"What makes you think I will not find my way back?" At his thunderous expression, she tried a placating smile. "Would I really be safer alone and in some strange place?" He frowned, and knowing she had scored a hit, she pressed her advantage further. "Wouldn't it be better for me to remain in London, under the protection of the detectives and yourself? If it is my well-being you are concerned about, I will vouch to take the greatest care. I will limit my activities and not go anywhere unaccompanied."
He crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. "And in return?"
"First, if you have not done so already, you will ask Mr. Kent to safeguard your well-being. If I am to have protection, then so must you."
He grunted in what passed for agreement.
"And secondly, you let me stay here ... and agree to drop this ridiculous annulment scheme." Closing the gap between them, Helena placed her glove against his taut jaw. "You agree to give our marriage another chance, Nicholas, the way Jeremiah gave you."
He quivered beneath her touch, a wild stallion ready to bolt at any minute. She feared she had pressed too hard. Her trepidation intensified when he captured her hand and returned it to her side.
"You will provide a schedule of your daily activities for my approval. If you must leave the house, it will be under protection. In a nutshell, you will stay out of trouble or, so help me God, you'll find yourself under lock and key. In the Outer Hebrides," he said evenly.
Relief made her smile tremulous. "Of course. You have my word, my lord."
"As for our marriage, I will think about what to do next. You will allow me to do so, madam, without interference."
"But—"
"That is the bargain. Take it or leave it," he said.
She bit back a retort. A wise woman knew when to retreat. "Yes, alright." Unable to help herself, she muttered, "You drive a hard bargain, my lord."
"In this one instance, it pays to be a merchant," he replied sardonically.
TWENTY-ONE
"Blackmailed? Why in blazes did you not tell me this sooner?"
From across the stacks of ledgers and documents, Nicholas looked the incensed investigator straight in the eye. "Because I was not certain I could trust you, Kent. I'm still not. But I've decided to take the risk because I must see this thing ended."
Ambrose Kent rose from his chair and began to pace furious steps before the desk. "This changes everything, my lord. We will have to come up with a new list of suspects. Who are your enemies? What information do they hold against you?"
"I need to ask you something first." Nicholas kept his voice calm. Beneath the desk, his fingernails bit into his palms. "Say a man has had ... troubles in the past. Skeletons that he wished to remain in the proverbial closet. Would you respect that wish in your investigation?"
Thin brows arched over amber eyes. "Hypothetically speaking?"
"Of course."
"I can't guarantee anything. In order to find the truth, I must look under every rock." Kent shrugged. "Sometimes I unearth evidence that my client would rather remain buried."
"And what would you do, if facts were to emerge that might potentially harm your client's reputation ... or worse?"
Kent looked at him steadily. "What sort of trouble are we talking about here, my lord?"
Proceed carefully. Give him only enough to assist his inquiries. You must do this, for Helena's sake ... and the sake of your marriage.
Hope sparked within him, dimming some of his shadows. Since the talk with Helena two days ago, he'd ached with a ravenous hunger—she'd said she loved him. She wanted him as a husband. She'd fight for him. How could he resist her; how could he not give the same in return, when he loved her with all his benighted soul?
His fight would begin here and now.
Feeling like he was stepping off a cliff, Nicholas exhaled and answered the police man. "For several years, I worked as a climbing boy for a man named Ben Grimes. He called himself a sweep, but he was a thief mostly. He ran a flash house. It burned down one night, taking him in the flames." As Nicholas glossed over the details—of murder, of the even more heinous act he had committed that night—panic burned in his lungs. But he managed to continue in composed tones, "Whoever is behind the blackmail notes has linked me to Grimes. He is threatening to make public this aspect of my past."
Kent had stopped pacing. His expression did not reveal much—a useful talent for an investigator and especially laudable given that the Marquess of Harteford had admitted he'd once been nothing more than a chumney working for a member of the criminal underclass.
"What does he want in exchange for silence?" Kent's voice was surprisingly mild.
"He didn't say. That night in St. Giles, when he shot me, he told me to await his demands."
"Await my bloody arse," Kent muttered. He started stalking again, his greatcoat flapping around his long legs. "We have lost enough time as it is. I must begin interviewing my contacts straightaway to see if anyone has heard of a criminal with a connection to this Grimes."
Though his heart skipped a beat, Nicholas jerked his chin in assent.
"In the meantime, my lord, I urge you once again to take one of my men for protection. There are too many coincidences—the warehouse ransacking, the shooting, and now this." Within his narrow face, Kent's eyes blazed with the intensity of night lamps. "My instinct tells me this is all connected. But how?"
Nicholas had no answer. He only knew that until the truth was uncovered, he would refrain from making any decisions about his marriage. He could not in all conscience go to Helena until he was free of his demons. Though he would wait, he at least had company now: hope. And that was a finer companion than he deserved.
*****
Later on that week, Helena entered Hatchard's Bookstore on Piccadilly. It was a visit scheduled on the list she'd provided to Nicholas—or to his messenger, rather, who came to the house daily to pick up the document. As she wandered through the bookshelves, all too aware of the Runners who'd discreetly positioned themselves (one at the entrance and one by the fireplace just up ahead), she simmered with frustration.
Almost a sennight had come and gone, and she hadn't seen so much as her husband's shadow.
At first, she'd contented herself with the fact that he'd let her stay in London. Their exchange at the Fineses had seemed to signal a turning point in their relationship. With each hour that passed alone in the townhouse, however, she felt her optimism begin to fade. Restlessness plagued her, exacerbated by the omnipresence of the detectives and her own worries.
Why was Nicholas continuing to keep a distance between them? Had nothing, in reality, changed? Sweet heavens, what of the mysterious dangers that threatened him? Could something have befallen him?
But, no, each morning, he sent a polite note along with his envoy. A few lines inquiring about her health and activities, followed by a single sentence referencing how busy he was at work. That was all.
The impulsive part of her wanted to seek him out; the wiser part forestalled such an action. She had promised to let him come to a decision about their marriage in his own time, so she must not go barging in on him like some termagant after a mere week. Sighing, she turned into one of the stacks. Best she make use of this visit to Hatchard's rather than spinning her wheels. She inhaled the smells of parchment and dried ink, which soothed her ruffled senses. Winding her way through the well-ordered store, she browsed for a volume recommended by the Havershams.
She was skimming through a book when she heard her name called.
"Lady Harteford, fancy seeing you here!"
She turned and smiled in surprised recognition. "Miss Fines, what a pleasure to see you again."
Percy grinned, her curls sunny beneath a sky blue bonnet. "And I you. Do you frequent Hatchard's often, my lady?"
"Hatchard's is one of my favorite spots in all of London," Helena replied.
"Mine as well," Percy said approvingly. She angled her head to get a better view of the volume in Helena's hands. "Hypatia of Alex
andria. Never heard of it. It is a good read?"
"I have only glanced at a few pages," Helena said. "I chose it on recommendation by some friends of mine who are exceptionally informed in the realm of Philosophy. May I ask what brings you here, Miss Fines?"
"This," Percy said, waving a small, black-bound book. "The latest from Regina Maria Roche. You have read her, Lady Harteford?" When Helena shook her head, Percy looked quite aghast. "You have not read Clermont? Or The Children of the Abbey?"
"My mother was most particular about my reading materials," Helena explained. "Horrid novels were not amongst the permitted selection."
"I am sure my own mother wishes she had been stricter." Percy's blue eyes held an incorrigible sparkle. "Alas, it is much too late for that. I have already been ruined by the excess of sentimentality. I daresay I have read every publication put forth by the Minerva Press."
"There are certain strengths to be associated with a strong sensibility," Helena said, recalling her recent readings on the matter. "For example, a natural empathy for the suffering of others."
Percy grinned again. "Yes, I do so empathize with the plight of the heroines. Why, in one novel, the lady is in pursuit of her own true love, a handsome stable boy wrongly accused of murder who also happens to be a long-lost Count in disguise. At the same time, she is being haunted by the roving, tortured ghost of the moors—who may or may not be the hero's half-brother. If only real life was half as exciting!"
Helena could not help but smile at the younger girl's spirited charm. At the same time, she noticed a few censorious glances aimed in their direction from the gentlemen seated around the fireplace, newspapers in hand.
"I wonder, Miss Fines," Helena said on impulse, "if you would care to join me for an ice? I had planned on a visit to Gunter's after this."
"I would be delighted," Percy said at once. "Let me fetch my maid."
The ride to Berkeley Square was short, and the driver found a cool spot to park under the boughs of a maple tree. It was a warm day, so there were many other carriages parked in the square. Helena sent Will, the groom, into the sweets shop, and he soon returned with a strawberry ice for Percy and a muscadine ice for herself. They remained sitting in the open-air carriage eating and chatting, the combination so delightful that Helena almost forgot the subtly lurking Runners.
"I am so glad I ran into you today." Swallowing the last spoonful of her ice, Percy made a swooning sound. "We were all so taken with you after your visit, and I despaired at having to wait until Friday to see you again. Have you decided what you will be wearing? You have the most gorgeous clothes, and I am sorely in need of some womanly advice."
Helena blinked, torn between confusion and amusement at the girl's plea for fashion advice. "I beg your pardon? Is there an event this Friday?"
"Oh no, do tell me Nick has not forgotten to inform you!" Percy wailed.
"Inform me of what, exactly?"
"I will murder him," Percy said darkly to her herself. Her eyes flew suddenly to Helena's. "No offense meant, Lady Harteford."
"Since you are to make a widow out of me, we might as well be on more intimate terms," Helena remarked dryly. "We shall be Helena and Percy, if that suits you. Now, what is this about Friday?"
"It is only the most important event of my entire life," Percy declared.
Helena hid a smile. The girl's flair for the dramatic was wasted on anything short of Drury Lane.
"I have been planning for ages. You and Nick left so, er, precipitously after tea last week that I didn't get a chance to remind you both. So I told Paul to do so when he went to have lunch with Nick yesterday. But he has forgotten, or perhaps Nick never conveyed the message to you. Either way, it shall be cold-blooded murder for both of them."
Helena's head was spinning. "Percy, you still have not told me what event you are speaking about."
"My birthday, of course. Seventeen years of hum-drum existence culminating at long last in a celebration to end all celebrations. The party is to be at Vauxhall, Helena, Vauxhall, can you imagine it ...?" The girl's long lashes fluttered dreamily. "I have always longed to go, and now I shall. Paul has arranged everything. He rented two supper boxes for the occasion, and he has issued invitations to my friends from Mrs. Southbridge's Finishing School. And you and Nick, of course. My mother and her friends will be chaperoning, and there will be games and food and ... oh, I simply cannot wait!"
Helena forced a smile. Inside, her frustration boiled over. Even if Nicholas was trying to protect her, this was a dashed poor way of doing it. To bar her from an event hosted by the closest people he had to family ... how insufferable! He was going, wasn't he? If he could take the risk, why shouldn't she be given at least the option? Or, a malicious voice whispered in her head, perhaps he had other reasons for wanting to be free of a wife that evening?
Her hands balled in her lap. He might have at least discussed the situation with her. Of course, discussion would have been nigh impossible, given that he had chosen to absent himself from her life completely in the past week.
"You will come in spite of the mix-up, won't you, Helena?" Percy looked at her with pleading, anxious eyes. "I simply cannot enjoy myself if you are not there. My birthday will be utterly ruined."
Nicholas might be an ass, but Percy was a dear. Helena made up her mind. She would not hurt the girl's feelings just because her lord had seen fit to make a unilateral decision without her knowledge.
"Of course, I will be there," she said brightly. "I would not miss your birthday for the world. Now, do tell me about the ensemble you are planning to wear ..."
TWENTY-TWO
Helena sensed his presence the moment he arrived. She was sitting near the end of the long table in the supper alcove, chatting with a friend of Paul Fines. Her back was turned to the entrance of the supper box. One moment, the air was filled with lively chatter and the strains of the nearby orchestra—the next, a throbbing stillness filled her ears, as if they had been suddenly stuffed full of cotton. A tingling sensation swept down her nape, and it was all she could do to keep her attention on her dinner escort.
She could feel the intensity of Nicholas' gaze upon her back and knew he had recognized her instantly. Her heart fluttered like a captive sparrow in her chest. But she would not turn around and greet her husband as might a besotted bride. Let him come to her, if he wished to. Instead, she laughed gaily at Mr. Henderson Reed's witticism—or, more accurately, she assumed his comments were witty, for she'd quite lost track of the conversation.
Thankfully, he did not seem to notice. "I say, Lady Harteford, you look most becoming under the lights," Mr. Reed said. "Like some fairyland princess beneath a rainbow of stars."
"How very poetic of you, Mr. Reed," Helena said. "You rival Lord Byron in your romantic sensibility."
"Kind of you to say so," Mr. Reed replied with obvious gratification. "He is a hero of mine."
Helena thought that rather obvious, given the young man's artfully windswept brown locks and disheveled style. When Mr. Reed proceeded to bestow upon her one of his smoldering looks, she hid a smile. He had practiced this look on her on several occasions throughout the evening, and this attempt ranked among his best. Mr. Reed was near to her age, three-and-twenty at the most, and possessed all the burning intensity of a puppy. His good-natured brown eyes did not so much smolder as emit a hopeful spark. He reminded her a bit of Thomas, actually.
"I was wondering, Lady Harteford, if you would care to join me on a stroll after supper?" Mr. Reed asked as he broke a piece of bread. "Vauxhall is renowned for its ambling paths. The Grand Walk is particularly delightful and close to it is the Rotunda where many entertainments are shown."
"That sounds most genial," Helena agreed. She speared up a bit of thinly sliced ham. The savory meat was a trademark Vauxhall delicacy, but it might have been sawdust for all she noticed or cared. She had still not looked directly at Nicholas, but she could feel him advancing in her direction. She could hear the chairs scraping as guests mov
ed to let him by. Picking up her wineglass, she took a fortifying sip of the arrack punch. And another.
"Good evening, my lady."
At the sound of her husband's deep tones, the sparrow in her chest broke into full flight. She counted to ten before turning around to face him. Sweet heavens, if any eyes could smolder, it was Nicholas'. His gaze fairly burned into hers. The strings of colored lights highlighted the harsh lines of his face and shadowed the rest, making him look more austere than ever. His jaw might have been hewn from stone.
She managed to keep her expression cool, polite as she rose to greet him. She dipped a shallow curtsy, her skirts brushing against the Grecian-style columns which separated the narrow supper boxes. "My lord, what a surprise."
"For me or for you?" Nicholas said.
She put on a puzzled smile. "Why would you be surprised to see me when you knew I was to be invited?"
"I do not recall this event on your list of today's activities," he shot back.
Then he looked her up and down, and his expression darkened further. He leaned closer to her, his subtle, expensive cologne drifting into her nostrils. For some reason, his scent fueled her irritation—why did he have to smell like the very essence of virility? Did he plan to seduce women tonight, was that why he had purposefully uninvited his own wife?
"What about your promise not to get into any trouble?"
"I'm certain I don't know what you mean," she said.
She lifted her shoulders in a sign of innocence, knowing full well how that action jiggled her breasts and accentuated the crevice between them. She had practiced in front of the looking glass. Her diligence had paid off, too, as Nicholas' eyes narrowed.
"That dress is indecent," he said in the same low voice.
"I know. Is it not splendid?" Helena gave a light laugh and an impudent twirl to show off the garment. Not that there was much to see. Constructed of ivory-colored lace, the gown possessed tiny draped sleeves and a deep neckline which bared the swell of her breasts. The delicate material molded to her curves, parting beneath her bosom to reveal a simple silk under-skirt. Madame Rousseau had cleverly matched the silk to her skin tone; from afar, the gown gave the illusion that she was draped in sensuous lace and little else.
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