Fair Juno

by Stephanie Laurens

  Martin threw him a grimace. ‘I did say I was going to cure her, didn’t I?’

  Hazelmere acknowledged that with a resigned nod. ‘I hadn’t, however, imagined you would allow such an item to become public property.’

  ‘Public property?’ Martin was on his feet and pacing. ‘Bloody hell!’ he growled. ‘How the hell did that get out?’

  Hazelmere viewed his friend’s agitation with transparent satisfaction. ‘I didn’t think you knew anything about it.’

  He spoke softly, but Martin caught the quiet comment. He swung about, brows knit in a furious frown. ‘Of course I knew nothing of it! Why on earth…?’ He stopped, struck, his face drained of expression. Slowly, he sank back into the chair. ‘Dorothea—and everyone else—thinks I let the information slip?’

  Succinctly, Hazelmere nodded. ‘To Lady Rochester,’ he added. ‘She was spreading the tale shortly after you danced so briefly with her at the Barhams.’

  Martin groaned and sank his head into his hands. How had Serena found out? A more worrying thought surfaced. He looked up. ‘Helen can’t believe that surely?’

  A frown had invaded Hazelmere’s face ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what Helen thinks—I haven’t had a chance to ask her. She’s disappeared—gone out of town. I’d hoped you might know where she was, but obviously that’s not the case.’

  ‘I came to ask if you knew where she was.’ Martin straightened, his worry overcoming his frown. ‘I left town early on the morning after the ball. What exactly happened?’

  Hazelmere told him, briefly, concisely. ‘So Dorothea and Ferdie left her to think things through. The next morning, she left.’

  ‘Damn!’ Martin stood again, automatically falling to pacing before the hearth. With an effort, he forced himself to evaluate the situation coolly. ‘Luckily, the position’s not irretrievable. Once we marry, it’ll cease to be news.’

  Hazelmere inclined his head in agreement. ‘True. But, if you don’t mind my curiosity, when, exactly, is the wedding?’

  The glance Martin shot him contained equal parts of frustration and sheer exasperation. ‘The witless wanton wouldn’t accept.’

  For once, the hazel eyes opened wide in honest surprise. Black brows rising, Hazelmere considered his wayward charge. ‘What on earth is she about?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Martin muttered. ‘But if I can lay hands on her, you can rely on me to shake some sense into her.’ Tired of pacing, he returned to his chair. ‘Have you any idea where she might have gone?’

  Hazelmere frowned. ‘There aren’t all that many options. I know she hasn’t gone to one of my estates—I’d have heard by now. I can’t imagine her going to an inn or any such.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Too risky by half.’

  Nodding sagely, Hazelmere continued, ‘Which leaves Heliotrope Cottage.’

  Martin looked his question.

  ‘As I recall, I told you that none of Helen’s properties was saved from the collapse of the Walford estates?’ At Martin’s nod, Hazelmere said, ‘As far as substance goes, that’s true. But Heliotrope Cottage was considered beneath the dignity of any gambler. Consequently, it’s the one part of Helen’s patrimony that remains hers. It’s a tiny place on barely five acres. In Cornwall.’

  ‘Cornwall?’

  At Martin’s incredulous exclamation, Hazelmere blinked. ‘Yes. Cornwall. You know—it’s that bit beyond Devon.’

  Martin brushed his levity aside. ‘I know where the damned place is but, what’s more to the point, so does Hedley Swayne. His estates are there, too.’

  Hazelmere’s hazel gaze was confused. ‘Quite a few people have estates in Cornwall.’

  ‘But,’ said Martin grimly, getting to his feet once more, ‘none of the others has tried to kidnap Helen.’

  Hazelmere blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Pacing again, Martin threw his explanation over his shoulder. ‘I first met Helen not here but in a wood in Somerset, not far from Ilchester. She’d been grabbed from a ball by two ruffians. They were waiting with her for their client to arrive. From everything I’ve learned, that client was Hedley Swayne. Helen thought it was at the time.’

  Hazelmere met his glance, then fell to considering the facts. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he eventually said.

  ‘I know it doesn’t make sense,’ Martin growled.

  ‘We’ve all seen Swayne dancing about Helen’s skirts, but I wouldn’t have thought he’d have any real inclination in that direction.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘He’s definitely not one of us.’ A moment later, he added, ‘There must be some reason that we can’t see. But whatever it is I’d much rather Helen was safe before I shake the answer from Hedley Swayne.’

  With that, Hazelmere was in complete agreement. ‘Will you go down or will I?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll go, if you’ll give me her direction. I intend having a very long talk with your wife’s dearest friend. After that, I rather think we’ll return by way of Merton.’ At the thought of taking Helen to the Hermitage, Martin’s features eased for the first time that day.

  Hazelmere nodded and stood. ‘I’ll write the route down—it’s not exactly straightforward.’

  Armed with a complicated set of directions which Hazelmere assured him would take him to the door of Heliotrope Cottage, Martin departed from Hazelmere House, pausing at the last to request Hazelmere to speak to his wife regarding her killing glances.

  As soon as he crossed his threshold in Grosvenor Square, Martin issued a stream of orders, which culminated in his sending Joshua scurrying to harness the bays while he strode upstairs to throw a selection of clothes into a bag. Laying shirts and a supply of freshly laundered cravats in the base of the bag, Martin grimaced. He would have to get a valet if he was set on observing all the niceties. Men such as he were expected to have one, but he had managed well enough without throughout his eventful life. Nevertheless, if he was to settle down to socially acceptable wedded bliss, a valet seemed inevitable. The idea of marriage halted him mid-stride.

  Who knew what situation he would face in Cornwall? Who knew to what lengths he might have to go to convince Helen to say yes? All in all, the insurance of being able to secure his prize the very instant she agreed to his proposal seemed advisable.

  A wry grin twisted Martin’s lips. He resumed his packing, mentally rehearsing his plea to the Bishop of Winchester, a connection of his father’s who would doubtless be only too pleased to do what he could to entangle a rake past redemption in the sacred toils of matrimony.

  * * *

  The bed at the Four Swans was lumpy. Ruefully reflecting that easy living had exacted a toll from his tolerance, Martin stretched out and closed his eyes. The day had been unwarrantedly full.

  First, his arrival in London, full of his plans for fair Juno, plans which were dashed by her absence. Then his interview with Hazelmere, and his preparations for his journey. As it had been his secretary’s day off, he had decided to go through the pile of mail placed waiting on his desk before quitting his house for an indeterminate time. He had found Helen’s brief note in the pile, with a scrawled message from his secretary appended. Initially, he had been downcast that she had appealed for his help and he had not been there to assist her. Then the implication of her appeal had struck him.

  Despite the hurt he had inflicted, she had not balked from summoning him; she had clearly envisaged being able to play a part, with him by her side to conceal their illicit liaison. All in all, it would not have been hard, together. They would simply have pretended nothing was amiss— none, he was sure, would have pressed the point.

  But the important feature of her call for help was that she had been prepared to see him again, to speak with him again. That was, Martin felt, definitely encouraging.

  He sighed and settled his shoulders. Things were looking up. The drive from London to Winchester had been accomplished in time for him to be invited to sup at his Grace’s board. His ageing
relative had proved much as he had imagined, but more curious than censorious. A special licence had been duly provided. Thus armed, he was looking forward to the second day after the next with keen anticipation.

  Even if he left early the next morning, it would still take him more than two days to reach Heliotrope Cottage. Two more days in which to polish his apologies and frame his proposal while keeping his cattle on the road. He had nearly landed them in a ditch this evening. He would have to make sure he kept sufficient wits functioning to drive; he could not bear any further delay.

  He still could not fathom how the fact of their afternoon together had been broadcast to the ton. However, rake that he was, he recognised the added weapon the potential scandal gave him. It would have to be wielded with care, of course, and only if Helen still showed reluctance. No woman liked to feel jockeyed into any decision; none knew that better than he. Somehow, he would have to ensure that the idea of marrying him as the most socially acceptable course was subtly conveyed to his love.

  No light had yet glowed on her reasons for refusing him; in truth, if she was simply too wary to try marriage again, the only way he could think of to convince her was to marry her and consequently demonstrate how wrong she was. A little gentle persuasion was surely excusable in such circumstances?

  With a slight frown, Martin shook aside such quibbles and let his usual positive attitude resurface. He wanted Helen Walford to wife, therefore, however it came about, she would marry him. It was in her own best interests, after all.

  The moonlight streamed in through the open window, a slight breeze wafted the net curtains. Martin felt sleep take hold. His dreams would doubtless be of the last inn bed he had slept in—and his fair companion in dreams.

  Chapter Eleven

  Was it two spoons of milk or only one? Helen rubbed a floury hand across her brow and struggled to remember Janet’s instructions. She had sent her maid to the mill just outside the tiny village half a mile away, to buy more flour. Meanwhile, she had decided to use what was left and make some bread.

  She had never cooked anything before—other than the pancakes she had assisted with during that night in the old barn. Even then, he had actually done the cooking. At the thought of him, whom she refused to acknowledge by name in the vain hope that that would assist her mind in forgetting him, Helen’s eyes filled. Annoyed, she blinked rapidly. She sniffed. Damn! She had never been the sniffy sort but, ever since leaving London, she had hovered on the brink of tears. It would not do—she had to pull herself together and get on with her life. No matter how lacking in all enticement that life now seemed. For a while, he had filled her with hopes for the future. They had come to nought, but her life was not, in truth, any more drab than it had been before. She tried to reason with her emotions, to no avail. All they seemed capable of dwelling on was her misery at losing him.

  Helen gritted her teeth and plunged both hands into her dough. Her sudden urge to action was simply an attempt to get some purpose, however inconsequential, into her life. The past five days had disappeared in a dull daze, the fine weather outside clouded by her misery. Heliotrope Cottage was comfortable enough but, without menservants, Janet had to do everything. Helen poked at the dough disparagingly and reflected that she would have to see about hiring a young girl to come in and help with the cleaning and cooking, and maybe find a gardener as well.

  The kitchen was a sunny nook, part of the large room that made up the ground floor of the cottage. A window beside the table at which she stood looked out over the small kitchen garden. The plot was currently overgrown, choked with a full season’s weeds, but reddish earth showed in one corner where Janet had made a start on clearing it. Helen breathed deeply of the tangy breeze wafting in through the open door of the cottage, to play with her curls before whisking out again through the back door. With a grimace, she regarded the floury mass in the copper basin. It must have been two spoonfuls.

  She was replacing the milk jug on the dresser when the sound of horses’ hooves and the sliding thump of heavy carriage wheels rolling down the rutted lane came to her ear. Helen froze. Then her heart started to pound, faster and faster as anticipation rose.

  The cottage stood at the end of the lane; there was no passing traffic. Who was it who had come to visit her?

  The likely answer addled her wits.

  Then she heard a voice, a light voice, giving instructions, and knew it was not the Earl of Merton who had called.

  Disappointment sent her back to despair.

  Consequently, when a sharp rap came on the door-frame, she made no move to take her hands from the copper basin, but called out, ‘Come in!’ in as interested a tone as she could manage.

  To her surprise, it was Hedley Swayne’s slight figure that appeared in the doorway. ‘Lady Walford?’

  Helen stifled her sigh. Country hospitality demanded that she at least invite him in for refreshment. ‘Come in, Mr Swayne.’ She waited until her unexpected visitor had mincingly picked his way across her small front room, his features registering disapproval of her rustic surrounds, before commenting, ‘I had hardly looked to see anyone from London hereabouts. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘Dear lady.’ Hedley Swayne bowed effusively. ‘Just a neighbourly visit.’ When Helen looked her confusion, he added, ‘I own Creachley Manor.’

  Creachley Manor? Helen blinked. If that was so, Hedley was, in fact, her nearest neighbour. The lands attached to the Manor all but enclosed hers; it was the largest single holding in the immediate area.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘How very thoughtful of you.’ She waved a whitened hand at a nearby chair and watched as Hedley disposed himself upon it, fussing about the arrangement of his coat-tails. Dismay was her predominant reaction—to his visit and to the news that he was so closely situated. She did not trust his airy excuse one bit. ‘But how did you know I was here?’

  For an instant, Hedley’s pale eyes went perfectly blank. ‘Er…ah, that is to say…heard about it. On the village grapevine, if you know what I mean.’

  Helen inclined her head civilly. Having lived in the country for most of her life, she knew perfectly well what he meant, but, although it often amazed her with its speed, no village grapevine worked that fast. She and Janet had arrived late in the evening; their post-chaise and post-boys had immediately returned to the road for London. Today was the first day anyone in the village could know of their arrival and that only through Janet’s appearance at the mill. Hedley Swayne was lying, but to what purpose?

  ‘Could I offer you some tea, sir?’

  Hedley looked slightly perturbed at the suggestion. His roving gaze alighted on a small decanter on the sideboard. Helen saw it and correctly divined that the fastidious Mr Swayne did not partake of tea. ‘Or perhaps some cowslip wine would be more to your taste?’

  To this, Hedley Swayne agreed readily. Sending silent thanks to her cook in London, who had slipped a bottle of her delicious wine into the provisions Janet had packed, Helen lifted her hands from her basin and looked in consternation at the gooey mess covering her fingers.

  ‘Er…perhaps if you’d just tell me where the glasses are?’

  Appeased by this show of neighbourly good sense, Helen directed Hedley to the cupboard beneath the sideboard. She watched as her visitor arose and helped himself, her brow creasing as she struggled to understand just what he was about this time. His visit was not driven by pure neighbourly concern, of that she was sure. But what did he hope to achieve? His dress was as finicky as ever, better suited to the Grand Strut than a small cottage in deepest Cornwall. The coat of puce cloth was offset by yellow pantaloons; a wide floppy yellow neckerchief tied in a bow proclaimed his allegiance to fashionable fripperies. As with most of the fops, he disdained the highly polished Hessians of the Corinthians, opting instead for heeled shoes, in this case sporting gold buckles. There was a gold pin in the neckerchief and a huge fob watch vied with a range of seals for prominence against a perfectly hideous purple emb
ossed silk waistcoat. Considering the spectacle, Helen reflected that it was almost as if Hedley had dressed to impress. Unfortunately, in his present surroundings, he only succeeded in looking woefully out of place.

  Her own dull olive gown, with its round neck and simple sleeves, was far more in keeping with the country atmosphere. Its colour did nothing for her complexion, drawn and sallow after days of weeping. Not that she cared. There was no reason to make the most of herself; she did not desire to impress her neighbours—not even be they Hedley Swayne.

  Pouring himself a generous measure of cowslip wine, Hedley returned to his chair. ‘I must say, dear Lady Walford, that it’s a pleasure to see a woman such as yourself engaged in such a womanly pursuit.’

  Helen eyed his smile warily. His attitude was one of a man well-pleased, almost smug, as if he had solved some fiendishly difficult problem and was looking forward to claiming his prize. Helen’s unease grew, but she merely nodded, wondering what to say next. Luckily, Hedley had an inexhaustible flow of patter. He rambled on, and, at first, she thought his direction aimless. Then, as she followed his recitation of ton events, she started to perceive a pattern to his revelations. They were all concerned with recent scandals and how these had adversely affected the women involved. In particular, how the unfortunate proceedings had affected the subsequent marriageability of the women involved. She made the right noises at the right places, which was all Hedley required to keep him going while she wondered if she dared guess at his summation.

  It was as she had suspected.

  ‘Actually,’ he said pausing to take a sip of his wine, ‘I left the capital six days ago. So ennervating—the Season— don’t you think?’

  Helen murmured appropriately.

  ‘And then, too,’ said Hedley, examining his fingernails, ‘there was a distressing rumour going the rounds.’

  And that, thought Helen, is enough. ‘Indeed?’ She infused the single word with arctic iciness. To her dismay, the effect was not at all what she had hoped.