Jacqueline Navin - The Sleeping Beauty

She could easily guess why he was here—that didn’t require any particular feat of brilliance. There was only one reason a man, any man, would travel to the northernmost regions of the country looking for her. A fortune hunter, then, ready with soft words and fawning praise. They had come before.

This one was different, however. He didn’t seem the sly type who thought to win her with simpering compliments and false affections. This man had an edge to him, a hardness that wasn’t completely tamed by his impeccable manners. He had dark hair, and eyes dark as sin that pierced her with incredulity, betraying his less than complimentary thoughts. His face was strong boned, with a square jaw and a straight, proud nose that gave him a certain presence. Not a pretty man, yet he exuded a virility that was indeed quite powerful.

That sensuously curved mouth said nothing, but she knew what he thought. Self-consciously she touched her wildly tousled hair and wondered if she had dirt on her face. The sudden anxiety over her appearance jarred her. It had been a long time since she had cared about such things.

Well, damn him! Dropping her hand, she told herself he was just a cheap swindler dressed in a nice coat.

“Father?” She forced out the words through a throat suddenly gone dry. “Please do not permit this man inside our home.”

George Rathford looked at her, puzzled. “But he’s already in, child. What are you about?”

“You can see I am in no condition to receive anyone,” Helena protested. “Look at me! We were at work in the cellars.”

The gentleman now turned to Lord Rathford and executed a correct bow. “My lord, I am honored to make your acquaintance. I am Adam Mannion, Esquire. At your service.”

She narrowed her eyes critically as he paid respects to her father. Even as he bent at the waist in a cursory bow, he held his head at an arrogant angle. He had in him a reluctance to humble himself before a peer, as if there were a bit of a rebel residing behind those polite words.

She triumphantly awaited her father’s response. If she had guessed this Adam Mannion’s game, surely her father would be quicker to know it. George Rathford did not suffer fools.

“I have come to speak with your daughter—”

Her father cut him off. “My daughter? Helena, do you know this man?”

“No, Father. I was attempting to get him to leave when you came upon us.”

Swinging around, the old man groused, “It’s too damned dark in here. Why are all the windows shuttered? I can’t see the fellow.”

The Irishwoman spoke. “The sunshine makes dust motes, my lord. It is easier to keep the house this way.”

“Damnation.” Rathford peered again at Adam. “Want to see my daughter, eh?”

“If it is convenient,” came the bland reply.

Helena saw her father chewing on the inside of his lip. It was a sign he was thinking. His rheumy eyes focused on her for a moment, then shifted back to the man. “It doesn’t seem that the gel wants to see you.”

“I…I noticed that, my lord.”

“Women can be hard, Mannion. You know about women?”

Helena was stunned. This was not the curt dismissal she had anticipated. There was even a glimmer of amusement on the old man’s lined face.

Mr. Adam Mannion, Esquire relaxed. “Not enough, I’m afraid.” What a clever response.

“Ah, who does?” Lord Rathford paused again, taking his time to consider the man before him. “Why don’t you come into my study, since you’ve traveled all this way and Helena won’t receive you? I’m of a mind to wet my throat a bit. You might be in need of a nip yourself.”

Helen gasped. “Father!”

Mr. Mannion, Esquire, stopped and turned to peer at her over his shoulder as he followed Lord Rathford. His dark eyes nearly twinkled and the thick slashes above them lifted tauntingly. He said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to await your turn, my lady.”

And then he joined her father as they entered a paneled door off to the right, the one that led into her father’s masculine retreat, the library.

She looked at Kimberly. The Irish servant’s eyes were narrowed as she stared at the closed door. Helena grew frightened at that look. She was afraid of Kimberly.

To her utter dread, the servant turned that thoughtful gaze on Helena.

“Come upstairs,” Kimberly ordered.

“Sit down,” Rathford ordered gruffly.

If Adam was bewildered by the man’s abrupt change of mood, he knew he had better not show it. Selecting a chair, he slouched slightly and crossed his ankle on his knee. Propping his elbows on the armrests, he weaved his fingers together over his chest.

This room was only a bit more cheery than the cold hospitality offered in the shadow-shrouded hall. There was light, at least. Lots of books, gray as ghosts with thick layers of dust on them, lined every shelf. The furniture was comfortable, though, constructed of studded leather that softly absorbed the body’s weight.

Rathford filled a tumbler with whiskey. “Are you of a mind for whiskey or port?”

“Whiskey will be fine.” Adam looked around him. “Thank you for giving me your time and your hospitality. It’s comfortable in here.”

Rathford scowled at him and drawled sarcastically, “I am so glad you like it.”

Adam took the jab without retort.

“I could ask you what you want with Helena, but you’d probably tell me a heap of manure.” Handing him the whiskey, Rathford took a seat by the window and looked out at the ravaged garden. “So let me tell you what you want with Helena. You want her fortune.”

Adam, who had been taking his first sip of the whiskey, nearly choked. Rathford smiled, never taking his gaze off the window. “She knows it, too. Do you think you’re the first? Well, you ain’t, boy. And you can forget trying to charm her. She’ll have nothing to do with you.”

Adam didn’t reply at first. Running his forefinger across his top lip thoughtfully, he asked, “Then why not just send me away?”

“Because I may have some use for you, you arrogant pup.”

The bitterness of the old man’s response gave Adam pause. “What is it you want?”

Rathford started to laugh. Glancing at Adam, he raised his glass. “Why, the same goddamned thing as you do.”

Adam puzzled over that one, but refused to rise to the bait and ask the old curmudgeon what he meant.

“I see you know when to shut up and listen,” Rathford said after a while. “I like that. It’s something, at least. A man hopes to have some respect for the man his daughter marries.” Rathford glared at him. “You came here to marry her, didn’t you?”

There was no sense in prevaricating. “Y-yes,” he managed to reply.

“You need money?”

Adam tossed back a hearty gulp of the whiskey. “Yes.”

“What is it? Demanding mistress? Gambling debts? Too much drinking?”

“The fickle blessings of Lady Luck have deserted me at this time,” Adam said carefully. “My skill at the tables has proved inadequate without it.”

“Cards? Horses? Or are you not particular?”

Adam shrugged. “Mostly cards. I’m usually good enough to live off my winnings, but lately I’ve run into a bit of trouble.”

“How deep?”

“Four thousand.”

“Good God. Well, it would have to be a goodly sum to hie you all the way up here.” Rathford drew in a deep breath and expelled it, as if bracing himself for a particularly difficult duty. “You can have five thousand to cover your debts. I can give it to you today. Another fifteen hundred each quarter with which to amuse yourself. You might be able to use that if your ‘bit of trouble’ continues.”

A hot flood of excitement spread through Adam like a stain on linen. “I could use it even so.”