs. Stone’s watery eyes filled with anguish. “’Tis true, Miss Harriet. That man killed my little Miss Deirdre just as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger on that pistol himself.”

  “Pistol?” Harriet stared at her.

  There was a moment of shocked silence in the hall. Effie was speechless. Even Felicity seemed unable to phrase another question.

  Harriet’s mouth went dry. “Mrs. Stone,” she finally said very carefully, “are you telling us that Viscount St. Justin killed a former occupant of this house? Because if so, I am afraid I must tell you that I cannot allow you to continue in your post here if you are going to say such awful things.”

  “But ’tis true, Miss Harriet. I swear it on my life. Oh, they all called it suicide, God rest her soul, but I know he drove her to it. The Beast of Blackthorne Hall is as guilty as sin and everyone in this village knows it.”

  “Good heavens,” Felicity breathed.

  “There must be some mistake,” Aunt Effie whispered.

  But Harriet looked straight into Mrs. Stone’s eyes and saw at once that the woman was telling the truth, at least as far as she knew it. Harriet felt suddenly ill. “How on earth did St. Justin manage to drive Deirdre Rushton to suicide?”

  “They was engaged to be married,” Mrs. Stone said in a low voice. “That was before he came into his title. Gideon Westbrook’s older brother, Randal, was still alive, you see. It was Randal who was the old earl’s heir then, of course. Such a fine gentleman, he was. A true and noble heir for the Earl of Hardcastle. A man worthy of following in his lordship’s footsteps.”

  “Unlike the Beast?” Felicity asked.

  Mrs. Stone gave her a strange look and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some even say Gideon Westbrook killed his own brother to get the title and the estates.”

  “This is fascinating,” Felicity murmured.

  “Unbelievable.” Aunt Effie appeared dazed.

  “If you want my opinion, it is obviously all rubbish,” Harriet announced. But inwardly she was aware of a cold sensation in the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Stone believed every word of what she was saying. The woman had a pronounced flare for the dramatic, but Harriet had known the housekeeper long enough to be certain she was basically honest.

  “’Tis true enough,” Mrs. Stone said grimly. “I promise ye that.”

  “Go on, Mrs. Stone. Tell us how the Beast—I mean the viscount—drove the lady to suicide,” Felicity urged.

  Harriet gave up any effort to forestall the story. She straightened her spine, telling herself it was always best to know the facts. “Yes, Mrs. Stone. Having told us this much, you may as well confide the rest. What, precisely, did happen to Deirdre Rushton?”

  Mrs. Stone’s hands tightened into fists. “He forced himself upon her. Ravished her, he did, like the Beast he is. Got her with child, he did. Used her for his own lecherous purposes. But instead of doing the proper thing and marrying her, he cast her aside. T’weren’t no secret. Just ask anyone around the district.”

  Aunt Effie and Felicity were silent in stunned disbelief.

  “Oh, my God.” Harriet sat down abruptly on a small, padded bench. She realized she was clasping her hands so tightly to
gether her fingers hurt. She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. “Are you quite certain of this, Mrs. Stone? He really did not seem the type, you know. In fact, I … I rather liked him.”

  “What would you know of the type of man who would do such a thing?” Aunt Effie asked with irrefutable logic. “You have never had occasion to meet one of that sort. You did not even have a Season because my brother, rest his soul, did not leave us enough money to finance one for you. Perhaps if you had gone to Town and been exposed to a bit more of the world, you would have learned that one cannot always distinguish that sort of man at a glance.”

  “You are probably quite right, Aunt Effie.” Harriet knew she was obliged to admit that what her aunt was saying was nothing less than the truth. She really did not have any practical knowledge of the kind of man who would ravish an innocent young woman and then abandon her. “One hears stories, of course, but it is obviously not the same as having direct experience of that sort of man, is it?”

  “You would hardly wish for practical experience,” Felicity pointed out. She turned back to Mrs. Stone. “Pray, continue with the tale.”

  “Yes,” said Harriet morosely. “You may as well tell us all, Mrs. Stone.”

  Mrs. Stone lifted her chin and looked at Harriet and Felicity with watering eyes. “Like I was sayin’, Gideon Westbrook was the second son of the Earl of Hardcastle.”

  “So he was not a viscount then,” Felicity murmured.

  “Of course not,” Aunt Effie put in with her usual air of authority on such matters. “He held no titles at the time because he was only a second son. His older brother would have been the viscount.”

  “I know, Aunt Effie. Do continue, Mrs. Stone.”

  “The Beast wanted my sweet Miss Deirdre the first moment he saw her when she made her come-out in London. The Reverend Rushton had scraped together everything he had to give her one Season and the Beast was the one who offered for her first.”

  “So Rushton decided he’d better grab what he could get, was that it?” Harriet asked.

  Mrs. Stone glowered at her. “The reverend told Miss Deirdre she would have to accept the offer. The Beast had no title but he had money and family connections. It was an excellent match, he said.”