"What would you like to know, my lord Summerdale? That she is happy here? She is, I believe. At least as happy as she can be anywhere. Do be sure to tell that to her brother Lord Whitemarsh." She cocked her head at him curiously. "What else would you like to know?"
His mind went utterly blank and, unthinking, he spoke the first thing that came to his mind. "Why does she dislike me so very much?"
Before the amusement around her eyes grew into outright mockery, he continued. "Neither one of you were very hospitable on my last visit to your home, madame. Even before Lady Helen knew who I was and why I had come, she loathed me. Will you tell me what occasioned such a force of feeling?"
She put the plate of pastries down and looked at him directly, all traces of amusement gone. He had the distinct feeling that he had chosen precisely the wrong thing to ask.
"What did my lord Summerdale think of Lady Helen Dehaven, before he even set eyes on her?" Her eyes narrowed. "You don't have to answer, my lord, because it is quite obvious. You hide it better than most, but you are by your nature what Hélène and I think of as ‘Them' – not Us, you see. You came here knowing about what society is pleased to call her ruin, and so you came here looking for a ruined woman. Never just a woman, but always one with a scandal attached. Is it any wonder that she would hate a man, so obviously a gentleman, so obviously like all those who whispered and laughed and stared at her before she came here? It is not who you are, but what you are."
He looked at her, and thought he had rarely seen a woman so young who was so sure of her own judgement. It suited her to hide this uncommon acumen behind laughter and wit, but there was no mistaking it, once she chose to reveal it.
"And do you despise me as well, madame? For I am also aware of your past."
She gave a shrug and settled back against her chair. "I am less bothered by such things. Hélène cannot be so sanguine."
"Why is that?"
He had hoped to catch her unawares, to hear a response that was offhand and telling. But her relaxed and frank attitude was not at all a sign of a mind growing careless. She merely plucked an imaginary piece of lint off her skirts and asked idly, "Why do you think, my lord?"
With any luck, she would tell him what she knew of the Henley affair and he could be done with this business. He was not such a fool as to think it would be easy, or to believe that rumors were always true. He was in a unique position to know that they were lies sprung from truth, and his objective was to learn about the initial truth of this gossip.
"I should think the matter most distressing for her. But I am not entirely familiar with the events which led her here."
"Are you not? You do not seem deaf to me, my lord, or cut off from society."
"I know of the rumors, of course. I prefer to hear the whole of the story."
She took a breath, as though considering it. Her gaze rested on a point just to the outside of his left knee.
"It is not my story to tell. Hélène has spoken to me of the time," there was a controlled anger in her voice, "but it is not a tale to share over a cup of tea with a virtual stranger. What her brother heard from her is the truth, and there is nothing new in it now. Do not ask her to repeat it."
He took the warning seriously. She did not seem the kind of woman to be in the habit of taking such a dire tone. Again, he found himself slightly awed by the devotion Helen Dehaven inspired in her friends. He doubted, now that his own brother was dead and gone, whether there was anyone who felt so strongly about his own well-being. But then he rather doubted that many people in this world were ever lucky enough to find one person who wished to protect them, while Lady Helen had a village full of protectors.
"Will you tell me, then, how the..." he faltered, searching for a correct and entirely proper word, "how the incident became so well known?" This part he knew only from common gossip. But he wished to know if Lady Helen had given a different account to her friend.
After a little pause, Madame de Vauteuil gave a little nod. "There were several in the party who went to the– that is, to Lord Henley's estate." She spat out the name like a grape seed caught between her teeth. "It was Mrs. Wilke – not the older Mrs. Wilke, but the detestable young widow Diana – who spread the rumor. She was helped by Anne Pembroke, who I will tell you is a viper."
He did not dispute the vileness of Mrs. Wilke, nor defend Anne Pembroke. They both had acid tongues and no compunction about cutting down anyone who stood in their path to a wealthy match. But neither of them had ever had any designs on Henley that summer so long ago, from what he could deduce. Even if they had had a reason for wanting Helen Dehaven ruined, it did not necessarily mean they had invented the story.
"Did they lie about what they saw?"
"They did not have to. All that was needed was word that Hélène had come out alone from a spot in the woods, and that Henley," again the name was loaded with disgust, "was seen to come from the same place with his clothes as mussed as hers. They were known to have carried on in such a way during the courtship – mooning is the word, I think? Well, that was all it took. That's all it ever takes," she said with an unmistakable bitterness.
She rose from her chair in agitation, gripping the ends of her shawl as she took measured steps across the room. She stopped by the front window, her face in profile to him. On the subject of whatever had happened at that spot in the woods, of whether the presumption of the gossips were true or false, she said not a word.
He had risen when she had and found himself with nothing to do and little to say, his hands clasped behind his back. It was only her unusual gravity that kept him from letting out a sigh. How many times had he listened as someone raged against the evils of gossip? It seemed hardly to matter that a person acted reprehensibly; it only mattered that others heard of it. Looking at Marie-Anne de Vauteuil's pensive features, he felt more sympathy with her than he had ever admitted to himself at moments like these. Rumors had come to sicken him as much as they obviously disgusted her.
Looking out at the gray day, she spoke quietly. "I loved my Shipley, Lord Summerdale, and as you have seen, I will never apologize for the love we shared. But all of society despised us for it, because it pleased them to do so. Just so did it please them to make Hélène suffer, and it pleased her only family to cause her to suffer even more, and all alone." He watched her gather the ends of her shawl together, pulling the cloth around her shoulders tightly as though a sudden chill had swept over her. "I have seen war, and I have seen love, Lord Summerdale. And when I met Hélène and learned of what happened to her, I understood the only difference between the two. Love can be more dangerous, and far more destructive."
He waited in silence after this extraordinary declaration. He saw her swallow and stare hard at his collar, until finally she looked into his face. "She loved her brother. She loves him still, in spite of herself. I would ask you to be honest with me, for her sake. She has been hurt enough, I think. So. Is this notion of forgiveness really his, or is it only your meddling? Or Lady Whitemarsh's?"
He knew he could not look away from her if she was to believe him. He did not pause before committing himself to the course he had chosen.
"Her brother. It is entirely because of his regard for her that I have come here."
In the moment of speaking it, he believed it. The conversation he'd had with Whitemarsh about the potential in a new business venture with Henley of all people – how advisable it was to trust Henley, what the implications of such a partnership would be – all of it was easy to dismiss. Business affairs were only an excuse, he was now sure. He remembered Whitemarsh's face when speaking of his sister, a tangle of love and pride and confusion. He should have immediately seen that above all else, the man wanted his sister back in his life. It was only that he had been loathe to admit it outright, and the only means Whitemarsh could find to approach her while preserving his pride was by appealing to Stephen's business sense.
Stephen had a sinking feeling of inevitability. Of course he had seen o
nly what Whitemarsh had wanted him to see. His own disinclination to refuse a man like Whitemarsh had made him errand boy once again. In the end, Whitemarsh would either have a sister again, or a very sound business deal. There was no advantage to Stephen in a reconciled family, so he was presented with the more profitable reason to act on Whitemarsh's behalf.
He meant it, though. He had not until this moment, but now he did mean it. There was such deep sentiment between brother and sister, and so long denied, that it could not but engage his sympathies. It was for this broken little family that he would continue here, and restore them to one another if he could.
Mme de Vauteuil nodded slowly. "Then I only warn you not to let her brother cause her more pain, or else he will answer to me." She gave him her mischievous smile. "After all, my reputation cannot be worse and I have nothing to lose by taking him to task. I have so much time, too, to dream up marvelous revenges. Do have a cake, my lord, and I shall see you on your way before the road is washed out."
Chapter 5
Dearest Helen,
How very cryptic you are! And how well you know me, that I can't resist sharing everything I know of someone so fascinating as Lord Summerdale, inasmuch as anyone can know anything of him.
At present, he is considered to be The Man Who Knows, because he seems to know simply everything even before it happens, from the most secretive movements in the government to the affairs of cookshop boys, I vow. He is a friend to Whitemarsh, chiefly in business dealings, so have no reservations on the veracity of that claim. Whispers about some members of his family have been known to be titillating but ultimately benign, and his own reputation is perfectly spotless (horrifically boring). The most recent gossip is vicious, that he has delighted in his brother Edward's death, but no one gives such blather any credence. He is too good.
The only other gossip attached to the man was the affair of Lady Clara van Doran. He and Clara spent much time together, and we all thought it was to be a love match. It was a surprise when she wed the Duke of Bryson's eldest son, no doubt for his superior rank. Then plain Mr. Stephen Hampton became the heir to Summerdale scarcely a month after Clara's wedding. There are no jabs directed at Summerdale for this – impossible to mock the man for inheriting too late to snare a woman who now seems nothing more than a friend to him. In any case, no one dares speak ill of him for fear of his encyclopaedic knowledge of others' sins, and even if one were inclined to slander his name there seems to be nothing at all to be said. He is above reproach.
Discretion is the word most often associated with the man, for he seems to know all the gossip but shares none. To this I add my own opinion, which is that he is so very mannered and accomplished and (overlooking the probability that such a proper gentleman might well be exceedingly dull) everything one would hope in nobility yet never seems to find. I shall also say, in the spirit of thoroughness and in the event you failed to note it, that he is wonderfully handsome.
Now I shall send this off quickly so that you may have an answer to your impudent questions. I am more vexed than ever to know that for the first time in the history of Bartle on the Glen, more exciting things are happening there than in London!
My love to the ladies of Bartle,
Joyce Huntingdon
(Martyr to the infamously Gouty and Twice-damned Baron)
Stephen had tried one last time to write the letter before giving up. A dull ache had lodged just behind his left eye from staring at the blank page every day for more than a week. It was not precisely blank, he scoffed at himself as he led his mount down the path that would take him to Bartle. He had gotten as far as Dear Lord Whitemarsh several times, but had stopped there without a single thought on how to continue.
He could tell her brother that the entire undertaking was doomed to fail, as he was now convinced the truth of what had happened to cause Lady Helen to break her engagement so long ago would never come to light. But admitting failure in this, his sole talent, was more difficult than he could have imagined. Besides that, he now firmly believed that whatever had happened was not Whitemarsh's prime concern. Stephen could write: Your sister is well and refuses to speak of the affair, but that was hardly informative, nor did it even attempt to address the question of Henley's trustworthiness.
He had tried: I am offended that you misrepresented your motivations to me, Lord Whitemarsh, for I see now that you have used my interest in healthy commerce to your own quite personal ends in order to reconcile with your sister. But that would not do either. Aside from risking his friendly relationship with Whitemarsh, which he was not even remotely prepared to do, it was not true. He was not offended. He was rather strangely pleased to be used in such a way. Instead of mucking about in others' affairs for financial or political gain, it was something of a relief to meddle for the sake of reuniting the Dehaven family. Perhaps he should have written so.
Dear Whitemarsh, you would be appalled at the circumstances she lives in.
Dear Whitemarsh, you must forgive your admirable sister, she is worth more than a dozen suppliers of wool.
Dear Whitemarsh, kindly provide me with more excuses to see her.
This thought brought him up short, and he eased into a trot, suddenly realizing he was almost galloping the distance to her tiny village. He wanted to see her again, had thought of little else, and his feeble attempts to compose a letter to her brother were little more than a way to distract himself. She was fascinating, with her interest in radical politics and her mercurial beauty, her dirty fingernails, and the smiles she strove to hide from him. Somehow, at some moment he could not pinpoint, he had stopped caring that she was a woman of few morals.
He scanned the horizon for any signs of foul weather, but it was unseasonably warm and clear. He would invite her to walk with him if the weather held. I do not ride, she had said in that small, stifled voice. She has been hurt enough, her friend warned – and something had happened to him. It had been careless of him, to overlook the absence of a lady's saddle, and it had caused her embarrassment. If he was more careful with her today, maybe he could coax another soft smile from her. If he had convinced Mme de Vauteuil that he meant Lady Helen no harm, perhaps he would eventually be trusted enough to help bring about some contact between Lord Whitemarsh and his sister, and he would have the pleasure of knowing he'd brought some happiness into her quiet little world.
Or perhaps he should stop agonizing over the girl's happiness and remember what it meant to be acquainted with treacherous ladies. Sobered by the thought of his own several weaknesses, he rode on, and resisted the thought of his very real desire to hear her laugh.
When he reached her home, it appeared abandoned. No one answered at the door, but the sound of a horse's soft whickering reached him. Dismounting, he followed the sound around the side of the house and heard her voice burbling with laughter. His pleasure in the sound died a quick death as he observed that it was a very fine mount. Evidently someone quite wealthy was paying Lady Helen a visit, and causing her no small amount of delight.
Suppressing the childish disappointment that welled up, he scanned a mental catalogue of all the estates within riding distance to divine who her gentleman caller could be. It was at last something to tell her brother, he thought with a twinge of regret.
"It's so very small! I feel almost naked!" he heard her protesting. "And my arms are tired. May I let go the pose now?"
Before he could quite wrap his mind around the image these words presented, he heard the heavily accented tones answer her. "Hélène, it is not a costume for a masquerade," came the stern response. "Let her finish and you can put your arms down."
"You are not using my face, I hope, Emily? Marie-Anne, remind her not to use my likeness."
It was futile to resist the curiosity that overcame him. Holding his horse's lead loosely in one hand, he peered through the trees and around the corner of the house. At first he thought it was a statue standing in the bright sunlight, a beautifully sculpted likeness of Diana at the hunt, comp
lete with bow and arrow. Mme de Vauteuil's voice was indistinct, but whatever she said shattered the stillness of the white-clad figure before him. His breath caught as he realized it was Lady Helen who dropped her head back, her loosely piled hair spilling backward over her bared shoulders, her breasts flexing upwards, her laughter like champagne through his blood. She wore only a light scrap of fabric, loose and falling high on the arc of her thighs, the draped folds secured by a thin cord about her curving waist. His breath came short to know it would only take the slightest nudge to reveal all the lushness beneath. The sight of it, of the soft flesh of her breast where the white of the fabric fell just a little away from her shoulder – all of it paralyzed him, sent fire to the pit of his stomach. He could not possibly move from where he stood. He never wanted to move again.
Even as he watched, she returned to the still pose of an archer, focusing her notched arrow on some unseen target. She held the pose for an indeterminate length of time while he made himself stare at the sweeping curve of her arm, as Marie-Anne's voice chided her to remain in the pose only a moment more. She stood perfectly still, as motionless as he was. She looked like a goddess straight out of Greek mythology, as lithe and voluptuous as any artist could imagine. The vision was all the more tantalizing because it was so different from what he would have suspected. He had thought her figure unremarkable, but this is what she hid from the world – this body that would tempt a saint, concealed beneath the lumpy dresses she wore every day.
When at last she broke the pose, he heard her maid speaking. "Now, now, Miss Helen, you're not thinking you can just go now, do you? It's the arrows we want to see flying, not yourself. Go on and give us some of those Amazon ways."
"It is said the Amazons cut off a breast always to improve the aim, you know," came Marie-Anne's voice.
A Fallen Lady Page 6