Deeply In You

by Sharon Page

  She watched as he grasped his French letter and withdrew.

  He hadn’t undressed, as usual. He untied her, brought her a robe. Then he did up his trousers, went to the mirror, and straightened his clothes. His distance hurt.

  “I have to go now, Miss Winsome. In the letter, Caro said the blackmailer claimed his partner owned the newspaper, the London Correspondent. That was his security—that his partner was ready to publish at any time. The same damned newspaper that printed the story about my father’s death.”

  Helena gaped in ice-cold shock. It couldn’t be true, could it? Will couldn’t be involved.

  No wonder Greybrooke wanted to destroy their newspaper. How was she going to stop him?

  She was so frightened that she went stiff as a board when he came to her and touched her cheek. Then she saw his eyes—the sorrow in them, the pain—and she put her hand to his. To her surprise he didn’t move, he let her touch him. For a while, when they’d made love, sex had made his pain go away.

  But it had come right back.

  Then he drew his hand back, breaking the contact.

  “I’ve always protected myself by staying in control, by not trusting anyone,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t trust you, but you are the one woman I want to trust. I can’t walk away from you. When I’m with you, making love with you, I forget everything but you. From the beginning, I knew I had to have you. Now I think I might need you.”

  He bent and kissed her neck.

  She almost squirmed with despair. He was admitting to needing her, and she was not going to admit she was Will’s sister. She was lying to him again.

  16

  As Helena put on her cloak and bonnet to go to the print shop, the Duke of Caradon arrived.

  The blond gentleman bowed over her hand. “I apologize for calling upon you so early. I must explain to you that Greybrooke cannot possibly be a traitor, but you are on your way out—”

  “No, please, you must tell me.” She drew him into her drawing room. She opened her mouth to ask if he wished tea, but he cut her short.

  “He wouldn’t have betrayed his country,” Caradon said. “Grey was so broken by years of abuse, so racked with guilt for not protecting his sisters that he couldn’t think of anything else. I know it was all he could do to survive.”

  “Who did this to them? Was it their father?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Why? How could anyone be so vicious? I—I saw the scars on his back.”

  “Grey won’t talk about it much. I was held as a prisoner of war in Ceylon, Miss Winsome, and I believe Grey knew a greater torture as a boy than I suffered at the hands of enemies in a foreign prison.”

  Horror turned her blood cold.

  Caradon’s eyes filled with pain. “He was badly wounded. Not just physically, but in his soul. I understand, because I know what it feels like. He doesn’t trust anyone because he was betrayed by someone he loved. He won’t let himself be vulnerable again. He claims he cannot fall in love because he fears that he will lash out at anyone close to him. He is filled with rage and bitterness that he can barely control. I do not believe Grey would be a traitor. He would never deliberately hurt anyone. He would never do anything unjust, because he grew up suffering injustice.”

  It made sense. It fitted with what she knew about Greybrooke. His refusal to allow a woman to touch him must be because he associated the touch of someone he loved with danger. He never kissed because his bitterness made him reject anything loving or sweet. It explained the rage that burned inside him.

  He was a man struggling. That struggle consumed him. He would never have been a traitor—he was too busy fighting his own private war.

  “Thank you,” she said to the Duke of Caradon. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

  He rose to his feet. “I saw your face as you looked at Grey. It was obvious you care about him. Can you tell me anything more about this man who said he was from the Crown?”

  “Only what I told you. He gave his name as Mr. Whitehall.” She gave the man’s description.

  Helena thanked Caradon again, then he left. And she had her carriage brought around so she could speed to see Will.

  Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, Helena hurried into the print shop. Will was there, carefully setting letters in one of the plates. His sleeves were rolled up, ink stained his fingers.

  “Helena!” Will set down his work. “Have you news?” he asked quietly. “I haven’t seen or heard from you for days. Have you found some proof we can give to Whitehall—?”

  Helena pulled Will by the wrist to the small sitting room off the print shop and she dropped into one of the well-worn chairs. She loved the place, but could see the signs of impoverishment. Furniture was torn, dented, and scuffed. Walls needed painting and plastering.

  She waited until her brother sat down across from her. “Will, has anyone ever approached you to print a scandalous story about the Countess of Blackbriar?”

  Will met her gaze with a surprised one. “No, Helena. You’re the one who unearths the scandals that keep the ton flocking to our newspaper. Why would I need to buy information elsewhere? The only story I had to take was the one Whitehall insisted I print.”

  That was what she’d thought. But why had the blackmailer threatened Lady Blackbriar with publishing her secret in their newspaper? Why her column specifically?

  Will’s worried voice broke in on her thoughts.

  “She’s not related to Greybrooke’s treason, is she?” he asked. “That’s what we need to be doing—satisfying Whitehall so I can get those debts called off.”

  “I don’t think we will satisfy Mr. Whitehall. I don’t believe the Duke of Greybrooke ever betrayed his country. I think Whitehall is wrong.”

  “You keep saying that, Helena. But Whitehall works for the Crown. They are clever men and they’ve got their own spies. How would they be wrong?”

  “Will, that man may not be who he says he is. He may not work for the Crown. This may all have been a pack of lies.”

  Will drew out a small silver flask from his waistcoat pocket. Once she would have reprimanded him. Now she said nothing—she understood why he would want a drink.

  He took a quick swallow, then slowly returned the cap to the flask. What he said then almost knocked her off her worn chair.

  “You’re not falling in love with the Duke of Greybrooke, are you? That will lead to nothing but trouble. Helena, you’ve got to keep a clear head—”

  “Good heavens,” she broke in. “I have the clearest one of the two of us, Will. I am not in love with Greybrooke, and it is not sentiment that makes me doubt Whitehall. It’s logic. The Duke of Greybrooke is not what I thought he was—I thought he was a scoundrel who thought of only one thing. I was wrong. He’s intelligent. Loyal. Brave.”

  “So are successful spies, I expect,” said Will, stubbornly. “And you sound like a woman in love.”

  “I’m not. I have far more sense than to do something as silly as fall in love with a man I can never have. I saw what happened to Margaret. I would never lose my heart like that. And definitely no one has come to you with a scandal about Lady Blackbriar?”

  He shook his head.

  “You definitely were not in a partnership with a blackmailer—to extort money?”

  “Of course not!” He looked startled, then appalled.

  She could tell when Will was lying. This had to be the truth.

  “Why are you so interested in her?” he asked. “Has she done something scandalous?”

  “No,” Helena said quickly. She could not reveal the truth, just in case her brother did write about it. She looked at Will and saw that his desperate straits had made it so she couldn’t trust him anymore. “She’s dead, Will. I fear—I fear she took her own life.”

  “You know something about her.”

  “There isn’t anything to know about her.”

  “We need blunt, dear sister. If you’ve got a grand scandal—”

  “No
, Will.”

  “Not even if it keeps your family from starving?”

  It would make a pile of money, she was sure. But she could not do it. It would hurt Greybrooke, and she couldn’t do that. And she could not make money on the back of this tragedy. It would be wrong. She shook her head.

  Will sighed.

  “I need your next column, Helena. It’s supposed to run tomorrow. I take it you’ve forgotten.”

  She clapped her hand to her mouth. She had indeed forgotten.

  But could she write an article? She thought of Lady Blackbriar, so terrified that her secrets would be exposed, she’d taken her own life.

  Lady X wrote about scandals and love affairs. Helena had thought she was doing good because she exposed scoundrels. Now she wondered: Had she hurt anyone? Had she left disaster in her wake?

  She did not want to do that anymore.

  Suddenly a feminine voice cried happily, “Is Helena here?” Feet scampered, and her youngest two sisters, Jane and Louisa, burst into the small sitting room.

  Helena was stunned. “What are you doing here? Why are you not in school?” Then her eyes widened so much it hurt. Fourteen-year-old Jane had ink-stained fingers.

  Two sets of guilty eyes shifted to Will.

  He picked up a rag and began wiping his hands. “We can’t afford the fees, Helena.”

  “We can . . . surely.”

  “The fees for the school have been raised. We can’t pay them anymore.”

  “But Jane and Louisa must go to school!” Just as Elise, the oldest of her younger sisters should marry. She could make it possible—she had the gifts Greybrooke had given her. They would pay for schooling for another year. Cover the rents for the shop and their home.

  “I have things I can sell.” Her face flamed—she didn’t want her sisters to know how she had raised this money.

  “Wait, Helena,” Will said. “If we don’t give Whitehall what he wants, my debts won’t be cleared. We’ll need the money for those.”

  “No! This money is needed for rent, for Elise’s dowry, for the girls to go to school.”

  “I’m duty bound to pay those debts.”

  “Yet you can easily ignore your obligations to your sisters.” Then she felt guilty for snapping at Will. “I know you are afraid of what the men who run those gaming hells will do. But we can’t have our sisters toiling in the print shop, giving up their futures.”

  “We have no choice.”

  Anger was pointless, and it was useless to point out that these debts shouldn’t exist. She had to do something. In her heart, Helena knew Whitehall would prove to be a fraud. She didn’t believe she could raise enough yet, even on the jewels Greybrooke had given her, to pay the debts, provide a dowry, and send her sisters back to school.

  She had to continue to be Greybrooke’s mistress.

  She had to ensure she won him back.

  Whatever it took.

  A door crashed open, and a man roared in anger. Will paled and hurried to the sitting room door. He opened it a few inches, then swung around. “It’s not an irate creditor. It’s the Duke of Greybrooke.”

  “He cannot find me here. He doesn’t know I’m your sister.” If the only way to save her family was to convince Greybrooke to keep her as his mistress, he couldn’t find out.

  Bellowing resounded through the printing room. The clattering stopped.

  “In the sitting room, Yer Grace,” cried one of the printers, and Helena wondered what threat Greybrooke had used to make him shout it so desperately.

  She was too late—she would never get away now. But she had to keep her wits. She’d spent years in this room, now everything in it conspired against her. She couldn’t fit under the worn settee or hope to disappear from sight behind a wing chair. There was only one place . . . sun-faded drapes framed the windows, and they were long enough for her to hide behind.

  “Send the girls out,” she commanded to Will.

  “What in Hades does he want?” Will breathed, staring open-mouthed at the closed sitting room door.

  Quickly, she told Will about Lady Blackbriar’s final note to Greybrooke: that the countess had taken her own life because she feared a scandal being revealed in Lady X’s column of their newspaper.

  “Damnation,” muttered Will. “Helena, you could tell him—no, you can’t. We can’t give you away now. Whitehall will never save us then. You’ve got to hide.”

  She had to make Will accept her doubts about Whitehall, but now was not the time. “I’ll hide, but send the girls away.” Heart hammering beneath her stays, Helena rushed behind the drapes and arranged them over her. Boots pounded over the floor. She would come out if Will was in real danger.

  All she could think of was what the Duke of Caradon had said. That Greybrooke was full of rage and constantly struggled for control.

  From her hiding place, Helena saw Will put his hands on Jane’s slender shoulders and had her stand behind him. He pushed Louisa to follow her. “We’ll stay together,” he said gruffly.

  Helena wanted to lunge out and shake sense in him. His sisters shouldn’t face Grey’s wrath. But of course Will hadn’t listened to her. No, he was using the girls to hopefully dissipate the duke’s anger.

  The door to the sitting room flew open, slamming into the wall with the same explosive force applied to the previous door. Dust flew up. Jane let out a scream before Will put his fingers to her lips.

  Goodness, was this Greybrooke?

  Scruffy dark stubble covered his jaw and shadowed his cheeks. His face looked haggard—his cheekbones jutted out sharply, his eyes had purple rings beneath. His clothes were rumpled, unkempt. He must have been awake all night.

  It showed how devastated Greybrooke was by Caro’s death. He’d been hurt so badly in his past, it broke her heart to see him suffer even more.

  Peeking out from behind the drapes, she saw Greybrooke’s gaze rivet on first Louisa, who was thirteen, then Jane, who was fourteen. He changed. The anger flaring in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a cool, emotionless expression. She could almost see each muscle tense, and he gained control. He bowed. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

  Her sisters gawked, stunned to have a duke apologize. Then, in the same measured voice—which meant danger, she knew—he said to Will, “Send the young ladies out of the room. This matter is between us. It concerns the Countess of Blackbriar.”

  Greybrooke towered over her brother. He glared down his noble nose at Will as if Will were an insect. Her brother took the girls to the door, sent them out, then returned to face the duke.

  Greybrooke accused Will of working with the blackmailer, of being the man’s partner.

  The words froze Helena’s heart. She knew they couldn’t be true! She believed her brother. But why had the blackmailer claimed to be partners with Will? Why name their newspaper? It made no sense.

  Greybrooke was here, ready to tear Will apart. But Will was innocent. Just as she was certain Greybrooke was innocent of treason. Whitehall was the connection between the newspaper and the duke, and now the blackmailer was connecting them too. Could Whitehall be involved with the blackmailer? Could they use unwitting spies to gather their secrets?

  “Your Grace, I assure you I do not blackmail people,” Will was insisting. “Nor do I associate with that kind of criminal.”

  The duke grabbed Will by the throat of his shirt and hauled him to his tiptoes. “You’re accusing Lady Blackbriar of lying?”

  “She must have been mistaken.”

  “Why would she accuse your newspaper of being in partnership with a blackmailer if it weren’t true? She got your name from the damned criminal.”

  “He lied, Your Grace.”

  “I’ve read Lady X’s column. Your paper feeds on scandals and thrives on destroying lives.”

  Helena winced. It was true. She felt so terribly guilty.

  “If I discover news, I print it,” Will said coolly. “I don’t keep it hidden and use it to be paid blackmail. When I learn about t
ruthful stories, I publish them.”

  “Tell me the name of your accomplice, this blackmailer. Give me the name of the man who drove a woman to take her life.”

  “I don’t know!” Will’s voice rose in panic. “I can’t give it to you because I’m not an accomplice to blackmail.”

  “Goddamn it, you do know. I saw no surprise in your eyes when I accused you.”

  Oh, dear God. That was her fault—because she had come here first.

  “I know nothing about a blackmailer,” Will shouted, scared now. “You must believe me, Your Grace. I have no name to give you.”

  Greybrooke picked up a wing chair as if it weighed nothing. He flung it, sending it crashing into a wall. Plaster broke and fell in chunks.

  Then he growled in anger. “That, I assume, terrified your sisters. Apologize to them for me. I sympathize with them— they are innocent victims.” The duke lowered his voice. From behind the drapes Helena had to strain to hear him. “I will destroy this newspaper, smash it to pieces around you. I will destroy you, Mr. Rains. It will be my personal pleasure to hurt you, bankrupt you, ruin you. I swear I will not hurt your sisters, but when I’m done with you, you will wish I’d walked in here with a pistol and shot you.”

  17

  “Think, Will,” Helena begged, keeping her voice low. “There must be some reason why a blackmailer would use the name of our newspaper.”

  She and Will were speaking in the press room. Work had stopped, for the duke’s rage had frightened everyone. Helena had made a pot of tea to soothe her sisters. The girls sipped theirs with the other workers, while Helena had picked up the chair and brushed up the broken plaster.

  Now that she had a minute to think, she was angry with Greybrooke for terrifying her family with his rage.

  He had calmed himself in front of her sisters, at least. For that she could forgive his anger. She did understand his rage and pain. But . . .