Bella and the Beast

 

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Chapter 1

Clarissa, the Countess of Milford, was sorely in need of a project.

Seated at the breakfast table, she buttered a slice of toast while reflecting on the dilemma. She had risen from the ashes to marry an earl. Then, as a young widow, she had enjoyed a scandalous love affair with a prince. She had led a full life as a doyenne of London society. Now, her fondest ambition was to give other women a chance at happiness, too.

Clarissa reached for the morning newspaper. Turning the pages to the gossip column, she scanned the names of notable debutantes who had attended the previous night's ball. Those pampered ladies, however, stirred no interest in her.

She was hoping to find mention of a lowly chaperone or a penniless companion. Such women were the forgotten of society, too often ignored or mistreated. They were wallflowers doomed to spinsterhood by undeserved misfortune.

Surely there had to be one in need of a matchmaker.

In the few weeks since the start of the season, Clarissa had searched in vain for the perfect girl. There had been several possibilities, but none had seemed quite right. None had stirred a flash of intuition in her. And none had inspired her to lend out the enchanted garnet slippers.

Sipping cream tea from a blue porcelain cup, Clarissa finished reading the news sheet. As she was closing it with a sigh, a man stepped into the dining chamber. Hargrove was the quintessential butler in a black tailcoat, pristine gloves, and cropped white hair. His harsh, stoic features masked his inner thoughts.

Clarissa set down her teacup and regarded him with great interest. He never disturbed her breakfast without good cause.

Hargrove reached the linen-draped table and inclined his head in a bow. “Madam, the one you were seeking has returned to England.”

Clarissa gazed up at him in perplexity. Hargrove was a man of few words, and it took a moment to grasp his meaning. Then a frisson of interest prickled her skin. Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet. “Isabella Jones? Are you quite certain it's she?”

“Indeed.” Hargrove stepped forward to hand her a folded paper. “This arrived from Oxford not ten minutes ago.”

The red wax seal had been broken, for the letter was addressed to Hargrove. The cheap paper felt rough to the touch. Opening it, Clarissa scanned the cramped penmanship, and the message brought a delighted smile to her lips.

“Most extraordinary,” she said, returning the letter to the butler. “Miss Jones has been abroad for most of her life. For her to return now, and still unmarried at her advanced age … well, I must confess that I never imagined your search would be so fruitful. Or so swift.”

“Perhaps, my lady, some things are fated.”

Not for the first time, Clarissa wondered if Hargrove knew more than he let on. Although he was her most loyal servant, she had never revealed to him the mystical power of the garnet slippers. That secret had been entrusted to her long ago, when Clarissa had been an orphaned girl, disinherited by her wealthy stepmother and ridiculed by her two stepsisters. At the lowest moment of her life, banished to the kitchen as a servant after her dear papa's death, Clarissa had taken pity on a Gypsy crone who had come begging at the back door. She had fed the old woman a hot meal, and in return, the Gypsy had presented her with the exquisite beaded shoes.

The slippers would fit only a girl who was worthy of true love.

Clarissa left the breakfast table and glided to the tall window overlooking the street. She gazed down at the carriages and pedestrians for a moment, then turned back to the butler. “I've another mission for you,” she said. “This one will require considerable finesse. The Duke of Aylwin must be convinced that he is in dire need of an assistant. Discreetly, of course.”

“At once, madam.”

With a bow, Hargrove departed the dining chamber. Clarissa knew that she could depend on him to take care of the matter. He had a far-flung web of contacts worthy of a master spy for the Crown—indeed, that had been his vocation during the Napoleonic wars.

Her thoughts returned to the pleasure of the unexpected news. At last she had found the perfect wife for the reclusive Duke of Aylwin. Someone who could entice him out of his beastly guise and back into the world of the living.

At least she hoped so.

Would the slippers fit? Would Miss Isabella Jones become the newest member of the Cinderella Sisterhood?

Clarissa could scarcely wait to find out.

 

Chapter 2

Bella Jones stopped to read the small card in the window of the dress shop in Oxford. She had been trudging along the busy street, not heeding the stylish gowns on display behind the glass panes, for such luxuries were far beyond her reach. Then her attention had been caught by the square of white pasteboard propped in the lower corner of the window.

SEAMSTRESS WANTED. EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.

A jolt of hope struck her heart. Bella desperately needed to earn a wage in order to support her brother and sister. She'd tried to be a tutor, but all of her inquiries had come to naught. Learned scholars abounded in this university town, men with advanced degrees in science and mathematics and literature. No one would hire a female whose education had consisted of studying archaic texts while trekking with her father through foreign lands. No one wanted a woman who could speak the Farsi language like a native Persian, or who could recite long passages from the
Ramayana
in the original Hindi.

When Papa had died in Persia nearly a year ago, he had left his three orphaned children a cottage in faraway Oxford—and a promise of riches beyond their wildest imagination. So Bella had scraped together the funds to purchase passage to England. She and her siblings had left their tiny hut in the mountains, trekked by mule caravan across the Mesopotamian deserts, and sailed what seemed like halfway around the world in order to fulfill her father's last request.

Return to Oxford,
Papa had gasped out on his deathbed, clutching at her hands.
Promise me. Find Aylwin. Find the map
.
You have half
 …
the pharaoh's treasure.

Amid her grief and worry, Bella had been sustained by a vision of gold and jewels. She had resolved to find Mr. Aylwin, ask him about the map, and demand Papa's half portion of the pharaoh's treasure. Then she would be free from the yoke of poverty. There'd be no more fretting about food or clothing or books or a dozen other household expenses.

Upon their arrival the previous month, Bella had made inquiries among the townsfolk of Oxford. She had questioned the postmaster, the butcher, the vicar. But no one had ever heard of a man named Mr. Aylwin, and finally she had been forced to conclude that Papa must have been rambling nonsense. He had been incoherent from the high fever that had claimed his life.

They had journeyed to England for nothing.

There
was
no Mr. Aylwin. There was no treasure map, either. A pharaoh's riches would not save them from the poorhouse. That bitter truth lodged like a stone in her craw. Ever since, Bella had scoured the newspaper advertisements for work. She had gone to dozens of interviews, but to no avail.

Now, she lifted her gaze to the gold lettering on the window glass:
FOTHERGILL'S FASHION EMPORIUM.

Perhaps no one here would deign to employ a woman who knew little of English style. With a single glance at her brown skirt with its gold-spangled trim and the crimson blouse belted in the traditional Persian fashion, they would scorn her as a foreign bumpkin.

Bella tugged the green knitted shawl tightly about her shoulders. Blast it, why should appearances matter so long as she could sew a straight seam? She certainly knew how to ply a needle—tedious though the task might be. Hadn't she always mended Papa's shirts and trousers? Hadn't she stitched every article of clothing for Lila and Cyrus until her sister had grown old enough to undertake the chore?

On that righteous thought, Bella pushed open the door of the dress shop and stepped into a beehive of activity. The buzz of conversation filled the high-ceilinged room. Swarms of ladies flitted from table to table, their lacy sleeves and kid-gloved hands fluttering over the displays of rich fabrics and lavish trimmings.

As busy as it was, however, the shop had an aura of refinement unlike the crowded bazaars of the East. Instead of shouting merchants and haggling customers, the black-clad salesmen here looked as elegant as the ladies they served.

Bella knew the moment one of those shop assistants spied her standing by the door. The scrawny man had dark beady eyes that narrowed directly on her. Beneath a long mustache, his lips pursed as if he'd bitten into an unripe pomegranate. He started toward her, but a lady stepped into his path and he turned with a pretentious smile to show her a tray of buttons.

Bella had no desire to be ejected by an underling. She needed to find the owner of the shop.

Keeping her head down, she slipped past the throngs of customers and made her way toward the rear where a door surely led to the offices. The variety of fine articles for sale dazzled the eye. Like women the world over, these English ladies liked to adorn themselves with myriad ornaments. There were boxes of colorful beads, cards of intricate lace, collections of ostrich and peacock feathers. Along the back wall, a display of multihued cloth drew her like a lodestone.

There she paused, unable to resist touching a sheer bronze silk. The fabric was so light that it slithered through her fingers like falling water. A distant memory stirred in her. As a girl, she'd entered their hut one afternoon to find her mother wearing a gown sewn of a similar fabric. The precious garment had always been kept tucked away in a trunk during their travels. But on that particular day, Papa had been off on an overnight exploration, and Mama had remarked wistfully that it was their wedding anniversary. So she had donned her bride dress, the only link to her life back in England.

A lump ached now in Bella's throat. Mama had never had the chance to return home to Oxford. She had died some fifteen years ago, shortly after giving birth to the twins …