by Darcie Wilde
Helene laughed, a low and bitter sound. “Do you honestly believe any of the lady patronesses would allow me within their holy sanctum of respectability?”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “That was tactless.”
“It was, but I’ll forgive you.”
“I’ll assume you feel you have grounds for your generosity.”
She smiled softly. Hopefully her bonnet would block the wistful expression. “The grounds are that you forgot I’m not a stainless sample of gentility.”
She expected a chuckle, or another retort, but Marcus’s answer was surprisingly serious. “None of us are stainless, Lady Helene. Some of are just better at washing away the evidence.”
“You are an unusual man.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” She paused. “If you must know, I was considering whether we, that is your sister and Miss Valmeyer and I, could aspire to holding a private assembly at Almack’s.”
“You were?”
She nodded. “Now that we have made—call it our second entrance into society, we need to build on our success. If we gave a grand entertainment of some sort, that would turn the trick.”
“And would require a grand setting. What better than Almack’s?”
“It’s not possible, of course,” said Helene. “Even if we could afford it, we would need the approval of the patronesses, and as I said, that is hardly likely to be forthcoming.”
“Surely there are other rooms.”
“Oh yes, at least a dozen. I was just . . .” The words trailed away. “Nothing. Foolishness.”
“Ah. Yes. Because Lady Helene couldn’t, of course, have been dreaming just a little about setting society’s collective nose out of joint by an Almack’s appearance?”
His eyes were undoubtedly sparkling as he said this. She must not look. Instead, Helene lifted her chin. “No, of course not. That would be entirely petty.”
“Entirely. And I’m sure you wouldn’t ever mention it to Adele, so she could imagine the look on Patience’s face.”
“I would never engage in such schoolgirl conversation.”
“I knew that about you.”
“You are a very perceptive man.”
“Another compliment!” he exclaimed. “My head shall turn.”
“That, I suspect, would be very difficult to accomplish.”
“What makes you say so?”
Helene paused. “I don’t know, yet.”
“A third compliment!”
“How so, sir?”
“Your use of the word ‘yet’ implies I am worth further study.”
That stopped her and made her turn so he could see her face. “Lord Windford, are you flirting with me?”
Was there a flicker of hesitation before he answered. “No. I was merely hoping to provide you with entertaining conversation so you won’t abandon me.”
“Good,” Helene replied firmly. Good, she repeated to herself and set off again, at speed. Maybe if she rendered him breathless, he’d stop talking, or at least not be quite so witty and challenging when he did speak.
It had been a long time since she’d been near a man she felt she could like. She was used to loneliness. She was comfortable with it. Not that she’d had much choice except to be comfortable with it. Pining accomplished nothing, and she had to keep working toward her school for the good of her siblings. This left barely any time for socializing with girls her own age, never mind with young men.
“Have you considered the Tapswell gardens?” Marcus said suddenly.
Gardens. Shadows under the trees, and a woman and Broadheathe and . . . and . . .
Helene squashed the associations ruthlessly. Even so, it was a moment before she was able to trust her voice enough to answer. “No, I had not considered gardens.”
“It’s a beautiful setting. My sister Patience had her debut there. If you are looking to make a statement to the matrons, that might do.”
Helene nodded as if considering it. “I shall add it to my list.”
He must have caught something in the tone of her voice, because he tried to lean around the side of her bonnet to catch a glimpse of her face. Before he could venture any further awkward remarks, however, the sound of hooves signaled the approach of a carriage, and a hearty voice called out to them.
“Hullo, Windford! I thought that was you.”
They stopped and turned. A shining buff and blue coach pulled up, and a man with formidable gray side-whiskers whom Helene recognized as Lord Damon Rutherford leaned out the window.
“Good morning, Lord Rutherford.” Marcus bowed to him. “Good morning, Lady Rutherford,” he added to the lady in the carriage with him. “Do you know Lady Helene Fitzgerald?”
“Delighted, Lady Helene,” said Lady Rutherford. Helene curtsied. “What a cold morning to be out! You must let us drop you wherever you are going.”
“Oh, we could not trouble you,” said Helene at once.
“No trouble at all,” declared Lady Rutherford with the ease and confidence of someone used to command. “Open the door, Rutherford. Come sit by me, Lady Helene.”
Rutherford chuckled. “I’m afraid it will do no good at all to refuse, Lady Helene. Lady Rutherford will have her way.”
“Speaking of having my way, Lord Windford,” said that good lady, “Rutherford tells me you are being most obstinate.”
“Not obstinate, Lady Rutherford. I have responsibilities that do not permit me to accept his offer.”
Helene felt her eyebrows lift. Lady Rutherford saw her quizzical expression.
“My husband wants Lord Windford to come work at the naval office,” Lady Rutherford told Helene. “And Windford has refused him, point-blank. Rutherford has appealed to his duty to his king and love of his country, all to no avail. Now. What do you think of that?”
“I think a man must have very good reasons for turning down the offer of such a post,” said Helene.
“What reasons could they be? I would like to know.”
“My dear . . .” began Rutherford.
“I’m afraid you must ask Lord Windford,” Helene told her. “He has not taken me into his confidence.”
“Has he not?” said Lady Rutherford archly. “A man who will carry an umbrella for a lady will also frequently carry a confidence.”
It was not possible she was blushing. She did not blush. Ever. “Alas, our friendship has not progressed that far.”
“Well.” Lady Rutherford smiled archly, “I’m sure that he’s entirely to blame for that.”
Fortunately, after this, Lord Rutherford was able to lead the conversation away from personal topics, and the four of them enjoyed polite and blessedly intelligent conversation about current events and the prospects of the most recent reform bills. As a result, it did not feel long at all before the Rutherfords’ carriage pulled up in front of No. 48.
“Well, good-bye, Lady Helene,” said Lady Rutherford as the driver opened the door. “It has been most interesting meeting you. Tell me, are you at home at all this next week?”
“I’m afraid not, Lady Rutherford.” She was certainly not going to attempt to entertain Lady Rutherford, or anyone else, at Anandale House. “However, I shall surely be calling on Mrs. Kearsely and Lady Adele this Friday around three. Perhaps our paths might cross there?”
“Yes, indeed. I have been meaning to call on Mrs. Kearsely. I shall send round my card.”
They made their farewells, and the Rutherfords drove away, leaving Helene and Marcus facing each other in front of Miss Sewell’s stoop.
“I feel I should apologize for Lady Rutherford,” said Marcus. “Being drawn into speculation about my behaviors can’t have been comfortable.”
Not as uncomfortable as seeing her speculate on our behaviors together. Helene shrugged. “I’ve
endured worse.”
“Does that make it easier?”
“A little.” She paused. She should say good-bye. She should not be standing here in the street with this man. Someone might see, for one thing. For another, it was cold, and her coat was not as thick as it should be. But he had walked her a long way, and had been the means of her introduction to a lady who might prove very useful, and the end of his nose was quite red with the cold, and . . . and . . .
And she did not want to say good-bye. This was irrational, and it was dangerous. As dangerous as dancing. As dangerous as staring, which was what she was doing now.
It also seemed she wasn’t going to stop herself.
“Lord Windford, this is not entirely proper, as my chaperone is not home, but would you care to come in for a cup of coffee?” Not only was Miss Sewell not at home, but Madelene was off sitting for Lord Benedict for the portrait they had commissioned, and Adele was at the modiste’s. They would be quite alone inside for at least another hour.
Dangerous, Helene, and foolish beyond words.
Lord Windford cocked his head toward the house. “Miss Sewell isn’t home, and you can still invite me in?”
“We’ve all been given keys and permission to treat the house as our own.”
“Have you, b’gahd?” he murmured. “What interesting ideas about chaperonage this lady has.”
“I promise you I am keeping a strict eye on your sister. None of us can afford a scandal.”
“Well,” he said with a smile, “as long as you are keeping an eye on things, Lady Helene, I will accept with pleasure.”
Warmth pooled in Helene’s chest as he followed her up the steps. She did her best to ignore it.
Fortunately, Miss Sewell’s housekeeper had become used to an irregular establishment, even before her mistress’s three protégés joined the household. Therefore, there was no fuss about providing coffee and sandwiches for His Grace, the duke, and a good fire greeted them in the cozy green parlor.
“Were you really offered a post in the naval office?” asked Helene as they settled themselves in front of the hearth.
Marcus nodded. “And I really turned it down. I have too many other responsibilities.”
“Your estate business?”
“Among other things.”
She said nothing.
Marcus sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re going to suggest I ignore the needs of my family and my estate to bury myself in Rutherford’s offices?”
“I never would. But estate management is something many people can do. Advanced mathematics and codes take a particular sort of . . .”
“I said nothing about mathematics, or codes, Lady Helene,” he cut her off sharply. “Neither did Lord Rutherford.”
“I retract the statement, because of course no one knows that the naval office was and is responsible for intercepting messages from foreign intelligences, some of which might be acting against the interests of the United Kingdoms. Certainly it’s never mentioned in the serial novels in the Sunday magazines along with the corrupt nuns and the bloody barons.”
“You read serial novels?”
“Sometimes my journals from the Royal Society are delayed. But to the point, an aptitude and an interest in mathematics—we shall leave codes entirely out of it since the subject distresses you—is not something that should be wasted.”
The housekeeper brought the coffee in, and a tray of cold beef sandwiches to go with it. Helene poured out for them both, which made for a space of silence. Unfortunately, it was not long enough for Marcus to be willing to let the subject drop.
“Suppose I had an aptitude for knitting tea cozies. Would you suggest I abandon my family for it?” he asked, and the question held a distinctly testy edge. Interesting.
“That is a specious argument, and I will thank you to cease from indulging in logical fallacies in the public square.”
“We are in a private parlor,” he corrected her.
She shrugged and sipped the good coffee. “I am suggesting that when there is work only you can do, you should do it.”
“And who will run the estate? Adele?”
“You don’t believe she could? She has a very sharp mind and truly impressive organizational abilities.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why not?”
He was going to say it. Helene knew he was going to say it. She could tell by the way his face gathered itself up and his free hand gestured in a plea for patience because she could not see the obvious. “Because Adele is a girl.”
There. He said it.
“And no woman has ever successfully run an estate or a business.” Helene nodded. “Of course. I am forgetting. What were the gentlemen thinking when they allowed Queen Elizabeth to run the kingdom?”
Marcus sighed. He also hung his head. This time it seemed rather less boyish, but then she was irritated that he should prove so conventional on this matter.
“Yes, Adele is very clever,” he said. “But an estate is a massive, complex undertaking. One has to be raised to it. Trained to it.”
“And who do you think makes sure that your tenants’ cottages are in good repair, that the village schools are properly managed and staffed? Your aunt?”
“Well, yes.”
Helene shook her head. “Adele. She took on the duties to keep herself busy while . . . she was having difficulty in society. Aunt Kearsely was much more concerned with hostessing than she was with management and the obligations the estate owes to the tenants.”
Marcus was staring at her. She’d surprised him. Good.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I have my duty. I will not neglect it.”
“You’ll get bored,” she said.
He laughed, but there was a grim edge to it, and Helene knew at once she had touched a nerve. “You make boredom sound like the plague,” he told her in an attempt at lightness. “No man has ever died of boredom.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “Many have. Boredom is one of the most corrosive of the spiritual conditions. What do you think makes the young blades of our class run so badly wild? They have everything in the world, except interesting and useful work. They have energy and imagination and are actively forbidden from putting them to productive use. It’s even worse for the girls. We are so utterly constrained by the identities that family ties and the requirements of gentility force upon us . . .” Helene bit the sentence off before she became truly angry. “Is it any wonder why the men fall to gambling and drink and ridiculous affairs and duels and carriage races? Or why the women work so hard to force their own visions upon the lives of their children? It’s all to fill the empty hours and feel like they’ve actually done something with their lives.”
Marcus swirled the last of the coffee in his cup. “I had never considered it.”
“I’m thinking of writing a paper on the subject.”
“Of course you are.” He set his cup down and got to his feet. His face had hardened. “I think you must excuse me, Lady Helene. I am needed elsewhere.”
Helene had no choice but to stand as well, and curtsy and show him to the door. She stood at the window for a long time and watched Marcus hurry up the street, until he vanished around the corner.
She’d put him off balance and she knew it. She’d shown him a truth in his situation that he had not wanted to contemplate. His change in manner and his abrupt retreat told her as much, but Helene could feel no triumph in it. Because she also might have just put an end to whatever intimacy had been growing between them.
She tried to tell herself this was a good thing. Their friendship must end eventually.
“Better it be now,” she whispered. She also touched the corner of her eye.
Foolish, she told herself as she turned around. Foolish.
VI
Helene was not the only one havi
ng difficulty setting aside the conversation in the parlor. Over the next several days, Marcus’s own thoughts seemed stuck fast to that single point. He told himself repeatedly that so trivial a condition as boredom did not enter into any consideration of his. His duty was eternal and implacable. He was the Duke of Windford. That single fact defined his entire life and always would.
But that definition had been feeling increasingly tight. He hadn’t wanted to face it, but he had been aware of a growing restlessness. Seeing Marius in the midst of his frustrated dissipation and hearing Helene speak so calmly of the constraints of life amidst the haut ton had thrown it all into unusually sharp relief.
Or perhaps it was just the presence of Helene herself that changed things. She’d come into his life, their lives, and it was like the clouds had parted to reveal a new star shining down. A clear, hard, elusive sort of star with very decided opinions, but a bright star nonetheless.
One that might light a man’s path for far more than one night, if he was free . . .
But Marcus wasn’t free. Simple desire and boundless frustration might fill his thoughts, but they did nothing to change his responsibilities to his family, to his estate, to his name. It was for him to take care of them all. There was simply no one else.
And yet, the argument that had been so persuasive for the ten long years since Father died had begun to fail to instill in him his usual resolve. This had become most evident just a couple of days ago. Marcus had sat down to deal with the most recent stack of letters. They were nothing particular, just the usual inquiries and bills and requests from his steward and foreman and bankers. For this once, though, it had just been too overwhelming. Against all his usual habits, Marcus swept the letters into a pile in his drawer and went out riding in the park instead.
There, he’d seen Lady Helene walking with Adele and Miss Valmeyer under the watchful eye of their chaperone. He’d raised his hat, and he’d also urged his horse into a canter before he could be tempted to stop.
But he hadn’t gone back to the letters.
Marcus told himself that the melancholy washing over him at the thought of a life where every letter that crossed his desk would cover the same subjects would fade. Knowledge he had done his duty must be satisfaction enough. He had always vowed he would not hand down the mess his forebearers did. He would alter the fate of the Windford line, or he would see it end. To neglect that task, even once, was bad enough, but for such a reason as boredom was unforgivable.