Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Decision made, Martin rose and drained his glass. For a long moment, he stood stock-still, staring at the embers dying in the grate. Then, deliberately, he flung the glass into the fireplace. With a brittle tinkle, it shattered, sending crystal shards flying.

  His jaw set, Martin swung on his heel and left the room.

  The first intimation Helen had that anything at all was wrong came two days later, when she finally stirred herself from her lethargy to go driving in the Park with Cecily Fanshawe. It was her first outing since the disaster of the Barham House ball. Thankfully, Cecily had missed the ball through indisposition. As always bubbling with enthusiasm, she prattled on, giving Helen every opportunity to rest her weary mind.

  She was worn out—depressed, hurt and heart-weary. The sight of Martin waltzing with Lady Rochester had caused her far more pain than she had been prepared for. She had thought she would be able to weather any such sight, knowing it would come some time. Her nerves had not been up to it that night. His action and her reaction would have caused comment, she knew. Consequently, when she detected the first few whispers, she made nothing of them.

  But by the time she and Cecily had gone halfway around the circuit, Helen knew that something more serious was in the wind. There was a coolness in the air. A number of matrons with marriageable daughters drew back from her smile.

  It was Ferdie who confirmed her suspicions. He waved to them from the side of the carriageway in the most popular section of the route. When the carriage came to a halt, he opened the door. ‘Want to talk to you,’ he said to Helen. He nodded to Cecily, with whom he was well-acquainted, then climbed into the carriage. ‘Rather think it’s time you dropped Helen home. I need to talk to her alone.’

  Cecily frowned. ‘But we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Never mind. Plenty to keep you busy at home, I dare say.’

  Cecily glared at Ferdie; Ferdie stared vacantly back. It was Cecily who gave way. ‘Oh, very well!’ she said, and leaned forward to give her coachman directions.

  Helen had not thought her heart could have sunk lower than it already had, but, as Ferdie engaged them both in inconsequential patter, she felt the leaden weight in her chest descend to her slippers. But she refused to let herself worry—not until she had heard what Ferdie had to say.

  Cecily dropped them off in Half Moon Street, airily declining an offer of refreshment. ‘I hope I know when I’m not wanted,’ she said, looking pointedly at Ferdie.

  Ferdie grinned. ‘Not up to snuff yet, I’m afraid. Being married don’t make you older.’

  Cecily put her nose in the air and, miffed, departed.

  Inside her drawing-room, Helen found another visitor waiting. Dorothea was pacing before the unlighted fire. She looked up as they entered. ‘Thank goodness!’ she said. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t be long.’

  Ferdie entered behind Helen. Dorothea greeted him with relief. ‘You’re just the person we need.’

  Ferdie took the unusual welcome in his stride. ‘Got rid of your sister, though. Didn’t think she’d take it too well. Never know what she might dash off and do.’

  ‘Very true,’ Dorothea agreed feelingly.

  ‘Do you mind,’ said Helen, sinking into an armchair, ‘telling me what all this is about?’ She had a nasty suspicion but she wanted to hear it stated plainly.

  The simple question succeeded in striking both her visitors dumb. They looked at her, then, rather uncomfortably, at each other.

  Helen sighed. ‘Is it about me and Martin Willesden?’

  Dorothea sank on to the chaise. ‘Yes.’ She waited while Ferdie drew up another chair and sat down. ‘There are rumours going the rounds. Perhaps one might expect it, after the Barham ball. But what I’ve heard this morning seems rather more than can be excused.’ She raised her large green eyes to Helen’s in a gently questioning glance.

  Helen held Dorothea’s gaze for a moment, then sighed and looked to Ferdie. ‘You’ve heard them, too?’

  Ferdie, unaccustomedly serious, nodded. ‘At White’s.’

  Helen closed her eyes. White’s. That meant it was all about town.

  ‘The tales suggest,’ Dorothea began, ‘that you…have been… Martin Willesden’s mistress.’ She waited, but Helen did not open her eyes. ‘Is it true?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Would it matter?’ Helen returned, her weariness very evident in her tone. She opened her eyes, raising her brows in disdain.

  It was Ferdie who answered. ‘’Fraid not.’ He paused, then continued, ‘The thing we need to do now is decide how to quash ’em.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Dorothea. ‘And I’m very much afraid, Helen, that you’ll have to face it out. Marc’s furious. After all, you first met Martin in our house. It was all I could do to persuade him to do nothing until I’d talked to you.’

  Helen’s eyes widened. Hazelmere after Martin? In truth, she could not predict who would be the victor in such a contest—they were both extraordinarily powerful men in every way. But Hazelmere had solid social acceptability on his side—and Dorothea. Abruptly, Helen sat up, reaching across to lay a supplicating hand on Dorothea’s sleeve. ‘You must promise me you’ll make Marc promise not to do anything—anything at all—until he hears from me.’ Helen stared at Dorothea earnestly. ‘Promise?’

  A worried frown in her eyes, Dorothea grimaced. ‘I promise to try. But you know as well as I that on some issues Marc won’t be led.’

  That was indisputably true. Helen nodded her acceptance of Dorothea’s limited offer. She sank back into her chair. ‘I need to think.’

  ‘Best thing to do is to carry on as usual,’ said Ferdie. ‘Merton’ll have to play his part. If neither of you gets the wind up, it’ll all blow over.’

  Dully, Helen nodded. ‘Yes. I suppose that’s true.’ With a visible effort, she put aside her depression to smile at her guests. ‘With friends like you, I’m sure we’ll get by.’

  Dorothea rose, shaking out her skirts. ‘I’ll leave you to your thoughts. If you need any additional support, you know you can call on us for whatever you need. Meanwhile, we’ll do what we can to dampen the interest.’

  Helen nodded her thanks.

  Ferdie rose, too. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said to Dorothea. ‘Might help if I saw Hazelmere.’

  Both Dorothea and Helen welcomed this magnanimous offer.

  After seeing her guests out, Helen returned to her small drawing-room to slump, even more weary than before, into her armchair. She struggled to make sense of what had happened. How had the story of her afternoon with Martin got out? No one had seen her leave Martin’s house—his careful butler had seen to that. And, against Martin’s orders, he had sent her home in one of the Merton coaches, but an unmarked one, with no crest on the door to give her away.

  Had Martin spread the tale—to hurt her? Given the fact that he had deliberately and so very publicly flayed her feelings by waltzing with Lady Rochester—of all women— under her nose, she felt reasonably sure that he was capable of anything. Knowing that her standing in society was one of the few assets she had left, had he set out to strip her of that, too? Helen bit her lip. A sickening sense of betrayal threatened to engulf her. Determined to see things clearly, she forced herself to think long and hard but, in the end, could not believe it of him. He might strike out at her in anger, as he had done at the Barhams’, but to seek to pull her down by making public what they had shared that afternoon was not the action of a gentleman. And, beneath his rakehell exterior, Martin Willesden was every inch a gentleman.

  The only proof she needed of that was her memory. He had taken great pains to keep her safe, from himself as well as all others, on their unorthodox journey to London. An unscrupulous rake would have taken advantage; she blushed as she recalled their night at Cholderton—he had certainly had opportunity enough.

  No—whoever had spread the tale of their afternoon together, it was not, could not be, Martin. Nevertheless, the uncertainty added yet another bruise to her already battered heart.
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  After half an hour’s painful cogitation, she succeeded in convincing herself that she would have to see Martin, to discuss what they should do. He must have heard the rumours by now.

  Reluctantly, Helen rose and crossed to the small escritoire which stood before the window. She sat and pulled a blank sheet of paper towards her. After mending her quill, she spent fifteen minutes staring fruitlessly into space. In the end, she shook herself in disgust. Without allowing herself any time to think further, she dashed off a note to the Earl of Merton.

  The answer came back two hours later. The Earl of Merton, wrote his secretary, was presently in the country. It was not known when he would be back but her letter would be shown to him instantly on his return.

  Helen stared at the plain note, reading the two sentences over and over. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Finally, as the light started to wane, she stirred. Crumpling the note into a ball, she dropped it into the grate. Then, slowly, she went to the door and climbed the stairs to her chamber.

  She lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She was alone. Not an unusual occurrence in her life, but it felt much worse this time. Insensibly, Martin had been with her ever since their first meeting in the woods. Now he had withdrawn, at the very moment when she most needed his strength.

  What was she to do? That refrain played over and over in her head. The shadows lengthened. Outside, darkness fell. Inside her chamber, the outlook was bleak. In Martin’s absence, she could not readily face down the rumours, scotch the scandal by simply denying its truth. Together, they could have pulled it off easily enough, even though, given their present situation, the effort would have cost both of them dearly. Without Martin, she did not have the strength to hold her head high until his return. Who knew when he might come back?

  What were the alternatives? Helen bit her lower lip and frowned. If she retired from town for the rest of the Season, there was every likelihood that some other scandal would blow up to eclipse hers. Hazelmere, she knew, would not support such a course, tacitly admitting as it did that there was some substance to the rumours. But she was not a green girl. She was a widow of twenty-six. The ton was inclined to turn a blind eye to such matters, as long as the affair was not paraded before their collective eyes. As theirs had been. The cheapest price to secure her future acceptance seemed to be a sojourn in the country. She had little doubt that next year she would be able to return to town and join in the Season as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  So the country it would be. But where? Unseeing, Helen stared into the gathering gloom. Hazelmere’s estates were always open to her but, given that her absence from town would be against his wishes, she did not feel at ease with such a solution. There was Heliotrope Cottage, of course— her only remaining land, all five acres of it, in west Cornwall. The cottage was a tiny place, just big enough for Janet and herself. Hazelmere had always been against her staying there, on the grounds that she would be without male protection.

  But Cornwall was a long way from London. Perhaps, in the isolation of the country, her broken heart would mend faster?

  With a sigh, Helen sat up and swung her feet to the floor. There was no sense in thinking further—there was nowhere else to think of. Heliotrope Cottage it would have to be. She rose and crossed to the bell-pull. If Janet packed tonight, she could close the house in the morning and hire a chaise to take them down. Three days would see her far from the capital, far from the grey eyes that haunted her dreams.

  Late that night, with all her plans made and her orders given, Helen sank into her bed and closed her eyes. She had decided not to tell anyone of her decision. They would only argue and, at the moment, she was not up to arguing back. No one would worry, however, for, with the knocker off the door and Janet gone, they would know she had shut up her house and gone away. Her dearest friends, those whose approval she valued, were all close enough to respect her wish for privacy. After Christmas, perhaps, she could visit Dorothea once her friend had returned to Hazelmere.

  With a little sigh, Helen tried to relax, waiting for sleep to claim her, wondering irrelevantly how long it would be before slumber ceased to bring the image of grey eyes in its train.

  Chapter Ten

  Hammering still echoed throughout the ground floor of the Hermitage. Martin paced around the new conservatory, added at the back of the ballroom, admiring his new domain. It was all coming together much as he had planned.

  The decorators would take another week to complete their work; the carpenters were expected to leave tomorrow. The sharp tang of new wood mixed with the smell of freshly mown grass. Not to be outdone by their house-bound rivals, the small army of gardeners he had hired to transform the wilderness back into landscaped grounds had taken full advantage of the fine weather. He had noticed the change immediately he had arrived. The drive had been cleared and newly gravelled, the huge wrought-iron gates that had hung for centuries at the main entrance to the estate had been cleaned and rehung. At the sight, Joshua’s grumbles, all but constant since London, had abruptly ceased.

  Martin leaned both hands on the sill of an open window and breathed deeply. Everywhere he looked, the evidence of his success leaped forward to greet him. Soon, his dream would be a reality; the Hermitage would be fit to take its rightful place as a centre of fashionable living once more, a suitable home for him—and his family.

  At the thought, his mood clouded.

  His success on one front had not been mirrored on the other. And now he was no longer sure which was the more important. Before he had met Helen Walford, restoring the Hermitage had been his principal goal. Now, with that goal in sight, he was looking far further ahead, beyond having his house, to fulfilling what he recognised as an even more basic need. He would soon have his house—he needed a family to fill it.

  And, try as he might, there was only one woman he could picture in that all-important position before his fireplace. His mind was not capable of letting go of the image of Helen Walford, the flames gilding her glorious hair, with his son balanced on her hip.

  From being merely an aim, marrying Helen Walford had become an obsession. He knew himself well enough to accept that if he did not marry her he would marry no one. His dream of a family inhabiting his home would never materialise.

  He was determined that it would—every bit as determined as she seemed to be to fight shy of marrying him.

  She was in for a shock.

  He was not giving up.

  Martin smiled a twisted smile. The life of a rake, a rich, well-born rake, was hardly conducive to teaching one self-sacrifice. He had no intention of giving up his dream. But how to convince Helen to go along with it was more than he had yet worked out.

  Noticing the shadows lengthening, he shook free of his reverie. He would think more on the matter later. Right now, he was due for some light entertainment.

  Quickly crossing the conservatory and striding through the refurbished ballroom, he paused to cast a critical eye over the now elegant dining-room before taking the stairs two at a time. He strode towards his mother’s rooms, noting with deep satisfaction how different the atmosphere in the long corridors now was. Gone was the must and the damp. Newly painted woodwork gleamed, and the floor was well-buffed and covered with bright runners. Windows, long stuck, had been repaired and the fresh autumn air danced in. Slim tables stood along the walls, some overhung by paintings, others sporting vases filled with bright flowers. Martin stopped by one such and chose a pink for his buttonhole.

  Tucking it into position, he fronted his mother’s door. He knocked. When she called to him to enter, he grinned in wicked anticipation and obeyed.

  Catherine Willesden looked up as he entered, unsurprised, for she knew his knock by now. To her amazement, Martin had taken to dropping by her room in the late afternoons, not to cause any furor but merely to chat. At first she had been stunned, then disarmed. He had a sharp eye and a ready wit, very reminiscent of his father. She had enjoyed his company far more than she would ever admit
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  Regally, she nodded and watched as he appropriated one of her gnarled hands and bent to kiss it. Then he placed a dutiful kiss on her cheek and stood back.

  ‘I’ve a surprise for you.’ Martin smiled down at her.

  Lady Catherine struggled to remain immune. ‘Oh? What?’

  ‘I can’t possibly tell you, or it wouldn’t be a surprise.’ Martin watched his mother’s eyes narrow.

  ‘My dear sir, if you think I’m about to play guessing games with you, you’re mistaken.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ Martin replied. He found his mother’s acerbity refreshing and took the greatest delight in teasing her. ‘I would never presume to play games with you, ma’am.’

  ‘Huh!’ was his mother’s instant response.

  ‘But you’re distracting me from your surprise. You’ll have to come downstairs to get it.’

  Lady Catherine frowned at her son. ‘I’ve not been downstairs for well nigh ten years—as you well know.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort. If you were well enough to look about the place six weeks ago, you must be well enough to see my surprise.’ Martin watched as his mother’s crabbed fingers picked at the edge of her shawl.

  ‘Oh,’ said the Dowager. ‘You heard about that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said, his tone several shades more gentle. ‘But there was no need for you to see it like that.’ He had learned that, when he’d left so abruptly after his first visit, she had insisted on being carried down to view the state she had by then guessed the house had disintegrated into.

  ‘It was awful.’ Lady Catherine shuddered. ‘I couldn’t even recognise some of the rooms.’