Helen waited only a few moments more before donning her cloak and slipping out again with a lit candle and following in Philip’s footsteps to the dark, narrow passage and the stairs beyond.
She could see no light at all as she crept down, but at the bottom, she found an unlocked door that opened easily. Listening intently, she heard nothing, so crept up the few steps to ground level and instinctively followed the line of the building away from the lights at the front of the house, the terraces, and the drive. Philip would not exchange his stolen goods where anyone of the upper class was likely to see him.
The wind blew out her candle almost immediately, so she was soon blind and finding her way by feel. Warily, she rounded a corner and became aware of low voices alarmingly close. There was also light from a partially-shaded lantern, by which she glimpsed two figures close to an outhouse wall. Fortunately, the light also showed her an arch cut into the wall beside her, and she slipped into it out of the men’s sight. There was a narrow door beside her, back into the house, which might yet come in useful.
No one seemed aware of her so far, and she was able to edge closer again and peer out from the arch. One of the men was definitely Philip. He was unloading things from his pockets into a canvas bag held open by a second man with his back to her.
There followed a short, whispered argument, presumably over price, and then the second man handed over a roll of banknotes, which Philip hastily pocketed.
Suddenly, there was more light from lanterns and flaring torches. Marcus was there, looking large and grim and uncommonly dangerous, as was Alvan and several rougher looking men who might have worked for Alvan or the magistrate.
Both Philip and his receiver backed instinctively away, but another group of men led by Sydney Cromarty and Richard Maybury hurried past her archway and spread out, cutting them off.
Holding her breath, Helen must have been so absorbed in the scene outside that she did not register the click of the door behind her. Until an arm snaked around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and something cold slid along her throat.
“Now what on earth can you be up to?” wondered a familiar, feminine voice, not bothering to disguise its spite. “Nosey little creature for a disgraced governess, aren’t you?”
“I may be curious, but the disgrace is yours,” Helen retorted before the cold thing pierced her skin, and she realized it was a dagger. A dagger with an expensively jeweled hilt, no doubt stolen from the duke’s historic collection. Her blood chilled.
Phoebe Marshall laughed softly. “Yes, I still hold all the cards, and this time, there is no mercy for you. Move.”
Phoebe pushed her forward—to use her as a hostage to free her husband, Helen could only suppose with some despair and considerable recrimination. That she should be the one to mess up this effort which would have benefited her the most.
But as she stumbled forward in Phoebe’s hold, the woman gasped, halting abruptly as she took in the scene of several men laying hold of her husband and their fence. And instead of crying out that she had a hostage, she seemed stunned. Phoebe truly hadn’t expected this. She had imagined their plans were foolproof, her only minor problem being the nosy governess.
Helen knew the woman’s inaction was only temporary, as her brain adjusted to these new and unexpected obstacles. So, before she could recover, Helen threw back both elbows, propelling herself forward out of Phoebe’s hold. The dagger scraped across her skin, but without thought, she reached for it, tearing it from Phoebe’s hold and spinning around to face her.
And there was Marcus, white-faced with a fear she had never imagined him capable of.
“You’re bleeding,” he said hoarsely.
Ridiculously, she could only smile in wonder and happiness, because all his care was for her.
She touched her throat, feeling the scratch, the dampness of a small trickle of blood. “It’s nothing.”
“Idiot!” Phoebe yelled at her captured husband. “Fool! You’re on your own now!” And with that, she ran back the way she’d come.
From instinct—rather than her conscious desires which were all to stay with Marcus—Helen bolted after her, through the arch and the narrow door beyond. Feet pounded behind her as she sped as quickly as she dared along a dark passage, up some stairs to another, lighter passage. And then Phoebe burst into the great hall.
“She’s chasing me!” she cried out. “With a dagger!”
Abruptly, the music cut off. So did a hundred conversations as everyone fell silent and waltzers came to a halt. Everyone stared at Phoebe and Helen.
Until Marcus strolled up from behind and stood beside Helen. “The dagger,” he said mildly, “which Miss Milsom has just relieved Mrs. Marshall of. You’ll notice it is Miss Milsom who is injured.”
Phoebe’s eyes flashed hatred. “You lie! You have always been enamored of her. Why, you tried to run away with her most scandalously—”
“Mother, that is enough!” Anne exclaimed, quite unexpectedly pushing through the throng to reach her mother. “You know that is not true!”
“Yes, she does know it,” the Duchess of Alvan agreed, flicking a glance at two footmen who seemed to have appeared from nowhere and now grasped Phoebe, an arm each. “That ridiculous story never washed before, and it doesn’t now. Perhaps you had better give the blade to me,” she added, approaching Helen with so little fear that the rest of the company relaxed.
Mutely, Helen gave her the dagger, hilt first.
“It looks like one of my husband’s,” the duchess observed.
“It is!” Phoebe cried, trying to shake off the immovable footmen. “She stole it!”
“No, she didn’t,” Henrietta called from the staircase. “I watched Mrs. Marshall take it after she passed the rest of the items she stole to her husband.”
“Who has just been arrested,” Marcus added into the gasps from everyone present.
“If you have lost any possessions during your stay here, I apologize,” the duchess said. “They will all be returned to you once they have been shown to the magistrate. Take this woman away.”
As Phoebe Marshall was hauled away, making increasingly loud and outrageous accusations against everyone, including the duchess, Anne stood rooted to the spot in shock.
In sudden sympathy, Helen flung out her hand. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” the duchess said flatly, “and neither does Anne. Come with me.” She put one arm around Anne and led her away.
In response to the duchess’s gesture, the orchestra began playing again, and voices were raised in avid speculation. Couples resumed waltzing once more. Anne glanced back over her shoulder at Helen, who was following, and tried to smile. Then her eyes shifted to Marcus.
“I didn’t know,” Anne blurted. “Tell Kenneth, tell them all I didn’t know.”
“Of course, you didn’t,” Sir Marcus said strongly.
Anne touched the side of her head. “I don’t understand any of this! What else did she steal?”
“Well,” Henrietta said, joining them in time to hear the question. “Charlotte’s favorite porcelain vase is in her underwear drawer.”
It wasn’t really funny, but Helen had to spin away before she snorted with laughter. It brought her face to face with Marcus, an answering smile in his eyes.
“Come, you should have that wound tended,” he said gently.
She touched it absently. “It’s stopped bleeding. I don’t want to pay any more attention to it.” She gazed up at him and said simply what was in her heart. “I think I want to dance. With you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
She hadn’t been invited to Mooreton Hall to dance but to look after someone else’s children, while helping catch the couple who had stolen from their hosts and their friends. But with a kind of blinding light, as she realized what she most wanted in the world, she knew, too, that neither her employers nor the duchess would begrudge her these few moments. Because t
hey had not simply been pursuing the Marshalls, they had been deliberately smoothing her path to Sir Marcus. Because it had been clear to everyone but her that they should be together. That he wanted her, that he could love her, almost as much as she loved him.
Nothing had ever been sweeter than when he unfastened her cloak and let it fall to the floor while he took her in his arms and then spun her onto the dance floor. Aware of several people staring with various degrees of blatancy, she cared for none of them.
“Is it unpleasant dancing with someone so gory?” she asked.
The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. Had she ever noticed that before? “No,” he said. “I will always love dancing with you, however grubby you might be.”
“That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me,”
“It isn’t kind. It’s utterly self-serving and truthful. I will take any excuse to hold you in my arms.”
“Marcus,” she murmured, “will you answer one question?”
“Of course.”
She locked her eyes to his. “Do you love me?”
“Of course, I love you,” he replied without missing a heartbeat. “Will you marry me?”
She blinked. “Don’t you want to know if I love you first?”
“I know you love me. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be dancing with me, not here and not now.”
She whispered, “I loved you the last time, too.”
His hold tightened. His eyes burned in such a way that her stomach dived. “Will you walk with me? As soon as the waltz finishes.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere outside, around the darkest passages, your chamber or mine…”
“Yes,” she said simply.
After that, they stopped talking, but there was so much to read in his face, in the faint, gentle caress of his fingers. Excitement swelled like a tide into happiness.
Since it was only the tail end of the waltz Phoebe’s entrance had interrupted, the music came to an end more quickly than she would have liked. But it brought her back to the real world, too, where she was employed to care for the Carlukes’ children.
Perhaps he read it in her eyes, for he conducted her off the dance floor, in the direction of Mrs. Carluke, who turned away from her conversation to give them a smile.
“I’m glad the matter is settled satisfactorily,” she murmured.
“So am I. I am going up to the children—”
“Leave it another half hour,” she said kindly. “I am going myself now.”
As Mrs. Carluke walked toward the doors at the far end of the great hall, Marcus guided Helen in the same direction, picking up her discarded cloak on the way. When she cast him a quizzical glance, he said mildly, “We’re giving the impression that Mrs. Carluke is our chaperone. I’m looking after your reputation so that you have no other reason to reject my offer.”
She flushed with a hint of sheepishness. “There could be nothing more lowering than to be married for such a reason, you know. For either of us.”
Beyond the doors, Mrs. Carluke vanished up the staircase. Marcus opened the outer door and placed the cloak around Helen’s shoulders. His hands lingered, thrilling her.
As they walked and talked under the stars, she simply absorbed his company and the happiness of a love returned. Despite the cold of the night, she felt warm with her hand tucked into his arm and increasingly aware of his every movement beside her.
When they returned and climbed the stairs, the music and laughter from the great hall seemed very far away. The passage to her chamber was deserted and dark, save for one lamp burning in a wall sconce.
Outside her door, she halted, her heart thundering as she wondered what would happen now, if she dared…
He took her hand from his arm and kissed it. Her fingers clung to his warm, firm lips. Then he placed her hand at the back of his neck, and her lips parted to receive his kiss.
It began with tenderness, but at the first touch of his lips, she gasped, her fingers grasping the hair at the back of his head to tug him closer. With a groan, his arms wrapped around her, hauling her hard against him as his mouth devoured hers. Her hand trembled as she caressed his rough cheek, surrendering utterly to this passion.
Heat swept through her as his hips pinned her to the wall and his hands roved at will. His lips were in her hair, on her throat, and then returned to her mouth. Desire blazed, and from his hardness against her, she knew it was not hers alone.
Then he tore his mouth free and pressed his cheek hard to hers. “You would give yourself to me,” he whispered unsteadily in her ear. “And God knows I would take you. But we will do this properly. I’ll give the gossips nothing to justify the Marshalls’ vile rumors.”
“Who cares about them?” she managed. In an unfamiliar haze of hunger, she knew only she didn’t want to part from him.
He drew back a little, resting his forehead on hers. “We live in their world. I would have that world know my respect for you. I want everything right for you. We’ll call the banns and be married without undue haste.”
She swallowed, trying to bring back her good sense. “You’re finding it easy to leave me,” she said lightly.
Abruptly, she was pressed hard against the wall.
“Do you think so?” he whispered. “Do you really think so?”
She lifted her face mutely and he kissed her, this time going from the hard to the gentle.
“Good night,” she whispered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You will,” he assured her, reaching out to open her bedchamber door.
She backed into the chamber, smiling, and with another groan, he closed the door. She thought he might have leaned against it for several moments before his footsteps moved away down the passage.
Still dazed, she drew in her breath and dropped her cloak on the chair. As she did so, she caught sight of her reflection in the looking glass. Wonder and happiness glowed in her eyes. As fresh emotion flooded her, her lips, rosy and full from his kisses, smiled all over again.
“I’m going to marry Sir Marcus Dain,” she whispered.
*
Leaving Mooreton Hall the following morning presented a few difficulties. Her employer was not one of them. By the time she rose in the morning, both Mr. and Mrs. Carluke were aware of her engagement and were resigned to her going. She would, however, return with them today. “I will naturally wait until you find another governess,” she told them.
“No, you won’t,” Mrs. Carluke said stoutly.
However, that problem was solved during the discussion of traveling to Cotley Hall alone with Sir Marcus. Lady Overton and Henrietta walked into the breakfast parlor during the conversation.
Marcus had just said, “Anne Marshall should come with us. She will, after all, be comfortable with the Robinovs at Cotley.”
An old idea came back to Helen, with a variation. “Or, she could replace me with you,” she said to Mrs. Carluke. “She is very young, but excellent with children.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Mrs. Carluke said. “But then, who would accompany you on your journey?”
“You should travel south with Henrietta and Sydney,” Lady Overton broke in.
Helen blinked at her in surprise.
Her ladyship sat down heavily beside Helen. “I owe you an apology,” she said abruptly. “My children could see that I was wrong, but I could not. I am sorry I trusted that awful woman’s word over yours. I had no reason to and less right. I hope you’ll forgive me, and accept my good wishes on your engagement.”
It was a handsome apology and Helen, already emotional, wanted to hug her. Instead, she said, “Of course I will.” And Lady Overton smiled at her as though relieved to have that off her chest.
“Mama is staying here for a week or so with Charlotte,” Henrietta said. “But Sydney and I have to go back to Steynings. From there, you may easily reach Cotley in a day.” She grinned at Helen. “Imagine me chaperoning anyone, let alone you.”
&n
bsp; And so, it was arranged. Helen, after exchanging a cheerful farewell with the Maybury children whom she promised to see again soon, returned to Ingolby with the Carlukes to pack the rest of her things. A subdued Anne came, too, which made it a bit of a squash, but Helen was glad to see the girl’s spirits lift in the children’s company.
The following day, Sir Marcus swept up in his curricle with the Cromartys in the traveling coach behind. Mr. Cromarty stowed her bag on the coach. Helen climbed into the curricle beside Marcus, and they set off. She waved back at the Carlukes for as long as she could see them.
The following weeks flew by in a whirlwind of journeying and then learning about her new home. The Robinovs had found a house just over the Hampshire border into Sussex and planned to remove there after the wedding. Helen and Marcus decided to postpone their wedding trip until spring when they would borrow Sydney Cromarty’s yacht and sail wherever they liked. Marcus was even hopeful that, with the French so badly defeated in Russia and a new coalition forming against them, there might be peace very soon.
Helen was happy to spend the time at Cotley Hall, learning to be the lady of the manor. But mostly, she just wanted to be with Marcus.
It snowed on their wedding day, filling it with cold white beauty that seemed to suit the solemnity of their vows. They were married by the local vicar before Marcus’s pleasantly dotty aunt, Sydney and Henrietta Cromarty, the Robinovs, and as many of Marcus’s people as could squeeze into the village church. After that, Helen was happy to enjoy a snowball fight in front of the house.
Later, as guests left and the house quietened once more, Helen and Marcus sat like children on the rug before the fire in their private sitting room.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she laid her head on his shoulder. “Lady Dain,” she said, trying out her new title. “Is that really me?”
“It is.” He held her hand against his knee, idly caressing her wrist. Sensitivity spread through her skin like magic, until in the companionable silence, all she could hear was her own quickened breathing.
She turned her face to him and claimed his lips. He kissed her slowly, leisurely, because now there was no need to rush. They were married, alone, and could make love whenever they wished.
The Weary Heart Page 22