by Darcie Wilde
“It’s my fault,” she said in a low voice.
“I don’t believe that.” From another man this might have been a negligible courtesy. From Lord Windford, it was an absolute. Helene felt tears prick the back of her eyes.
“My family is in distress, Lord Windford, and has been for some time. Since I’ve done, well, what I’ve done to my reputation, it has been decided that the burden of making an exquisite marriage must fall to my younger sister, and sooner rather than later.”
“That’s infamous.”
“Yes. It is. I ask you not to repeat it, sir. I shouldn’t even have told you.”
“I would not betray your confidence, Helene.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just . . . no matter. We do not get to choose the lives we are born to. We just have to make the best of them.”
“But not alone.”
“You seem to manage alone rather well,” she remarked. “Adele says you routinely refuse help from any quarter.”
“Yes, well, my circumstances are different.”
“Don’t we all see our own circumstances as different?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose we must.”
They walked on in silence. The world rattled and bustled and bawled all around them, but neither of them paid it any mind. They were lost in their own thoughts, or perhaps they were each wondering what the other was thinking. Helene was certainly wondering what Marcus might be thinking.
Then, she found herself wondering something else.
“May I ask why you decided to come to the library?” Because this wasn’t a coincidence. He had access to university libraries and the archives of the Royal Society and every bookseller he wished to patronize him. What on earth would he be doing at a circulating library? Realization dawned, but slowly. “Did you ask Adele where I’d be?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I did. I had . . . I was hoping to ask you a favor.”
Helene’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What could I possibly do for you, Your Grace?”
“It’s difficult to explain. It also seems a bit trivial after what you’ve told me.”
“We have time.” She gestured to the long stretch of the street ahead. “And I believe I would welcome the distraction.”
“Yes. Of course. Well.” Helene felt her brow furrowed. She had seen Marcus hesitant before, but this was something different. This time he was genuinely unsettled.
“There is a boy,” he began finally. “One for whom I am responsible, in a way.”
“A tenant’s son, perhaps?” she prompted.
He considered. “No, but he is a relation. His father is dead, and there’s no other man in the family, and, well, I agreed to pay for his education or a commission in the army, whatever the boy might want. His mother, though, said his constitution wasn’t strong enough to bear the pressures of study, and he was unsuited for the church.”
Helene opened her mouth.
“I know what you will say; I should have asked the boy. I did ask, but he only mumbled at me and said there was nothing he wanted but to be allowed to live as a gentleman was entitled to. The problem is his idea of a gentleman’s life is constantly getting him into one scrape or another, and they’re expensive scrapes. If it’s not his debts, his mother is coming to me to pay for him to go off and take the waters at various spas for his sickly constitution.”
Helene opened her mouth.
“And I know what you would say,” Marcus went on. “It sounds like the boy is intolerably bored, as we talked about the other day. And I do believe you might be right at that. Especially since yesterday I spied him on the street outside a bookseller’s, arguing passionately with a group of other fellows.”
Helene opened her mouth, but Marcus was staring straight ahead at the passing traffic. “I asked myself what it could be about and in fact entered the conversation, because it looked like murder might be about to be done. It turned out they were all arguing over a poet. A poet!”
Helene opened her mouth.
“I know. I could not imagine it, either, but I knew what you would say, that passion must indicate an interest, so I took the boy around to the Cocoa Tree and bought him coffee and asked him about it. It turns out this poet is a friend, a brilliant friend, he says, and he went on, at length, about how good he was. I was knocked back on my heels. I hadn’t gotten such a speech out of him since . . . since he was a stripling. I know.” He held up his hand. “And I asked did he write himself, and he said no, he just loved books, poetry of course, but all sorts. He loved the company of writers, and I knew . . .”
“Excuse me, m’lord,” said Helene diffidently.
“Yes?”
“Is there a reason I’m here for this conversation? You seem to be getting on perfectly well without me.”
Marcus chuckled. He also blushed. Astounding. She’d never actually seen a man blush. She hadn’t quite realized they were capable of it. It was not fair. It made him look alarmingly sweet.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “Please, go ahead.”
“Oh no,” she replied. “You’ve delineated my position admirably.”
“Well”—he took a deep breath—“I thought publishing might suit the boy. I brought it up, and I swear, it was also the first time he ever looked happy.”
“Then that is the answer.”
“The problem being I have no connection in that world. I was hoping you might ask your Miss Sewell how I could go about finding him a position, or an apprenticeship, or whatever it is one needs to make a start.”
“I would be glad to.”
“I knew you’d say that as well.”
“How wonderful I must be to be so utterly dependable.”
“You are,” he murmured. “Helene.”
She was blushing. When had this begun? Was she coming down with a fever? That must be it. Fortunately, there was no time for any further conversation. The broad white Italianate facade of Bassett’s Assembly rooms was now in view on the right side of the street.
It did not take more than one glance to see that Adele and Madelene were already standing on the marble steps. Marcus noticed them as well.
“I see Miss Valmeyer and my sister have gotten here ahead of us. I shall say farewell, Lady Helene.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “You are not so alone as you might think,” he murmured. “And here’s the proof.”
Helene chose not to reply to that. “I will write to you with Miss Sewell’s answer,” she said.
“I will always look forward to hearing what you have to say.”
With that, Marcus turned and walked away.
Do not look after him, Helene instructed herself. Not even once.
She made herself lift her chin and climb the steps to join her friends.
“Close your mouth, Adele,” she said as she reached them. “It’s unladylike.”
“But that was Lord Windford, wasn’t it?” said Madelene.
“Yes,” Helene admitted. “He offered to escort me from the library.”
“And what was he saying to you?” inquired Adele, far too knowingly. “You looked quite rapt.”
“Did I? It was nothing at all.”
“It was a very intensive nothing at all,” put in Madelene. “Almost improperly intensive.”
“It is also none of your business,” Helene snapped.
“He is my brother,” Adele reminded her. “You are my friend . . .”
“Our friend,” corrected Madelene.
Adele nodded. “Our friend, and you two were having an . . . what was it you said, Madelene?”
“Almost improperly intensive,” she repeated promptly.
“Thank you—an almost improperly intensive discussion in the public street. I would say that very much is our business.”
“It was not intensive,” said Helene cr
ossly. “It was a discussion that may have gotten a trifle personal. Shall we go in? We are here to consider the suitability of these rooms for our ball, I believe, and it would not do to keep the manager waiting any longer.”
Adele looked at Madelene. Madelene looked at Helene and gave a small, not entirely happy shrug of assent. But at least they both held their tongues and they all could go inside.
***
Later that evening, somewhat against her better judgment, Lady Adele Endicott knocked on the door of Marcus’s study. Upon being given permission to enter, she walked in and found him standing in front of the window, staring out at the street.
“Marcus?” said Adele.
“Mmm? Yes?” he said without turning around.
“Will you tell me what that was between you and Helene today?”
Now he did turn around, and Adele steeled herself against his frown. If there was anything Marcus disliked, it was being asked about his business. This, however, was important. “It was nothing,” he said. “A discussion that got a slightly personal, that’s all.”
“That’s almost exactly what she said.”
Marcus smiled. “Yes, it would be.”
Adele felt her eyebrows rise, and she forced them back down immediately. To evidence an expression of surprise that her brother might smile at the mention of any woman, or indeed to point out that his normally stern and direct gaze had gone distinctly misty around the edges, would bring about an abrupt end to what had suddenly become a most interesting conversation. “Helene’s a very unusual person, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Very,” Marcus agreed.
“And highly intelligent.”
“Highly.”
“She’s beautiful as well, although most people don’t notice that about her, at least not at first.”
“You’ve said that before, Adele.” Marcus’s distant and misty gaze became very clear, and very tightly focused on her. “Was there something you wanted to talk about besides Lady Helene?”
Adele considered this. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Then you can leave now.” He turned back toward the window.
“Of course, Marcus,” Adele replied primly. “I’m so sorry to have intruded upon your most important reflections.”
“Adele?” She paused and looked over her shoulder. Marcus was still facing the window. “I haven’t told you yet, but I’m glad you’ve reached an understanding with James Beauclaire.”
Adele felt herself blush instantly. She pressed her hand against her mouth to muffle a string of words she wasn’t supposed to know. Several of them were French. “And I thought I’d done such a good job keeping it secret.”
“I’m afraid not.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at her, smiling in an indulgent big-brother fashion that would have been infuriating if it wasn’t exactly what she wanted to see from him.
“And . . . you’re not upset?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe I would have been a year or so ago, but not now. Beauclaire’s a good man. I think you will do well together.”
“He was going to call on you as soon as he gets back from Paris.”
He nodded. “I’ll expect him then.”
Adele ran across the study and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Marcus!” she cried as she went up onto her tiptoes to kiss him. “You are the best brother in the whole world.”
“I hope you still think so when I’m complaining about the expense of marrying you off.”
“Oh, I’ll let Aunt Kearsely deal with you when you get grumpy.”
“Heaven forbid,” he murmured. He also hugged her. “Now go on, Adele, I’ve got some letters to write.”
Adele did go. Her mind was suddenly so full of delight at the letter she could write to James that she didn’t even notice that her brother had entirely diverted her attention from the suddenly unimportant little scene in the street with Helene.
VII
Marius Darington’s rooms had not changed much since Marcus’s last visit. The dishevelment seemed a perfect match for the young man hunched on the leather sofa. His visit had clearly caught Marius while he was still asleep, and he hadn’t bothered to take the time to dress properly. His waistcoat was open, as was his collar. His hair flopped untidily across his brow. There was no hint of care or interest or love of anything here. Only dissipation. Marcus touched the letter in his coat pocket and wondered if he had made a mistake. Maybe the boy was just another wastrel, like Lewis Valmeyer or any of a dozen others he could name.
No. That wasn’t possible. Lewis Valmeyer never would have gotten into a knock-down, drag-out fight over poetry.
“I’ve news for you, Marius,” Marcus said, sitting himself down.
Marius looked up from his slump. His eyes were clear, indicating that he might be tired and battered, but at least he was sober. “Is this about the fight at the auction house? Or has mother been talking to you about her latest scheme for my . . . reformation?” He stared at the ceiling.
“No, as a matter of fact, she’s been remarkably quiet this week. Is there something you want to tell me?”
Marius bit his lip and shoved his hair back from his brow. “No. Of course not. Why should I confide in you? You are not the one . . .”
“I’ve secured you a place at a publishing house,” said Marcus
Marius’s head snapped up. “What?”
“A man named Amos Brandt has agreed to take you on trial. This letter will be your introduction.” Marcus pulled the document out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “He is expecting you at ten o’clock on Monday.”
“But . . . but . . . Walters & Brandt is . . . they publish Bellmore! They publish Wheatford!”
“I suppose they must, since you say so. I take it that’s a good thing?”
Marius snatched the letter up and opened it. His hands shook as he read, but this time it was not from drink, or anything of the kind. His eyes were bright with that energy Marcus had seen when he talked about his poet.
Marcus felt his own smile form, at least for a moment. Because as swiftly as that light had begun to shine in the boy, it died away to be replaced by something else. Fear.
“Mother won’t allow it,” he said. “She wouldn’t consider it gentleman’s work.”
And there it was. The thing Marcus hadn’t wanted to confront, and that Marius, out of loyalty, had not been able to say aloud.
“I will deal with your mother,” said Marcus. “In fact, I’m on my way to her now. What I ask from you is that you apply yourself to this.” He tapped the letter the boy held.
“Oh, I will. I will! It’s what I always dreamed of! I . . . thank you, sir.” For the first time in Marcus’s memory, Marius voluntarily held out his hand.
Marcus clasped it. “I have done what I can, Marius. It is up to you now.”
“I know that. I will prove myself to you, and to Mister Brandt. I may . . . may I write to you and let you know how I am getting on?”
“I would be glad of it,” said Marcus. “You should probably write your sisters, as well, and let them know about the . . . changes. They may have some things to tell you, too.”
“Yes, yes.” He stopped as the import of Marcus’s words sank in. “Yes,” he said again, more slowly. “I have, perhaps, not paid as much attention to them as I should. I think . . . that is something else that will be changing.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Marcus told him. “Perhaps we could meet for another coffee next week?”
“Yes. Yes. Coffee.” But it was obvious Marius’s thoughts were already racing down other paths. “I’ll need a black coat, don’t you think? And some new pens, and pencils. And . . .”
Marcus laughed and got to his feet. “Get yourself ready as you see fit. I’ll not detain you.”
But as he reached the door, he paused. “Your mother is likely to make
difficulties for you about this. But you must persevere.”
“I will,” said Marius. “This time I have something to fight for.” He swallowed, though, and folded the letter carefully. He stared at it, as if it could help him gather his nerve, and perhaps it did. “She spent the money,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry?” Marcus frowned.
“The money you sent for my education. She spent it. On the house. On jewels and her grand tour.”
Marcus said nothing.
“She swore me to secrecy. She said you didn’t need to know, and I didn’t need the education. My family connections would bring me all I needed. I was to associate with others of my . . . class . . . and ready myself to take my rightful position in the world.”
“I see.”
“I am sorry I said nothing sooner. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . she’d suffered so much . . .”
“I understand,” Marcus told him. “And I thank you for your honesty, Marius. But that’s over now. We are all starting afresh.”
“Yes, sir. I will not fail you.”
The boy bowed, stiff, formal, and clearly unnerved. Marcus nodded in return. He walked down the stairs, all the while struggling to control the bitter anger that swirled in his breast.
How had he not seen it before? How had he gone so long without recognizing that Marius was in the exact same position as he himself? The boy was also constrained and shaped by the title and heritage. The only difference between them really was the side of the blanket they’d been born on. Marius had been as afraid to truly battle the weight of his position as Marcus had, even though he knew it was keeping him from the life that could make him happy. With Marcus, the weight came in the form of his father’s sins. With Marius, it came in the form of his mother’s expectations.
It had taken Helene to show him the truth, and the way out.
But he was not there yet. There was still Bernadette. But as he had told Marius, he was on his way to her, and this time he was ready for her.