Awaken the Devil Read online

  Eventually the papers got to the point where they seemed to suddenly regard actual information as unnecessary and chose instead to fill their pages with sensationalist rhetoric. Of course, there were those papers that always managed to maintain a certain degree of journalistic integrity, but for the most part, it was a free for all.

  It was a special kind of agony to imagine what everyone who had been even remotely associated with either Helena or Chandler Bentley must have felt in those days. She could only be grateful that Chandler's daughter, Anne Bentley, who had been mentioned with disgusting frequency, had been for the most part too young to read.

  Fielding stared at pictures of Chandler on page one of paper after paper, and by the time she was finished, she knew everything about the way that he had appeared while he was being investigated by the police and slaughtered by the press.

  The photograph that haunted her most, and probably would until the day she died, had been taken from a significant distance through a long-range lens. Probably because the photographer wished to avoid being punched in the face, which was apparently what had happened when a man attempted to take a picture of Anne Bentley coming out of her school.

  In the photograph, Chandler was also coming out of a building. The article suggested it was his lawyer's office, but it could have been anywhere. The collar of his gray trench coat was pulled up in an apparent attempt to conceal his face. His mouth was tight, and his lips were pressed together, his jaw clamped. Fielding was positive that this was his least favorite picture as well.

  He looked older than he did now. The hollows of his cheeks were unnaturally sunken and his eyes were the most disturbing element of the photo. Weary and guarded, they held the look of a trapped animal being tormented by something he couldn't escape. Torment. That was an excellent word. And slightly perplexed, like he couldn't believe the direction that his life had taken.

  If she had never seen this photo, she might have believed almost anything the papers said of him. In every other picture, strewn liberally through the pages of England's harbingers large and small, he looked hard and unfeeling, like he did in real life. His clothes were always immaculate, and his answer to every question was, "No comment," at best and many less pleasant things at worst. His very aura exuded an arrogance that was likely to offend the everyday Joe.

  But she had seen that picture.

  Maybe it was stupid to trust her instincts when they hadn't exactly served her with precision in the past, but she didn't believe that photograph was of a man who had ruthlessly slit his wife's throat and then taken a little rest in his favorite chair. That was a picture of a man who had been punched in the gut by reality and wasn't exactly certain what to do next. Like Mac, she believed Chandler was innocent.

  Chandler would never agree, of course, but she needed information from him. Information on his wife, on the people she had known, on the person that Helena had been. Without him, Fielding had nothing. The ruse would have to continue, though she was unsure whether she had any chance of being successful.

  She would also need Josh's help. Thus far, he'd shown no signs of seeing things her way, though she'd tried to explain her position more than once, so she called him and apologized. Really, she suspected that he was angry because he was scared. Josh didn't like emotions, and he wasn't thrilled with people who made him feel the uncontrolled variety. He was avoiding her because he didn't want to face his fears. He was still fairly glacial but agreed to come over.

  Josh arrived at a little after seven and brought food even though his ramrod straight posture and tight shoulders told her all was not forgiven.

  "You're right. I'm not being careful enough," she said quickly, before he had a chance to start speaking.

  His dark eyebrows rose into his messy hairline, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "No, you're not."

  "I could be in trouble at any time, and I haven't acknowledged that risk."

  His head cocked to the side. "No, you didn't."

  "I should listen to you more."

  "Okay, what do you want?" He demanded, telling her she was laying on her apology a little too thick.

  "I need you to help me. They have nothing on him. Mac is right. He's innocent, Josh. I know he is."

  "Really?" He easily dismissed her imploring voice with sarcasm. "Absolutely fascinating that you know that, when no one else in the world does."

  "He knows it, and the real murderer knows it." She believed it. Somewhere out there was a solution to this mystery. And she would find it.

  Josh moved to the kitchen to dish out the food and sighed. "Okay, honey, work with me for a minute here. Imagine, just for my sake, that he's not so innocent, but he is, instead, let us imagine, a vicious killer. How do you think he will react if he discovers that not only are you really a reporter, his most hated breed, but that you are also trying to solve his wife's murder?"

  She didn't want to imagine that scenario so instead she said, with a positive attitude as patently false as her cover, "That won't happen. He'll never even know I'm there until the story is out. Then he can't possibly be mad at me for proving him innocent." Of course, she wasn't sure of any such thing. In fact, she had a distinct feeling that even if she were able to solve the case, Chandler would still hate her.

  "Yes, but what if he killed her?" Josh's question was quiet.

  "He didn't. I know he didn't."

  Maybe it was the firm conviction in her voice that finally moved him. Or maybe their life-long friendship. Either way, Josh sighed deeply. "What do you want me to do?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rehearsals for Pirates took on a regular feel very quickly. They started every morning at seven sharp. Chandler was rigid about punctuality. The theater was needed for the principles, one of whom was Sara, in the afternoon. The first day, when someone was late, he had summarily fired him. Those people who hadn't been afraid of him before were petrified after that. Fielding was not any more or less terrified of him than she had been before the lesson. She was afraid of what he would do if he found her out, not that she would be fired for some minor infraction.

  She had to agree that it was bad business to show up late on the very first day, although her reaction might not have been so severe. She made a point of getting to the theater and into her dance clothes by thirty minutes before call. There was no way she was getting kicked out of this show for some trivial thing, although she doubted that he intended to fire anyone else now that his point had been made. At least not for that.

  Chandler was as hands-on in the rehearsals as he had been in the auditions, and it was not hard to see why he had gotten the reputation that she had heard about in London. He did run a tight ship. It took her a few days, but eventually she realized that he really wasn't as mean as he seemed to be, at least not to individuals. He had equal opportunity rudeness. Half the time she thought he was picking on her, which was often, he was just being himself. He was a gruff man who lacked interest in social dictates.

  Within a few days, she began to be able to discern when he was just being the way he was and when he was really angry. It wasn't very often and always as a result of something that he had given the person plenty of time and opportunity to correct. He was actually a fair man. The truth of it was stunning. She filed it away and wondered how many other people had noticed this element of his leadership. Probably no one. They weren't watching him as carefully as she was. They weren't interested in what made him tick. But if she could figure that out, she could figure out how to get her in.

  So far she had been unsuccessful in convincing him to have even a short conversation with her, let alone a soul-bearing session where he would be able to reveal information about Helena that might be of some use to her. Every time she tried to act friendly to him, he immediately snubbed her, either by giving her an order or making some sort of comment to remind her of her place in the pecking order. At first she had been slightly stung, but after nearly two weeks she was getting used to it. And she wasn't giving up either. E
very time she spotted him alone she made another attempt at social conversation.

  Comments about the weather or questions about politics, traffic, the queen and pretty much anything not pertaining to the musical were summarily squashed with a rude, abrupt answer that would have scared another girl away. But not her. She knew enough from watching that he wasn't really any nicer to Sara, Liz, or Lynette who, from what Fielding could figure, had been working for him for a significant period of time and who even seemed to like him. And she had surmised that in his own gruff way, he was also fond of them.

  The matter of her inappropriate attraction, on the other hand, was not so easy and had to be handled constantly. It took several stern reminders a day not to find herself standing aside watching him with hungry appreciation as he demonstrated some dance move or another. He was a superb dancer. He danced with as much grace as he used whenever he moved.

  He also didn't like to be stared at. Every time she needed to note this fact again, she would just remind herself about the moment when they'd seen each other for the first time, which was enough, almost, to break her of the habit. No matter how hard she tried, however, she could not control her body's reaction to his presence.

  She could refuse to admit he was sexy, but her body had no such qualms. When he walked by her heartbeat accelerated without even consulting her as to whether or not that was okay. Regardless of her feelings on the subject, she was attracted to Chandler Bentley. Finally she decided that instead of trying to break herself of the feelings, she would merely acknowledge them and pretend like they didn't matter.

  That seemed to be working out a little better for her. It required only that when he walked by in his tight white tee-shirt and clinging black exercise pants she tell herself, "Yes, Fielding. He's a very attractive man. But it doesn't matter." She found herself saying this several times a day. Sometimes several times in one dance number.

  Two weeks into practice Mac was miraculously still alive, and she was still trying to accommodate him—at least until he died, and probably until she had the answers he wanted even if it took months. Who was she kidding?

  Then—at last—she was finally able to break through Bentley's shell the smallest bit. She, Lesley, and Bob were moving a few costumes into his office for the costume mistress to pick up, when she noticed a picture on his desk.

  The beautiful blonde-haired child of about fourteen looked nothing like Chandler, with the possible exception of her hair color, but logic told Fielding that the girl was more likely to be his daughter than his "Feed the Children" profile picture. He was sitting behind his desk flipping through his copy of the script and acting as if they were not even there. In fact, he would no doubt have been much better than she at her but it doesn't matter…mantra.

  "Is that your daughter?" She made a point of not seeming afraid, even if she was. Like any wild animal, it was imperative that she show no fear when dealing with him.

  Bentley gave her a black look over the top of the script. "Excuse me?"

  Everyone else froze mid-movement, probably shocked by her addressing him, but momentarily, they galvanized themselves into action and headed back out to get more costumes. "I asked if that was your daughter." She indicated the picture. "She's beautiful."

  He put down the script and stared at her for a moment. Apparently he'd been deciding whether or not to answer her because when he finally spoke again, he said, "Yes." No more information appeared to be forthcoming. He looked back down at the papers.

  "What's her name?" She pressed.

  He put the papers down again and turned the full force of his disapproving glare on her. She had an urge to flee like the others, but she held her ground. "Whatever interest could you have in the matter, Miss French?"

  She cocked her head, meeting his eyes as though they were having a pleasant chat at tea, rather than a patently rude exchange over an old desk. "It's been my experience that most loving parents enjoy the opportunity to talk about their children. I was just giving you that opportunity."

  He sighed deeply like Fielding was the most inconvenient thing that he had ever encountered. "She's very nearly as old as you, so I think she hardly qualifies as a subject to be discussed as though she were just learning to walk."

  "That's absurd," she countered without thinking. "She's nowhere near my age." Realizing that she was about to give herself away, she added, "You're not old enough to have a child anywhere near my age."

  "I'm forty-three-years-old," he returned dryly. "I am quite old enough to have a grown daughter."

  "And I'm thirty years old. You're not old enough to have a child that grown."

  He sighed again. "Is there some purpose to this conversation, Miss French?"

  "I only wanted to know her name, Mr. Bentley. You're the one that brought the rest of it up."

  "I am not…" He clamped his jaw down. "Her name is Anne; she's almost nineteen-years-old. She's at Oxford majoring in journalism, even though I have asked her repeatedly not to, and she, much like yourself, has no sense at all about when to leave me alone."

  She decided to ignore the unveiled demand for her to get lost. "So, are you close?" What she really wanted to ask was, Are you furious because she wants to be a journalist? Anne Bentley would be too young to remember the horror of the media circus surrounding her mother's death. Why would she care one way or the other about journalists? Aside, of course, from the fact she clearly wished to become one.

  With a slightly smaller sigh, he abandoned the script all together and looked up at her. "Yes, we are. Do you typically ask people you barely know personal questions?"

  She shrugged. "If a subject comes up. Anyway, it's not that personal."

  "What about you then, Miss French? Are you close to your father?"

  "My father died when I was six. So not really. I hardly remember him."

  "And that didn't seem like a personal question to you?" For once, he actually seemed curious about something she had to say.

  "Why would it? Do you think you're the first person to ask me about my father? I've explained about him and my mother a million times since they died. People ask questions like those. It's part of living in this world."

  "Much obliged, Miss French." His tone was slightly wry, mocking, but not at all angry, which she found disconcerting. "Without you, I fear I might never have known how to get on with living."

  She was still trying to figure out how to answer that without raising his ire when the others returned. Instead she opted for, "Well, she's very beautiful. You must be very proud of her."

  When she was nearly all the way out the door for the next load, Chandler called out, "Miss French." She turned. "Thank you. I am very proud of her." Then he went back to his papers as though she'd never spoken at all.

  For the next few days, Fielding French's words haunted Chandler. What had she said? People ask questions like that. It's a part of living in this world. Such an irony, the way that she had phrased it. People asking questions like that, indeed questions at all, were one of the reasons he had removed himself from the world. And no one had made him feel the slightest bit awkward about it, even Anne with her incessant demands that he should endeavor to develop a social life. Until she had come along. He had worked for years to remove himself from society, and in just a few words, Miss French made him feel as though he ought to regret it.

  Not that he ought to listen to anything she had to say. She obviously didn't have enough sense to fear him so why should she be regarded as having enough sense to give him advice on living? Clearly she shouldn't, and that was all there was to it. It was merely disturbing him because she was the first person to address him that way in…well honestly he couldn't remember the last time that someone had spoken bluntly to him, except for Anne of course, and she didn't count. She was his daughter. They had a lifetime of familial affection to pad her words. No, he would put no stock in Miss French's words. He did not regret making himself into the man he was.

  Then again it was possible, looking b
ack, that he'd actually had very little to do with the way he had turned out. Had there been anything in the behavior of his parents—his belligerent drunken father obsessed with politics and horses or his philandering, negligent mother who would disappear for weeks at a stretch without remorse or explanations—that might have encouraged him to be a socially brilliant, fun-loving creature. He could think of nothing. Perhaps then his line of somber, sour-faced nannies that were forever looking for a way to be rid of their too inquisitive young charge might have been the sources to which he should have looked for a good sense of humor and a lively countenance.

  Maybe then, the teachers and headmasters at the schools he had attended, all of whom were more interested in his father's money than the actual child at all. Maybe he should have gone to them for advice on how to live the good life. Or his demanding, frightening old grandmother who had taken over the raising of him whenever he was on holiday or the nanny had a day off. He would have liked to say that he remembered her with fondness, as she had paid more attention to him than anyone else in the world ever had, but he did not.

  She had been terrible to live with, pouring from her mouth a constant stream of directives on how he should get on and the ways in which he was somehow wrong for something he was doing, saying, or even thinking as it seemed she was somehow able to read his mind. He never would have learned kindness from her, let alone good humor.

  In the end perhaps he should have looked to Helena. She had no problems at all being cheerful. It was all she did. Flitter from one party to the next with this man or that on her arm, her trilling little laugh floating behind her wherever she went. It had been stunning, the social panache that she had had. More than enough to make up for the bad humors of her husband, it was whispered at party after party.