Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (24 page)

“Yes.”

“Come here, would you? I must speak with you.”

Helen’s feet were frozen to the floor. She wanted to go to Miranda, but she couldn’t move. Her heart was hammering, her ears ringing. What was happening?

Miranda seemed to be lying in James’s bed, but the notion was so upsetting that Helen couldn’t accept it.

“Miss Stewart!” Miranda impatiently barked. “Oh, never mind. I’ll come out there.”

Helen watched as Miranda tossed back the blankets and slid to the rug.

Shortly, she was leaned against the doorframe, a sly smile on her lips. She was attired in James’s robe, the front loosely draped so Helen could see she wore nothing underneath. Her hair—typically arranged in a tidy bun—was flowing down her back. She looked mussed and adorable, a woman who’d just entertained her lover—or who was about to.

“What did you need?” Helen fought to remain composed, to conceal her anguish and confusion.

“After living through all the drama when his mother left, James hates scenes, so he asked me to deal with you—so he doesn’t have to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s letting you go.”

“Letting me...go?”

“Yes.”

Helen scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’m making it up?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I?”

“Because you loathe me, and while he’s out of town, you see a perfect chance to get rid of me.”

Miranda rolled her eyes as if Helen was a nuisance.

“He wrote you a letter. You may not wish to believe
me
, but you can hardly ignore his own orders.”

Miranda walked to his desk, and she riffled through his papers as if she did it all the time, as if she had every right.

“Where is that blasted note?” she asked more to herself than Helen. “Ah...here we are.”

Miranda held it out, but Helen couldn’t make herself reach for it.

She swallowed, licked her bottom lip. “What does it say?”

“I’m not your slave. Read it yourself.”

Miranda flung it on the desk, then went to a sofa and sat down, reclining on the arm, her robe flopping open as a reminder that she wasn’t dressed. She appeared very comfortable, as if she often lazed on that very couch in a state of dishabille.

Helen evaluated her, pondering the spectacle, anxious to ascertain what was true, what was real.

“Why are you in here, Miranda?” she finally inquired.

“Why would you suppose? And it’s
Miss Wilson
to you, you disrespectful tart.”

“I’d like an answer to my question.”

“Let’s be frank, shall we?”

“Let’s do.”

“You know why I’m in here. You
know
. You’ve known all along. You saw it from the beginning.”

“Saw what?”

“Our flirtation. That’s why I wanted you gone so badly. I didn’t want anyone to recognize what was transpiring. But with the news we received today, there’s no need for us to keep pretending.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’ve been engaged to Tristan, but James and I have always had a special bond.” The sly smile was back. “For months now, we’ve been discussing how we might end my betrothal, but we couldn’t figure out how without hurting Tristan.”

“And...?”

“I’m very sorry to report that Tristan is deceased.”

“What? No!”

“Mr. Bramwell found clear evidence: Tristan is dead.”

Helen’s knees gave out, and she sank into a nearby chair. “But Westwood didn’t say a word to me.”

“To
you
? Why would he have?”

Fumbling for a reply, Helen mumbled, “No reason, I guess.”

She stared at her lap, reeling, as she tried to imagine James leaving without telling her of the tragedy.

“Will he...will he...be bringing the body home for burial?”

“Yes, that’s why he traveled to Portsmouth. To bring Tristan home.” Miranda paused. She was smug, gloating. “So you see, Miss Stewart, I’m no longer betrothed. My fiancé has perished, so I am free to marry someone else.”

“Are you claiming your husband is to be Lord Westwood?”

“We settled everything last night.” Miranda simpered with triumph. “You’re aware that I’m an heiress, Miss Stewart.”

“Of course I am.”

“And you realize that James is desperate for money. He’ll have all of mine—in just a few days.”

Helen gasped. “You’ve already scheduled the wedding?”

Miranda glanced toward the bedroom. “Now that we’ve...ah...forged ahead, we dare not put it off.”

Helen tried to respond but couldn’t, so Miranda continued.

“I am about to be Countess of Westwood, which means that
I
shall determine what happens in this household. My initial decision is that
you
shall not work here.”

“Lord Westwood wouldn’t want me to leave.”

“Wouldn’t he? This morning, before he left, he said that he was so pleased with our evening together that he was eager to give me a gift. He said that I could have whatever was within his power to bestow.”

“What did you pick?”

“I told him that my choice was to have you fired. So read his letter, then go away.”

Helen was stunned to the core of her soul, and she attempted to stand, but her legs simply wouldn’t support her. She studied Miranda, searching for a crack in her calm demeanor, but if she was lying, there was no indication of it, not by the smallest, most minuscule sign.

Helen’s pulse thudded with alarm. Would James do this to her? Would he treat her this way?

Like a silly fool, she’d fallen in love with him, and she’d convinced herself that he loved her too, yet he’d never professed anything resembling heightened regard. Since she was thoroughly besotted, might her infatuation have blinded her to the truth?

“Miss Stewart!” Miranda snapped. “What is wrong with you? Are you deaf? Read your bloody letter, then get out of here!”

Helen lurched to her feet and staggered over to the desk. She felt dizzy, as if the world had shifted off its axis, and she could barely keep her balance.

Grabbing the paper, she gaped at it. She was familiar with James’s handwriting, so she knew it was from him. There was no salutation, but after scanning the first sentence, she had no doubt that the words had been drafted specifically for her.

You haven’t been with me long
, he’d penned,
so I had hoped to continue on with you, but I’ve learned that your presence is causing conflict with the other servants. During such a difficult period, I can’t have so much upheaval in my home, and I agree with Miss Wilson. Changes must be made immediately
.

Helen knew that the staff gossiped, that they viewed her as a doxy, but she couldn’t understand why James would care.

He was notoriously untroubled by the opinions of others, so the statement was out of character, but his decree was plainly visible and easy to comprehend. What was she to think?

I’m very sorry to notify you this way
, he concluded
, but it wasn’t meant to be. I would appreciate it if you would be gone before I return. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors
.

He’d signed it simply
Westwood
.

She clutched the document in her fist and held it over her heart. His remarks were so cold, so impersonal. Everything about it seemed peculiar, and she couldn’t decide what to do.

She yearned to ask James
why
, yearned to look him in the eye and make him tell her—to her face—that it was over between them.

“Do you believe me now, Miss Stewart?”

“No.”

Miranda snorted with disgust. “I don’t know how James could have been any clearer.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why? You’re my companion, and I’m about to marry. Your position was only to last until my wedding. Why would he keep you beyond that date?”

Miranda pulled a pouch from the pocket of the robe, and she pitched it over onto the desk. Coins clinked as it landed in front of Helen.

“What’s this?” Helen inquired, gawking as if it was a venomous snake.

“Contrary to my advice, he’s paying you a stipend to see you on your way.”

“A stipend?”

“I was very much against it, but he insisted.”

He was paying her for services rendered! He was treating her like the lowest sort of prostitute, and the gesture was the most cruel, most callous thing anyone had ever done to her.

She started to cry, tears flowing down her cheeks. While she hated to give Miranda the satisfaction of witnessing her distress, she couldn’t keep them at bay. She was too bereft.

“For goodness sake, Miss Stewart! Are you crying? You never wanted to work here, and you detest me. James has finally set you free, yet you’re blubbering like a baby. I don’t understand you.”

“He’ll be angry if I leave.”

“You grow more annoying by the second. Please get out before I lose my temper.”

“I really think I should wait and talk to him.”

“He won’t be back for over a week.”

“But—”

“Miss Stewart, if you don’t go—this instant!—I shall call for the footmen and have them toss you out in the street without so much as a change of petticoat.”

They engaged in a staring match that Helen couldn’t win. She was merely an employee while Miranda was Westwood’s rich cousin and—if she was to be believed—his betrothed and soon to be his countess.

Helen considered arguing, but the fact that she was immersed in a clandestine affair with Westwood gave her no authority to put her foot down.

Who was she to quarrel with Miranda Wilson? She couldn’t exactly announce that she should stay on because she was Westwood’s mistress. It simply wasn’t done—especially to his ward who seemed to be totally unaware of the liaison.

She turned and headed for the door.

“Don’t forget your money,” Miranda said. “James has been more than fair, and I don’t want you flitting about London, claiming he didn’t provide you with a severance.”

Helen was about to decline the coins, to throw them back in Miranda’s smug face, but until she found a new job, she would need every penny.

She grabbed the pouch and went to pack her bag.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Harriet! Harriet! Where are you?”

From far off, Tristan was shouting. At the sound of alarm in his voice, her heart pounded. What could it be?

She’d been washing in the stream, and she leapt up and ran toward the hut.

“Tristan! I’m here! I’m coming!”

She arrived and peeked inside, but he wasn’t there, so she kept on down the path to the beach where she met him dashing up out of the dunes.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ll never believe it. There’s a ship out in the bay.”

“A...ship?”

She repeated the word
ship
as if she’d never heard it before, as if she was a dullard who didn’t comprehend its definition.

“Yes, a ship! It’s dropped anchor.”

“Are they...coming ashore?”

“It looks like it.”

“Do you...think they’re here for...us?”

“I don’t know why they’re here, but they are.”

“You’re sure you’re not imagining it?”

“No. It’s very real.”

“It’s not pirates, is it? It’s not your half-brother hoping to finish his mischief?”

“They’re flying a British flag.” He extended his hand. “Come! Come and see!”

She was afraid to grab hold, for when she did, their idyll would be over, and she wasn’t ready for it to end.

She wanted a few more hours, a few more days, to have him all to herself. While he’d claimed they’d always be together, she knew that—once they were back in London—it would never happen. Their lives would be irrevocably altered to the positions they’d previously occupied.

He would once again be a famous sea captain and earl’s brother while she would be a disowned, dispossessed housemaid wanted for theft and attempted murder. There would be no place for her in his world.

Giving her no time to acclimate, he linked their fingers and took off, practically dragging her behind him, and he kept going until they were at the water’s edge.

There—like an apparition—was a three-masted schooner. On the deck, men were milling about, lowering a longboat down the side.

Tristan jumped up and down, hollering and waving his arms, and although it wasn’t necessary, he raced up the hill and threw more logs on the signal fire.

She peered out at the vessel, and the captain stood near the bow, watching Tristan through a telescope. He barked some orders, then climbed down the ropes and dropped into the longboat. With several sailors pulling at the oars, they started toward shore.

Tristan loped over to stand with her. He was laughing and crying, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I can’t believe it,” he kept repeating. “I can’t believe it. I thought we’d never be found.”

He danced her round and round in a circle, and she joined in. His merriment was catching, and it was impossible to remain unmoved.

The boat came closer and closer, and finally, it was riding the waves to glide up to the sand. The captain vaulted into the water, wet to the tops of his boots, and he strode over. Feet braced, fists on hips, he studied Tristan, taking in his shaggy hair and beard, his bared torso, tanned skin, and faded drawers.

“Harcourt,” he said, grinning, “where the hell have you been?”

“Aiden Bramwell? If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!”

“Have you any idea how big this bloody ocean is? I feel as if I’ve scoured every corner of it—looking just for you.”

“I’ve been waiting right here. What took you so damn long?”

“My God, man, we’d all given you up for dead!”

“As you can see, I’m very much alive.”

“Well, there are many, many people who will be relieved to hear it.”

Bramwell marched over to Tristan, and like the old friends they apparently were, he clasped Tristan in a tight hug.

As to Harriet, reality slapped her in the face. Tristan didn’t so much as glance at her, and neither did Bramwell. He wasn’t curious about her presence, didn’t ask her name or condition. He didn’t say anything at all. She might have been invisible to the two of them. But not to Bramwell’s crew.