CHAPTER TWO
“Any news about Father?”
Helen peered over at her sister, Becky, and shook her head. “I didn’t have a chance to check many of the taverns though.”
“Why not?”
“There was a bit of an incident.”
“What sort of incident?”
“I was accosted by a trio of drunken sailors.”
“Helen! Don’t say so.”
Helen waved a weary hand. “They were simply flirting, and it grew a tad…strident.”
“Strident!”
“I could have extricated myself, but a British gentleman ran them off for me. After that, I didn’t feel like continuing.”
“Who was the gentleman?”
“I didn’t catch his name.”
“You should have. In this wretched spot, it would have been beneficial to make his acquaintance.”
“Perhaps.”
Or perhaps not.
Helen smiled a tight smile and hung her bonnet on a hook. They’d managed to rent accommodations that weren’t horrid. There was a tiny bedchamber and a sitting room with a door that opened onto a bricked courtyard. There were shade trees, a bench, and a fountain that gurgled with tepid water, so it supplied them with more space than they might have had.
The ceiling was low, the floor packed dirt, and shutters deflected some of the heat. Under the circumstances, it was better than she might have anticipated.
Normally, she wouldn’t have been upset by the dastardly episode she’d endured out on the street, but her nerves were frayed and her anxiety spiraling.
She shouldn’t have travelled to the Canary Islands. She shouldn’t have come, but as usual, her father had convinced her to trust him. How many times had she listened to him? How many times had disaster struck because she wasn’t wary?
Her father was very charming, the type of roué every woman wanted to save, and she was an obedient, fond daughter. She tried to heed him, to have faith in him, but she’d just turned twenty-five. She couldn’t use the excuse that she was naïve or immature and thus blind to his faults.
She had to face the fact that her father—defrocked vicar, Simon Barnes—was an unreliable, dishonest scoundrel. He would do anything to anyone. He’d proved over and over that moral conduct was beyond him.
There was a facet missing in his personality that should have kept him on the straight and narrow, which certainly indicated that a career in the ministry had been a very misguided choice.
He was a silver-tongued, flamboyant devil, but he was also a blatant philanderer who had a sordid history of misbehavior with females in his various parishes. When Helen’s mother had still been with them, she’d tamped down his worst impulses, but she’d died birthing Becky.
Since then, Simon had been out of control, and church authorities had dealt with his scandals by moving him from parish to parish to conceal his proclivities—until they couldn’t be hidden any longer. He’d been fired and kicked out.
“I thought we could search for him again this evening,” Helen said, “when it’s not so hot. Would you accompany me?”
“Of course. I should have been with you this time.”
“The temperature is sweltering.”
“I wish we could buy some dresses that weren’t sewn from such a heavy fabric.”
“It would be splendid, Becky, but I can’t figure out how we’d afford it.”
Her father had always brimmed with plans and ideas. After he’d committed his final sin and had been relieved of his duties for good, they’d been in dire straits.
Ultimately, he’d signed on with the Evangelical Missionary Society. The group hired ministers to spread the gospel to native people around the globe, but they must not have been very picky as to who they employed. They couldn’t have checked his references. He didn’t have any.
The position had sounded like an answer to their prayers. He’d been assigned to a small chapel on the island of Tenerife, and he’d been given a cottage that would serve as a rectory and where they could all live.
He’d journeyed to the island by himself to verify the conditions, then he’d sent funds for Helen and Becky to join him in the foreign locale.
Helen hadn’t hesitated. It had seemed prudent to leave the country, to start over in a new place where no one was aware of Simon’s inclinations. And he didn’t know how to do anything except preach and counsel and pray.
She and Becky had sailed at once, stupidly assuming all their difficulties were about to vanish. But Simon wasn’t in Santa Cruz. Or if he was, they couldn’t find him. There was a chapel owned by the Missionary Society, but another pastor and his family were there, and they claimed they’d never heard of Simon Barnes.
Helen had been hunting for him for an entire month and had spent nearly all of the funds he’d provided. She was down to her last farthings and couldn’t guess what would become of them after her purse was completely empty.
She would like to wring her father’s neck.
“Did you bring any food?” Becky asked.
“There was no opportunity to shop, and I don’t really have any money. We’ll scrounge up a bite when we’re out later.”
“I’m hungry now,” Becky protested. “I can’t wait until later.”
“I’m hoarding my pennies so we can book passage to the next island over. He might be there.”
“You can’t believe that, Helen. Will we search island by island? There are a dozen or more, and we’re strangers in a strange land. How is that a practical decision?”
Helen agreed it was a mad scheme, but she couldn’t bear to be chastised. “Oh, Becky, please don’t badger me. I’m so fatigued.”
Becky was sixteen, idle, and lazy. Her goal was to flirt and woo so she could snag a husband, and she would bat her lashes at any handsome boy. No doubt about it, she had too much of their father’s blood running in her veins and not any of their mother’s.
Mostly, she declined to exit the hotel where the tropical sun might shine on her pristine skin. She passed the long, slow days lounging on the bed in the bedchamber with a cool cloth over her eyes while Helen shouldered all their burdens. In their convoluted relationship, it was their typical mode of carrying on.
Helen staggered to the chair and plopped down. Her stomach growled just from thinking about food, and she was very close to bursting into tears. But what good would it do to weep?
She merely had to dig up some evidence of where Simon was hiding. He’d definitely been on Tenerife. The postage on his letter confirmed it, and if he was laying low, he’d likely already caused trouble and was staying out of sight. She had to keep a visible profile so he’d learn that she’d arrived.
In the interim, she had to accumulate some method whereby they could eat occasionally then—if Simon was never located—head back to England.
The language in the islands was Spanish, coupled with a native tongue she couldn’t pronounce. She couldn’t speak either one, which made it impossible to explain her predicament or garner any assistance. She ought to be out applying for a job, but she had no skills. She’d only ever taken care of her father and his many rectories.
She recalled the gentleman who’d rescued her out on the street. He’d been English, and she might have prevailed on him, but he’d been so arrogant and rude. After reeling through her father’s many ordeals, she’d had enough of men blustering and ordering her about.
“I’m sorry, Helen.” Becky looked chastened, but not very much. “I don’t mean to nag.”
Yes, you do. “We have to continue searching while we stretch the last of our money as far as we can.”
“We never should have come here,” Becky griped for the thousandth time. “We knew better than to trust him.”
“He’s our father,” Helen loyally stated, “and we had no other option. How could we have refused?”
“We had an option. You should have accepted Cousin Desdemona’s offer.”
“Probably.”
Their cousin, Desdemona Henley, had stumbled into a windfall by marrying her husband, Jasper. He’d been a distant heir to the Middlebury earldom, but hadn’t expected to ever inherit. The prior earl had been hale and healthy, his son too.
Then they’d both perished in an accident, and suddenly, Jasper had ascended to the title. Desdemona had risen on the tide that lifted him up. She was very snooty now, very pretentious, but she was a spendthrift and shrew who was hard on her servants so they quit in droves.
When Simon had been fired, and Helen frantic, Desdemona had suggested she travel to Middlebury and work—for free—as her housekeeper. Cousin Des had told her she could bring Becky too, so they’d have had a place to live.
With how condescending Desdemona had become, none of their Barnes kin could stand her, and Helen hadn’t imagined she could abide being under Des’s thumb. She’d avoided the horrid fate by her father begging her to join him on Tenerife.
Yet she should have remained in England. She should have saved herself and her sister. She should have humiliated herself by toiling away as the housekeeper in her cousin’s grand mansion.
Why did she always choose exactly the wrong path?
“I bet Cousin Des hasn’t found anyone else,” Becky said. “You know how awful she is to work for. Who would put up with her besides you? Why don’t you write her?”
“How would I pay for the postage, Becky? And it would take months for her to receive a letter, then reply. How would we support ourselves as we waited for her answer?”
“I’m just trying to help, Helen,” Becky snottily retorted. “You don’t have to shoot down my every idea.”
“Let’s not quarrel.”
“All right.” Becky sighed with frustration. “I guess I’ll…I’ll…lie down. I can’t bear this heat.”
“Yes, have a nap. I’ll wake you later, and we’ll walk through the town again.”
Before Becky could flounce off, there was a knock on the door, and it startled them. In the weeks they’d been at the hotel, no one had ever knocked.
“Could it be Father?” Becky whispered.
Helen leapt to her feet, her anticipation nearly too painful, as Becky hurried over and peeked out. It wasn’t Simon, and they sagged with disappointment.
A young man was there instead, and he was about Becky’s age. With his black hair and blue eyes, he was incredibly handsome, which was vastly annoying. Becky would be enthralled, and before the hour was out, she’d be planning her wedding.
“Miss Barnes?” he said to Becky.
“Yes, I’m Miss Barnes. I’m Becky Barnes.” She gestured to Helen. “This is my sister, Helen.”
He held out a basket. “It’s from Nine Lives.”
Becky raised a brow at Helen, then asked him, “Who might that be?”
“He met your sister earlier. She mentioned you’re new to Tenerife, and he thought you might enjoy a sampling of some of the local cheeses and wine.” They gaped at him, and he extended the basket. “It’s a gift.”
The comment shook Becky out of her stupor. “Marvelous. Let me take it from you.”
She set it on the table as he added, “There’s a note too. For your sister? I’m to wait for a reply.”
Becky snatched it up and brought it to Helen. Helen was so astonished that she sank onto her chair. Then she flicked the seal and read the words that had been penned.
“What does he want?” Becky impatiently asked.
“He’s invited me to supper.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, at eight—after it’s cooler.” Helen scowled at her sister. “I don’t suppose I ought.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Didn’t he rescue you from brigands?”
“Yes, but we haven’t been introduced.”
Becky rolled her eyes. “We’re not in a finicky London ballroom, Helen.”
“I realize we’re not.”
“The fussy rules that previously guided us no longer apply.”
“That’s the sort of rationalization Father might have spewed.”
“Well, it’s true. The rules have flown out the window.”
“He signed it Nine Lives,” Helen complained. “What kind of name is that?”
“Who cares? He speaks English, and he’s from England.” Becky turned to the young man. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Will Stone.”
“And how are you involved in this situation?”
“My father and Nine Lives are partners.”
“Ah…I see. Why is this gentleman called Nine Lives?”
“Because he’s had nine lives?”
“Of course,” Becky said. “Has he a real name?”
“Not one he uses in polite company.”
“Fine, then. Please tell Mr. Nine Lives—”
“It’s not mister. It’s just Nine Lives.”
“Tell Nine Lives my sister is thrilled by his invitation, and she would be honored to have supper with him tonight. At eight.”
“Perfect.”
“Becky!” Helen scolded. “I didn’t agree.”
“No, and you’re being an idiot. As usual.” Becky spun to Will Stone, and she was practically twinkling. “Don’t listen to her. She’ll be ready at eight. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll inform Nine Lives it’s a date.”
“When he comes to fetch her, Mr. Stone,” Becky inquired, “will you be with him?”
“He doesn’t always let me, but I’ll ask.”
“I will waste away until then.”
“Becky!” Helen scolded again. “For pity’s sake.”
They ignored her. Mr. Stone grinned and Becky grinned too then—with a definite swagger in his stride—he sauntered out.
Becky shut the door behind him, and Helen sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Becky asked.
“I didn’t want to go to supper.”
“Why not?”
Helen wouldn’t discuss her champion from out on the street. She didn’t like to remember his broad shoulders, his long legs, his arms that had been muscled from constant strenuous endeavor.
He’d looked tough and dangerous, and it was obvious he knew how to thrive in such a desperate location. Weapons had dangled from his belt and shoulder. He’d had a pistol and a knife in sheaths at his waist, a sword strapped across his back, and there was no doubt that he could wield all of them with great skill.
His hair had been golden blond, his eyes a stunning blue, and in his presence, she’d been all jittery on the inside, had noticed herself in a feminine way she never had prior. She hadn’t liked the sensation one bit.
While standing next to him, she’d felt small and insignificant and in need of his protection, but she hated to ever lean on a man, to ever count on a man. She’d learned too many hard lessons—from her father—that a woman had to rely on herself.
Becky was tapping her foot, demanding an explanation, and Helen said, “He was rude and bossy, and I can’t abide a bossy male.”
“Yes, and that dour attitude of yours is why you’ll always be a spinster. Well, your attitude and our history. We’re awfully unfortunate in our choice of ancestor.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Was Nine Lives handsome?”
“Some women might think so.”
“Was he tall and dashing?”
“I guess.”
“So let me get this straight, Helen. You met a man who is handsome and dashing and British, and he’s anxious to take you to supper.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want to go…why? Because he’s bossy?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Did we—or did we not—just spend the past hour wondering how to solve our dilemma?”
“We did.”
“It seems to me that Nine Lives might turn out to be an angel sent from Heaven.”
“If you’d seen him, you wouldn’t say that.”
“What would I say?”
“He’s very likely the Devil in disguise.”
“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t!” Becky guffawed at what she viewed as her sharp wit. “Maybe I should join him. It’s clear you’re not interested. Should I volunteer?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s too much man for both of us.”
“He sounds as if he’s exactly my type.”
“Trust me, he’s not.”
Becky shook her head with derision. “Oh, Helen, stop moping.”
“I’m not moping. I’m thinking.”
“Yes, and I can read your mind. You’re devising a dozen excuses as to why you can’t possibly have any fun with him.”
“That’s not it!” Helen huffed. “I simply don’t believe I should traipse off with a stranger who calls himself Nine Lives. What if he’s actually an ax murderer? What if I disappear and I wash up cold and dead and floating face down in the surf?”
“I’ll mourn for you, I swear,” Becky blithely said. “Now, slide your bottom off that chair, and let’s paw through our traveling trunks.”
“Why?”
“We have to dress you in something other than black.”
“Why?” Helen asked again.
“Honestly, Helen, you are thick as a brick sometimes. You can’t look as if you’re on your way to a funeral. You have to look pretty.”
“For an oaf named Nine Lives?”
“Yes, precisely for a fellow with such an odd name. He should be bowled over by you.”
“Bowled over? By me?”
“It could happen,” Becky insisted.
“In what world, Becky?”
“I’m positive deep down, Helen, even you have a few feminine wiles. You’ll have to use them on him to garner what we need.”
“What is that?”
“Help, you ridiculous ninny. You have to play on his sympathies and get us some help.”
“He doesn’t have any sympathies to play on. He seemed rather brusque and grouchy.”
“You’ll just have to give him a reason to be a bit happier, won’t you?”
“I suppose,” Helen grumbled.
Becky bustled over, clasped Helen’s hands, and yanked her to her feet.
“I’ll have you looking beautiful if it kills me,” Becky said.
“It might,” Helen replied.
“Yes, it might, but I’ll try to survive.”