She straightened, shaking her head. “Not yet, but since you are here, I will just go and ask Mrs. Villin for a tray.”
When she had gone, Marcus paced about the room and forced himself to consider once more the Robinovs’ other major problem—the accusation of theft against Kenneth. Lacey would not leave it alone indefinitely, and the boy would need more than one character witness in face of the evidence discovered in his possession. Especially when the world believed that witness to be the long-time lover and current betrothed of the accused’s mother.
It seemed highly unlikely to him that the true culprit was a random thief picking his victims by coincidence. There was either fear or malice involved in planting those stolen objects in Kenneth’s trunk. So, he needed to investigate everyone who could have done it and find the remaining evidence—Silford’s candlesticks and, no doubt, some other out-of-place gewgaws.
The door opened abruptly, and Helen almost stumbled in carrying a heavy tray that included crockery, a coffee pot, and a large plate of toast. Marcus strode across the room and took the tray from her. At first, she resisted, as though determined to manage for herself, which she was clearly capable of doing. Or just determined to resist his help. Either way, she hung onto the tray a shade too long and their fingers touched.
Secretly, he loved the soft, firm touch against his skin. But her gaze flew up to his, almost stricken. For an instant, neither of them moved and then her hands dropped to her sides, and she turned away, muttering thanks.
Oh, yes, he had to fix this.
“Mrs. Villin sent up an extra cup in case you wanted some coffee,” she said distantly as he set down the tray on the table by the window.
“I will have some,” he said, watching her pour and hand him the cup and saucer, this time making sure their fingers were far apart.
Intolerable for her. Intolerable for him. He was not a man who normally indulged in small talk, but he had to say something to make her more comfortable, so he asked after her charges and gradually coaxed an amusing story out of her about her first meeting with the boys. By then, he had drunk his coffee, and he helped raise Carla from her pillows in order to drink the medicine Helen held to her lips.
“I think she’s swallowing it more easily,” Helen said, pleased.
“I hope so.” He lowered Carla back to her pillow.
“You are very fond of her and Kenneth,” Helen observed.
He shrugged. “I always liked them as children. Now, they are all that is left of their father.”
She glanced at him quickly. “How did you meet their father?”
“In Vienna. We were both traveling and fell into a friendship of fellow foreigners. We kicked up a few larks together as young men do. I even introduced him to Dorothea and her family, although it was another year and another city before they reached the closeness of an engagement.”
Her gaze was curious. “Did you love her, too?”
As soon as the question spilled out, she looked appalled and clearly meant to apologize, but Marcus was glad to answer. “Not in that way. I liked her sense of fun and was always glad to see her, but I pursued my own interests too selfishly to fall in love.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” he agreed, looking directly at her.
But, of course, she misunderstood him. She thought he was still talking about Dorothea, for he caught the flash of pain in her eyes before she turned hastily to the washbasin and poured fresh water into it.
“I mean to bathe her, so you had better go,” she advised.
“Helen—”
She all but glared at him. “Yes?”
He had never felt so helpless in his life. There was nothing he could say to her in honor, not until he had at least spoken to Dorothea and preferably exonerated Kenneth, too. In the meantime, it seemed they both had to suffer.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to care for her.”
Chapter Twelve
For the rest of the day, with the help of Kenneth and Sir Marcus, Helen and Mrs. Robinov took turns nursing Carla. A servant from Audley Park appeared with a tonic from old Nurse, who swore it would break any childish fever within hours.
“Is this safe?” Mrs. Robinov asked Helen with some doubt.
“Perfectly,” Helen replied. “Nurse has great experience with illnesses, and I believe it helped the Maybury children when they were sick earlier in the year. It may or may not help Carla, but it certainly won’t harm her.”
“Then we’ll give her it between doses of the doctor’s medicine,” Mrs. Robinov decided, opening the bottle.
Helen helped her administer Nurse’s brew, and then went downstairs to enjoy a cup of tea with Anne and Kenneth. Fortunately, Sir Marcus wasn’t there, for his company made her heart ache. She refused to admit that she missed him. After ten minutes, she went back upstairs to relieve Mrs. Robinov, but outside the bedchamber door, she paused, for something bumped in the room beyond. Anne’s chamber.
Anne was downstairs with Kenneth. Mrs. Robinov, surely was still with Carla. Who else would be in the room at this time of day?
The thief?
Her breath caught. She took a step back toward the stairs, her initial instinct to call on Sir Marcus’s help. But again, pride got in the way. And the fact she would not risk the thief escaping.
She tiptoed along the passage to the next door, reached out to the handle, and threw it wide. She strode in—and stopped in her tracks.
From his position on the floor in front of a trunk, Sir Marcus gazed at her.
Her jaw dropped. Taking control, she opened her mouth to demand to know what on earth was going on.
But he put one urgent finger to his lips, rising and treading softly to the door, which he closed.
“What the devil are you doing?” she hissed furiously. “This is Anne’s chamber!”
“I know, and I need to finish searching it before they finish tea, and she is likely to come up.”
She blinked at such blatancy. “You still think Anne is the thief?”
“I don’t know that she isn’t. Help me or go, but for God’s sake, say nothing. If I’m wrong, and I hope I am, this will hurt her feelings.”
“And infuriate Kenneth.”
“Indeed.” He crouched down by the trunk once more, but after a brief rifle, he closed it, and pushed it back under the bed.
Helen, giving in to the inevitable, pulled open the drawers of the chest and quickly searched through Anne’s things, while Sir Marcus searched in the cupboard.
Finding nothing but a few clothes, some pearls Helen had seen Anne wearing at Steynings, and a notebook that appeared to be her personal journal, Helen hastily closed the drawers.
“There is nothing here. Anne is not the thief.”
“She is probably not the thief,” Sir Marcus corrected. “She could already have got rid of the other stolen items, though if she got money for them, it must be on her person, for it isn’t here.”
“When could she possibly have sold them?” Helen demanded. “She came straight here from Steynings and since then has been under Mrs. Robinov’s chaperonage. And yours.”
“I did not say it was likely,” Sir Marcus said mildly. “For our purposes, we need to look now into her family and their servants.”
“Then we are exonerating each other?” she asked wryly.
He walked toward the door. “I exonerated you from the beginning. You may search my chamber whenever you wish. In fact, I’ll go down for tea to allow you peace to work.”
“Thank you,” she said, following him to the door.
He paused, his fingers gripping the handle. “I think I must call at Audley Park, but I confess I cannot quite imagine any excuse that will enable me to search the chambers of Lady Overton’s guests and their servants.”
“The children would do it,” Helen blurted. Then, under the surge of amusement in his eyes, she dropped her gaze. “But not until I am there to look out for them. And you know, the Marsha
lls cannot stay there forever. It is almost Christmas, and Lord Overton will find a way to eject them before that.”
“I suspect they are angling for an invitation from me to Cotley Hall.”
“You could find a way to search them there,” Helen observed.
“That is a good point. I wonder if I could bear it? For purely selfish reasons, I would rather try Audley Park first.”
“Well, if Carla improves, I shall return there tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I might escort you. If Carla has improved.”
“Perhaps,” she managed. To be in his company so long would be exquisite torture. She doubted she could forego it…
He opened the door a crack and peered out before stepping back to open it further. It brought him too close to her, sending sparks of wicked awareness through her body. She could not help gazing at his intense, harsh-featured face. As always, it brought butterflies to her stomach, a bittersweet pleasure. He glanced back to make sure she was with him and caught her staring. For an instant, their eyes held, and the world seemed to stand still.
Then she tore her gaze free, and he stepped into the passage. She slipped out after him, as though she didn’t notice, didn’t feel his warmth, his hard strength, and quietly closed the door.
With a nod, she hastened down the passage to Carla’s chamber and went in to relieve the girl’s mother.
*
Mrs. Robinov took her dinner on a tray in her daughter’s chamber, allowing Helen to dine with everyone else. The mood was somewhat somber, although Kenneth did manage to make them smile by telling stories of his sister’s mischief when she was a child. The trouble was, it brought unshed tears to his eyes, causing Anne to take his hand in impulsive sympathy before glaring at Helen as though daring her to scold.
“She’s come through such attacks before, Kenneth,” Sir Marcus said quietly. “I believe she will again.”
Kenneth nodded and squared his shoulders. “You are quite right, but I see my mother in such fear.”
“She has coped with a great deal over the last year,” Sir Marcus said. “You all have. She is lucky to have such a strong son to protect and support her.”
Anne cast Sir Marcus a brilliant smile, and Helen felt guilty all over again for rummaging among her possessions in search of stolen goods. The girl had a kind heart and did not deserve their suspicion. Sir Marcus met Helen’s gaze with a faint, rueful smile, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.
Helen did not linger over dinner but went straight upstairs before dessert to relieve Mrs. Robinov. For some reason, her heart felt lighter than for some days, probably because she knew that whatever else clouded her emotions, there would always be friendship between her and Marcus Dain.
And then she opened Carla’s bedchamber door and found Mrs. Robinov prostrate on the bed beside her daughter, weeping.
Helen’s heart seemed to drop to her toes. “Oh, no,” she whispered, rushing across the room. “My dear ma’am…”
But Mrs. Robinov raised her head to reveal she was smiling as the tears rolled down her cheeks, and beside her, Carla breathed noisily, her eyelids fluttering.
“The fever has broken,” Mrs. Robinov gasped and reached out to hug Helen convulsively. With sheer relief and joy for her, Helen hugged her back.
*
Although he knew Carla was not yet safe, Marcus shared the family’s happiness at news of her progress. She had spoken to her mother and Kenneth, and gone back to sleep, a proper sleep this time that would let her rest and recover.
Dorothea was so uplifted by the improvement that she could not yet retire. Leaving Helen in charge of the sickroom, she had come down to the parlor, to talk nonstop to Marcus. He bore it with understanding, glad to see her spirits so restored.
After a while, she quietened down, watching Kenneth and Anne playing at cards on the now infamous carpet in front of the fire.
“She is a gem, that one,” she said abruptly.
“Miss Marshall?” Marcus said in some surprise, for while he liked her well enough, he would not have so described her.
“No,” Dorothea said impatiently. “Miss Milsom.”
“Ah. Then there, I agree with you.”
Dorothea turned her gaze back to him. “I thought you did.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning.
“I mean I am not blind, Marcus. There is something between you—”
“I have never laid a finger on her,” Marcus interrupted, scowling because it wasn’t quite true. He had laid both hands and his lips on her, and it had been enchanting. But that was not Dorothea’s concern.
“Well, perhaps it’s time you did,” she retorted. “Before someone else snaps her up.”
“I can’t, can I?” he muttered. “I am engaged to you.”
“She must know that is fustian!”
“Why must she?” he said brutally. “She is a governess. I am a wealthy baronet whom the world believes to be your lover.”
He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, particularly not while she was still so vulnerable to shock. And she did stare at him for a moment with sheer incomprehension. Then her eyes widened, and to his surprise, she sniggered.
“Really? Is that why Mr. Lacey believed so readily in our engagement? Because you were finally making an honest woman of me?”
Marcus smiled reluctantly. “Something like that.”
“And does she—Miss Milsom—believe that, too?”
He shrugged. “I think she did. And then I made it worse by telling her I had never been in love until now.”
“Oh, Marcus! For such a clever man, you are an imbecile sometimes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t worry, I will find the opportunity to tell her you have always been our friend, no more and no less. And explain the bunkum of our engagement.”
He regarded her with affection. “Go to bed, Dorothea. You need to sleep, for Carla will require a lot of care still.”
She stood, and he rose with her. “I know. But at least tonight I can sleep with hope.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Marcus? Seize the day. You never know how long you have.”
When she had gone, he sank back onto the sofa and gazed at his hands, so deep in thought that he was taken by surprise when Kenneth pointed out that Anne was saying goodnight. He blew out the candles in the parlor, then he and Kenneth went up to the bedchamber they were sharing.
Kenneth went to bed and fell asleep almost at once, but Marcus had got no further than removing his coat and cravat and pouring himself a glass of brandy. He lounged on his bed, by the light of one candle, staring at the door.
Abruptly, he got to his feet, picked up the candle in one hand, his bottle and glass in the other, and left the room.
Under Carla’s door, a light still burned, so, taking a deep breath, he knocked softly with the edge of the brandy bottle. He heard immediate movement and then the door opened to reveal Helen blinking up at him in astonishment. However, she moved back at once to let him enter and closed the door softly behind him.
“How is she?” he murmured. He stood very close to her, could smell her fresh, delicate perfume that he thought was her skin rather than any artifice.
“Sleeping. Her temperature feels much more normal and her breathing easier. Don’t you think?” She brushed past him, and he had to stop himself from catching her in his arm and drawing her against him. That wasn’t why he was here. Truly it wasn’t.
He set down the candle and snuffed it out before he switched his attention to Carla. She still wheezed a little as she breathed, but although she seemed very small and very weak, she had lost that terrible distressed look that had so worried him. His heart lightened further, and he smiled down at the sleeping girl.
“How is her mother?” Helen murmured, moving away from the bed.
He followed her. “Relieved to the point of excitement, but I think she settled enough to sleep. I think you could snatch a doze or two in the chair, you know. You
’d wake if she needed you.”
“Perhaps. But I find I am not tired.”
“Neither am I,” he admitted, lifting his bottle and glass to her. “May I stay for five minutes?”
She flushed, hesitating. This was where she threw him out, and rightly so.
He cast her a quick, crooked smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll go.”
“No,” she said unexpectedly. Her lips parted again as though she would say more, then she simply sat down on the window seat. With the candlelight softening the tension and tiredness around her eyes, she was incredibly beautiful. Actually, whatever she wore, however she brushed her hair, whatever her condition or temper, she was always beautiful.
He smiled at the realization, and she reached up at once to pat her hair. “What is it? Have my pins come out? Have I dribbled my dinner like a baby?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.” Slowly, he lowered himself onto the seat beside her. Their bodies didn’t quite touch, and yet to Marcus, the exquisite intimacy was more moving than the physical contact of a lover. Hastily, he dragged his mind away from such thoughts, though his body remained only too aware.
He poured an inch of brandy into his glass and set the bottle on the table beside the window. “Drink?” he offered. “I could only find one glass in my chamber.”
She blinked, and the rush of her breath brushed his face. It seemed to be laughter. Almost to his surprise, she lifted her hand and took the glass. She sipped delicately and didn’t cough as the strong spirit slid down her throat.
“Thank you.” She gave him back the glass.
“I suppose drinking brandy with me at night would not be good for your reputation. It’s as well we have Carla as chaperone.”
“I’m not sure either her mother or Lady Overton would count her such in the circumstances.”
“I will be good,” he promised.
“And the brandy?”
“To lend me courage.”
She regarded him as he drank. “You do not strike me as a man who needs to find his courage in a bottle.”
“I don’t, normally. But I have some difficult things to say, and you may have noticed I’m not good with words.”
The Weary Heart Page 13