by Darcy Burke
He drew her aside before they went into the dining room. “I must speak to you tonight.”
She ducked her head. “Is it about tomorrow?”
“Er—yes.”
Helen put her hand on his arm. Gareth remembered Cleo doing the same thing, although her touch had sent a shock of awareness through him, while Helen’s only made him tense. “Your Grace, I want to speak to you as well. I think tomorrow will be difficult for us both, but you must know that I’m confident it will be for the best. I’ve been worried about the wedding, you see, but my sister helped me understand that it will lead to great happiness.”
“Ah—yes. About that ...”
“I want you to be happy,” she said wistfully. “As much as I want my own happiness.”
This was not going well. Gareth cleared his throat. “Will you meet me later tonight, then?”
She hesitated, and her mother swooped in. “Helen dearest! Oh, Your Grace!” She curtseyed, beaming from ear to ear. Gareth remembered the veiled hurt in Cleo’s voice when she spoke of her parents and could barely bring himself to nod at Lady Grey. “What a lovely couple,” she gushed. “I was just telling Lady Warnford how handsome you look together. I’m sure Sir William will hire a painter to capture your likenesses so we might always remember how perfect a pair you form!”
“There’s no need to rush to do so. Mama, His Grace has just invited me to walk out after dinner. May I?”
Lady Grey gasped. “Indeed not! It’s the night before the wedding! Not only is it bad luck, you need your rest, my dear! Please understand, Your Grace,” she hastened to add. “You will have her every night after tonight!”
Gareth clenched his jaw as Helen demurely bowed her head. “Yes, Mama. I am sorry, Your Grace.”
“Quite right,” he said bitterly. How the bloody hell was he supposed to talk to her? He was the Duke of Wessex, damn it, and if he wanted to see his bride ... in order to persuade her to jilt him ... he ought to have the right to do so.
He barely paid attention at dinner, working out in his mind how best to present the problem. Cleo wasn’t there again, for which he was grateful. There was still a stir over the engagement yesterday of Miss Rosanne Lacy to the Earl of Bruton, although no mention of the duel. Even Jack Willoughby’s shocking announcement that he and Henrietta Black had agreed to marry only diverted Gareth for a moment. There were several rounds of toasts, and Sophronia declared that she’d suspected that match all along, but Gareth only saw the ring. After making a blushing Henrietta stand up with him, Jack had presented Gareth with the Cavendish heirloom ring that had been sent to London for cleaning and sizing. He was supposed to put that ring on Helen Grey’s finger tomorrow morning. It sat on the table in front of him, taunting him through the port and the ribald conversation of the other gentlemen when the ladies had left. Every man here seemed pleased to be getting married except him.
By the time he extricated himself from the guests, Gareth was almost wild with impatience. He had to do this tonight. In the morning it would be too late; the bride would be dressing for a wedding he no longer wanted to happen. He finally decided to wait until the house was quiet and then go to her room. It was improper, but he didn’t see any other way. He couldn’t stand at the altar tomorrow beside Helen, all the while wishing it were Cleo standing beside him instead, Cleo with his ring on her finger, Cleo in his bed that night. Although if it were Cleo next to him, Gareth was quite certain she would be in his bed long before night. His mother could entertain the guests at the wedding breakfast, and he could entertain Cleo upstairs.
He retreated to his study and dropped into his chair with a sigh, letting his head fall back. He poured a generous glass of brandy and let his mind run wild with all sorts of schemes, in case he couldn’t persuade Helen. He could pay Sir William to break the betrothal. At this point, any amount of money would be a small price to pay. He could invent some crisis in London he must attend to at once and literally flee the scene. He could shoot himself in some harmless place to buy time; a man with a bullet in his leg could hardly stand up in church. Gareth set down his empty glass with a thunk when he realized he was willing to cripple himself to avoid a wedding he had once sought. He glanced at the clock and cursed; he should wait another hour at least before seeking out Helen. He’d have no choice but to marry her if people saw him going into her bedchamber.
He lifted the glass, intending at least one more drink, and a letter came with it, stuck to the bottom. He pulled it off and started to toss it back on the desk when the direction caught his eye. It was to him, in Blair’s hand. Gareth frowned. It hadn’t been here earlier in the day. Blair hadn’t said a word to him at dinner, or after. Gareth had bade him good-night barely an hour earlier. What would his cousin write that he couldn’t say aloud? He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
He read it three times before the meaning sank in. And then he began to smile. He read the letter again, just to reassure himself he understood it, then laughed out loud. What a prize Blair was! And what an idiot he was; if he hadn’t been knocked senseless by Cleo’s sly little smile, he surely would have noticed something earlier and deduced what had made Blair so quiet and bitter lately.
But how to proceed now? Gareth thought carefully for a moment, absently rotating the empty glass under his fingers. This would solve all his troubles, if handled properly, and not merely his own troubles. At last he got to his feet, folded the letter carefully into his pocket, and poured another drink, smaller this time. He raised the glass to the portrait of his father above the mantel. “To Cleopatra, your future daughter-in-law,” he told the painting. “And to James Blair, the finest man I know.”
Chapter 10
The wedding day dawned cool and misty. Awake since before first light, Cleo lay staring at the ceiling until the maid brought warm water for her to wash. There would be dark circles under her eyes, but the last two days of solitary contemplation had been good for her, in a way. She had nothing to regret; she had lost nothing that had been hers. What she felt for Gareth ... it was unnatural, besides being wrong. People couldn’t fall in love so quickly, she told herself. It was not love; it was merely desire, or perhaps a hidden longing to be married again emerging with all the fuss over Helen’s wedding. It would pass, she told herself, trying to believe it. Sooner or later. The important thing was that she hadn’t acted on any of those mad, wicked impulses and betrayed her beloved sister.
She dressed slowly, carefully. Her mother had dictated her gown for the day, and Cleo had rolled her eyes behind her mother’s back at the volume of lace and the bland shade of gray. It would have been entirely appropriate for elderly Lady Sophronia—or rather, for someone of Lady Sophronia’s age, for Sophronia would probably have sliced the gray dress into pieces with her little Scottish dirk. Normally Cleo would feel the same way; Matthew had even made her swear not to wear mourning for him. He didn’t want her to be old before her time, he had said. But this morning Cleo put on the gray dress without complaint. Today she felt old and mournful, and might as well look it.
She drank the tea the maid brought, then just sat by the window, staring blindly at the grounds. The carriages were to come at ten o’clock to carry them to the Kingstag chapel. It was only a little past eight, although if Cleo knew her mother, the carriages would be waiting at least half an hour. Millicent was incapable of being on time to anything.
A maid interrupted her morose thoughts. “Your pardon, ma’am, but your mother, Lady Grey, requests you come to her.”
Cleo’s eyebrows went up, but she went without question. No doubt she would provide an audience to her mother’s raptures over Helen’s gown and hair and shoes. With something as momentous as this, Millicent would need someone to boast to, and Cleo was the only person who would listen and not think her crass. She braced herself and tapped at Helen’s door.
It opened and her mother seized her arm, whisking her inside before closing the door behind her. Cleo rubbed her arm, startled. “Why must you do that, Mama?�
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“Shh!” Millicent pressed a handkerchief to her lips before her face crumpled. “Something awful has happened.”
Her heart stopped. “What? Is Helen ill?”
“Helen,” said her mother in tragic tones, “is not here.”
“What do you mean? Of course she’s here, somewhere at Kingstag.” Cleo was astonished. “When did you discover she wasn’t in her room? We must look for her—”
Millicent waved her handkerchief as if to dispel the words. “Don’t say that! Would you have us run up and down the corridors calling her name? What would people think?”
“They’ll notice if she doesn’t come to her own wedding.” Cleo tried to tame her thoughts into order. “Chances are she woke early from nerves and went for a walk. Have you checked the garden?”
“Of course we did!” snapped her father, pacing in front of the fireplace. “What kind of fool do you think I am? I went there first thing.”
“But she’s not there—her bed hasn’t been slept in—she never rang for her maid—she’s gone and run off and we’ll all be humiliated when His Grace discovers it!” Millicent burst into loud weeping. Cleo patted her mother’s shoulder numbly, not knowing what to think. Where could Helen be? Had she truly run off?
Her heart took a mad leap at the thought; perhaps her sister didn’t wish to marry Wessex after all. Perhaps there was a chance for Cleo to have him without hurting her sister and causing a scandal. She was a wicked woman for thinking it, but she did think it.
“We must tell His Grace,” she began, only to be cut off by her father.
“We most certainly must not! What will he think?”
“He’ll think Helen’s not here,” said Cleo, “which is true. Mama, we must tell him,” she insisted as her mother shook her head and burst into tears again. “We cannot conceal her absence! He’ll notice his bride is missing.”
Millicent clutched at her arms. “You must find her,” she begged. “Please look—you and she were always thick as thieves. We’ll be a laughingstock if she jilts the Duke of Wessex at the altar!”
Cleo ignored that. She rather thought the duke wouldn’t mind being jilted, but there might be another reason Helen had gone missing. “I’ll go look for Helen, but I have to tell the duke. He has a right to know,” she said, raising her voice as her mother began to moan softly. “Let me change my shoes and get a pelisse.”
“Yes! Yes, you must go.” Her mother retreated to the sofa. “Oh, where are my Smythson’s Smelling Salts?”
Cleo went back to her own room and kicked off her gray satin slippers. Her sister might have gone for a walk and fallen; she could be lying hurt somewhere on the vast estate. Walking boots in hand, Cleo sat down at the dressing table, not bothering to ring for her maid to change her dress. Until she knew Helen was at least safe, there was no time to lose. She laced up one boot, combing her memory for any place Helen might have wandered. Where could she be?
The answer stared her in the face when she reached for the second boot.
Cleo seized the note tucked partly under a box of face powder. It was folded small and bore her initials in Helen’s delicate writing. Unfolding it with shaking fingers, she read. Then she read again. She laughed a little madly, then stopped at once, glancing around the room in guilt. People would think she was mad, and Helen, too.
Oh, God. What a twist.
On shaking legs she went back to her mother’s room. Her parents were where she had left them, alone, thank God. She closed the room door behind her, and cleared her throat.
“What is it?” barked her father.
“I’ve found a note,” she said, “from Helen.”
That roused even Millicent. “What does it say?” Sir William strode across the room to snatch the paper from Cleo’s hand before she could read it. His eyes skimmed it, then his face blanched, and he thrust it back at her as if it burned him. “You!” he croaked. “You did this!”
“No!” she gasped. “No! I did nothing!”
“What?” cried Millicent, struggling off the sofa. “What has happened to poor Helen?”
“Poor Helen,” spat Sir William, “has disgraced us all! Disgraced and ruined us! And you—” He shook his finger at Cleo. “—you are responsible!”
“I most certainly am not!” Cleo’s temper finally snapped at his unjust accusation. She had held her tongue about her shop and endured his suspicion without a word, but now she had had enough. “You are, Papa, if anyone is. You and Mama both.”
He reared back. “How dare you!”
“Helen has been unhappy and anxious since we arrived, and neither of you paid any attention because you were so pleased she was marrying a duke. I knew she was unhappy, but she insisted it was just nerves—which you, Mama, made worse with your incessant talk of how glorious Kingstag is and what an honor it will be to preside over it.”
“But it’s a castle,” protested her mother. “Helen needs to know—”
Cleo threw up one hand. “Helen needed to know her future husband cared for her. She needed to know she would be happy with him. It doesn’t matter what sort of house he has if she’s miserable!”
“This is the match of the season!” said her father furiously. “A brilliant marriage! You tempted your sister away from following her duty, prompting her into some hysterical fit. I knew it was a mistake to let you come.”
She shook her head. “Why is it Helen’s duty to replenish your fortune, Papa? Why wasn’t it your duty to make economies or learn investments or do anything at all to support your family? Instead you’ve been content to live off your daughters, taking the money I earned in my hateful little shop and now selling Helen in marriage, regardless of her feelings in the matter.”
Sir William’s face was purple. “You are dead to me now.”
Cleo just lifted one shoulder sadly. “I know. I’ve been dead to you for years. But now I think you shall be dead to me as well, if you cannot forgive Helen for what she’s done. Being happy is more important than being a duchess.” She turned to go.
“Cleo!” Her mother’s anxious voice stopped her. “You—you will still try to find her, won’t you? To make sure she’s not hurt, and—” Millicent cast an anxious glance at her husband. Cleo’s heart started to soften toward her mother. Perhaps one parent would be made to see reason; surely her mother still cared about more than Helen’s status. “And perhaps,” Millicent went on hesitantly, “perhaps she might reconsider ...”
“Yes, Mama,” she said, and left the room, closing the door on her parents. Her heart thudded, both with disbelief that she had finally been so blunt with them and with surprisingly little regret. She had borne it because she believed that, deep down, they loved her and Helen; she had told herself they were simply unable to conquer their disappointment in her marriage to Matthew. A shopkeeper was a distinct step down, and she had excused them that. But finally she accepted that it was excessive pride, indifferent affection, and arrogance. They wanted their daughters to marry well so they might live more comfortably and trade on their daughters’ connections. Her actions, like Helen’s today, mattered to them only as a reflection on their own state.
And if Helen had finally taken charge of her own life and happiness, there was nothing at all to stop Cleo from doing the same. She didn’t know where Wessex’s rooms were, but she found the butler and told him she must speak to the duke urgently. He directed her to the study at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens.
At the door she took a deep breath and knocked. Just the sound of his muffled voice made her pulse jump. She let herself in, glancing quickly around to be certain there was no one else in the room.
He was alone, standing in front of the window with his hands clasped behind his back. Just the sight of him made her dizzy with yearning and hope. She unfolded Helen’s note. “I have something to tell you, Your Grace. It is about my sister.”
His attention was fixed on her. “Oh?”
“Yes.” She checked that the door was securel
y closed. “My sister left me a note, which I only discovered a few minutes ago. May I share it with you?” He inclined his head, and she wet her lips, then read Helen’s note. “Dearest Cleo: By the time you read this, I shall be gone from Kingstag Castle. I am writing to you because you are the only one who will understand why: James and I are eloping. We hope to make Gretna Green by the end of the week.”
Her voice faltered. She swallowed, and read on. “I am very sorry to do such a thing to His Grace. He honored me greatly with his offer of marriage, and I did accept him honestly. But I feel it would be an even greater disservice to him if I were to go through with a marriage I no longer want, and could not be happy in, while I loved another man. Comfort him, Cleo, and tell him I am sorry. Your loving sister, Helen.”
For a long moment there was silence. Cleo folded the note, unsure what to do next.
He crossed the room to her. “May I see it?” She gave it to him, trembling a little as his fingers brushed hers. Wessex unfolded the note and read it before letting it fall to the ground. “So I’ve been jilted.”
“I believe you have been.” Her heart beat so hard it hurt. He wasn’t going to marry Helen, sang the wicked voice inside her head. Some remnant of duty obliged her to add, “My parents are distraught that Helen would do such a thing.”
“Yes, I imagine they are,” he murmured. “Are you?”
“Well—I wish my sister had confided in someone before disappearing in the night and giving us a great fright ...”
“James Blair is the most capable man I know. If she’s with him, she is perfectly well.”
She just nodded, overwhelmed by the jumble of hope and uncertainty inside her. He was taking the news very calmly, but also without any show of the relief she felt that now he—like Cleo—was free to follow his heart. Perhaps his heart had reconsidered; perhaps he couldn’t stomach the thought of anything to do with her family after Helen’s action. She was a common merchant, after all, hardly a likely duchess. Perhaps she had been all wrong ...