To accompany the dress, Bessie had coaxed Helena's hair into curls and piled them high, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face. Diamond-studded pins in the shape of bumble bees winked from amidst her dark tresses, and a golden ostrich feather dipped saucily forward. The style drew attention to Helena's eyes; for this occasion, she had allowed Bessie to darken her lashes and brush glittering gold powder on her eyelids. As a result, she knew her eyes looked luminous, almost as brilliant as the diamond-and-pearl choker circling her neck. The matching bracelet hung from her gloved wrist.
She knew she had never looked better. She had been waiting all night for her husband's reaction. She did not have long to wait.
Nicholas appeared to be gritting his teeth, likely against words unfit for present company. After a moment of tense silence, he spied the shawl hanging on the back of her chair. He reached for it and tossed it around her shoulders. She only raised an eyebrow and smiled, knowing that the shawl would not offer much in the way of coverage—the golden gauze was entirely translucent.
With thinned lips, Nicholas began to unbutton his jacket.
"That will not be necessary," she said.
"You will catch cold dressed in this manner," he said, shrugging off the sleeves.
"It is an unusually balmy night," she said lightly, "and a stroll will keep the blood flowing. As a matter of fact, I believe I am engaged for a walk—is that not so, Mr. Reed?"
She directed the latter part of the sentence to her supper companion, who apparently had been listening with keen ears. In his eagerness to get to his feet, he nearly toppled his chair. The two men sized one another. Helena could not help but notice the contrast between the two. Mr. Reed, with his gangly limbs and easy smiles, possessed the temperament of a good-natured spaniel. Nicholas, on the other hand, looked as churlish and unapproachable as a jungle cat.
"This is a friend of Mr. Fines," she said by way of introduction. "Mr. Reed, this is my husband, Lord Harteford."
The younger man extended his hand. "Fines has raved about your prowess in the ring, my lord, and claims you land a mean facer. I should love to spar with you sometime. But I must warn you: I've got a bit of a reputation as a neck-or-nothing myself. I have been training with the great Gentleman Jackson himself, perfecting a left jab to knock the wind out of anyone's sails."
Nicholas' expression was bland as he took the other man's hand. Mr. Reed's eyes widened, and his cheerful smile faded. A ruddy color rose upward from the starched tips of his collar. He tugged at his hand like a small animal caught in a trap.
"I look forward to meeting you in the ring," Nicholas said, releasing him.
"Yes, well, we will set a date sometime," Mr. Reed muttered, rubbing his hand. "Lady Harteford, if you are ready?"
"Of course," Helena said. She took Mr. Reed's offered arm and smiled sweetly at her husband. "Enjoy your evening, Harteford."
She attempted to glide forward on Mr. Reed's arm. Unfortunately, the space between the table and the wall of columns was quite narrow, and Nicholas made no move to let them pass. She had to follow Mr. Reed's lead and tilt herself sideways to squeeze by her husband, who stood, arms crossed, imposing as a statue of an Olympic god. Her leg accidentally brushed against his thigh; it was harder than marble and hotter than a thunderbolt. She half expected him to halt her progress—and to her shame she felt a quiver of anticipation. But he did not stop her. She made it past, and it took all her willpower to keep her gaze trained forward on her companion. She would not humiliate herself with a pathetic glance backward.
Breathing more rapidly than usual, Helena somehow navigated around the half-dozen or so chairs. She exchanged pleasantries with Anna Fines and her matronly cronies as she passed and stopped at the head of the table to chat with Percy. The birthday girl looked remarkably pretty in a white muslin gown trimmed with coquelicot ribbon. A matching hibiscus bloomed exotically in her blonde ringlets, which bounced with merriment as her head moved to and fro between the gentlemen admirers seated on either side of her.
Looking up, Percy asked in a gay voice, "Where are you two off to?"
"I thought I would show Lady Harteford the grounds near the Rotunda," Mr. Reed answered.
"How delightful!" Percy exclaimed. "May I come? I have heard there is to be a rope dancer performing there this evening."
"Of course," Helena said.
"We would not want to interrupt your supper," Mr. Reed said at the same time.
There was an awkward moment.
"I am finished eating," Percy said, "so it would be no interruption at all."
The young bucks on either side of her rose as she did, each offering her his escort. Percy bit her lip, looking indecisively between the two men.
"Well, Percy, it seems you have a dilemma." This came from Paul Fines, seated a few chairs down. "To save Sands and Bellinger from disappointment, you must allow me to escort you. This way, you will show no favoritism, except toward your favorite brother of course."
"You are my only brother," Percy retorted.
"Then the odds are clearly in my favor, are they not?" Getting languidly to his feet, Paul bowed over the hand of the young miss seated next to him. Helena noticed the moonstruck expression on the girl's face. Percy had introduced her as Miss Sparkler, a dear school chum from Miss Southbridge's Finishing School. Mousy haired, slight, and with an unfortunate bout of spots, Miss Sparkler appeared to have a rather serious case of infatuation with her best friend's older brother. When Paul kissed her hand, the girl lit up like the famed Vauxhall fireworks.
Paul came over to his sister and offered his arm.
"I am come to do my good deed for the day," he said.
"Do not try to ingratiate your way into my favor," Percy said, though her eyes glowed with good humor. "I have not yet forgiven you for the comment you made about my skills at the pianoforte."
"It is not you for whom I am being a Good Samaritan." Paul gave a subtle nod toward the back of the supper alcove, where Nicholas stood glowering.
"Ah," Percy said.
Helena flushed. Splendid. Apparently, their marital discord was hung out like dirty laundry for all to see. Perhaps she ought not to have come after all. Or more to the point, perhaps Nicholas should have thought to invite his own wife.
Her chin lifted. "I merely wished to see the sights, and Mr. Reed offered to accompany me."
"Lady Harteford must have the escort of a gentleman," Mr. Reed said gallantly and rather pointedly. "Vauxhall is not a safe place for ladies of superior breeding. The gardens are filled with all manner of riff raff, especially after dark."
Given that the Runners were likely hovering nearby, Helena did not have much concern. At least the pair of investigators had gotten better at blending into the crowd these days.
"It is always a good idea to watch our step, Reed, no matter the company," Paul said. "But come, lead the way, and we shall endeavor to protect our lovely helpless charges."
"Who are you calling helpless?" Percy demanded.
Her brother rolled his eyes and led her out of the colonnade.
The four walked in pairs along the busy graveled walk. The gardens were brimming this evening with people of all classes. Anyone who could afford the two shilling entrance fee was permitted entrance into the magical playground. Thousands of lights twinkled overhead in the giant elm trees, and the breeze carried music and the scent of jasmine.
Pointing out the sights with his walking stick, Mr. Reed played guide most graciously. Helena willed herself to relax. She would not let the exchange with Nicholas ruin her evening. She would show him that, though patient, his marchioness had her limits; she would not spend the rest of her life waiting for him to make up his blasted mind. Smiling at her companion, she took in the triumphal arches along the South Walk and an excellent replica of Grecian ruins. She even laughed when Percy insisted upon touching a vista in order to be convinced that it truly was a painting and not the real thing.
They arrived at the Rotunda, and like many i
n the crowd Helena could not help but gawk at the grand two-story structure. Constructed of white marble and decorated with Oriental motifs, the building glistened like a giant, exotic cake in the middle of the dark clearing. Hundreds of globe lamps glowed from the edges of the dome-shaped roof, illuminating the orchestra playing on the second floor balcony. The light, lively tones floated onto the audience below. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen were entering the rotunda through a roped entrance guarded by footmen; many more stood in line on the red carpet for the privilege of entry. Beyond the line, guests of the middling sort and working class milled, eager to catch glimpses of the noble patrons.
Impervious to the jostling around her, Helena absorbed the magic of the night. Mr. Handel's composition washed over her and buoyed her spirits over vibrant waves. She found herself moving clockwise with the crowd and experienced its excitement herself as other views of the Rotunda unfolded before her. It seemed balconies sprung all around the structure, with different entertainments visible on each. On the next platform, she saw a theatrical duo performing an act of Shakespeare. Next there was a man juggling teacups whilst riding a one-wheeled machine. She caught herself gasping at the following act, the rope dancer, executing flawless jumps and pirouettes way up above the cheering crowd.
Helena turned to exclaim something to Percy and realized with a sudden shock that her companions were nowhere to be seen. A sea of strange faces surrounded her. She felt herself being pushed forward, as more people thronged to get a better view of the rope dancer. The volume of excited voices swelled. A feeling of alarm rose simultaneously in her chest.
"Lady Harteford, over here!"
She saw Mr. Reed pressing toward her. He had lost his hat, and his face looked slick with the effort to reach her. He was struggling against the tide of movement, like a fish battling upstream. Stretching out his arm, he held his walking stick toward her. She reached for it, her gloved fingers closing around the polished mahogany.
"Follow me this way!" His shouted words could barely be heard over the din.
She hung onto the walking stick and squeezed herself through the tight path Mr. Reed carved through the field of bodies. The fumes of liquor and unwashed flesh rose all around her. The accents in her ear were harsh, unfamiliar. She felt a tug on her reticule, and she clung fiercely to it, looking wildly about. No one seemed to be looking at her, yet there was something menacing about the facelessness of the crowd and the roaring laughter. A hand landed on her posterior and squeezed. She screamed. At the same time, her grasp on the walking stick slackened. She felt herself being sucked backward into the mob.
Raw panic clawed her insides as she struggled desperately to get free. A sharp pressure burned briefly at her wrist; she knew without looking that someone had torn loose her bracelet. She felt fingers grasp at her coiffure, the charming bumble bees now become dangerous attractions to avarice. She cared not; they could have it all, if only she could get out. She felt the increasing suffocation of the mob. The heated bodies and deafening voices depleted the air. An arm wrapped around her waist. She could not draw breath enough to scream again.
"I've got you. Hold on."
She felt herself being hauled against a strong form. Powerful arms lifted her from the ground, and she was too weak with relief to protest at being hefted over the shoulder like a sack of grain. The next moments passed in a blur as her rescuer forged relentlessly through the crowd. There were shouts on either side as he scythed a path with his fists and elbows, but apparently no one dared retaliate. She lifted her head to see the sea of faces passing behind her, but mostly she concentrated on holding on for dear life.
When she saw the clearing disappearing into the distance, Helena mustered enough courage to say, "You can put me down now."
"Not on your life," came the growled reply.
"Milord!" One of the Runners came huffing up. "Is Lady Harteford alright?"
"I'm fine," Helena squeaked at the man's upside-down face.
"I was a step behind her, my lord. I had to stop to pummel a brute to get back her bracelet. My partner is just retrieving her reticule—"
"Keep watch over the entrance to that alcove ahead. Let no one pass. I wish to speak to my wife there privately."
"Yes, milord."
Helena gulped as she was carried onto a narrow path off the main walk. To judge from the lack of lighting, this was one of the many secret lovers' niches that made Vauxhall infamous. Not that her rescuer was acting remotely lover-like. He set her—or, more accurately, he dumped her—onto a wooden bench surrounded by dense hedges.
"Now," her husband said, looming over her, his eyes darker than the night, "you have yourself some explaining to do."
TWENTY-THREE
Nicholas waited for the beast to calm. At the sight of Helena helpless in the mob, the animal inside him had bared its fangs and roared with fury. He had never felt such primitive rage in his life. They were mauling his woman. He had leapt in, intent upon blood. If anything happened to her ... Swearing, he leaned over her for closer inspection. By the faint glow of the moon, he saw she had not escaped entirely unscathed. Shallow scratches marred the perfection of one cheek. Her disordered curls tumbled around her shoulders. Her bodice was torn, revealing a great deal of vulnerable flesh.
He ripped off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders. He was breathing too raggedly to speak. Anger and fear made him inarticulate.
"You bloody idiot," he said at last. "What in hell do you think you were doing?"
Helena glowered up at him as she drew the velvet lapels closer together. She actually had the temerity to glower at him. "What everyone else was doing, my lord. Enjoying the sights. It was not my fault the crowd erupted into madness."
"It was not your fault? You, madam, go traipsing alone in the dark dressed like ... like that"—here Nicholas closed in and waved a furious hand up and down her person—"and you expect not to encounter trouble?"
For some reason, this perfectly sound argument seemed to infuriate Helena. She pushed on his shoulders with both her hands. He did not budge.
"I was not alone, for one," she said, her eyes spitting sparks at him. "I was accompanied by three others. Not to mention the Runners. And even you, sir, would be ill-pressed to explain how my perfectly fashionable attire had anything to do with what transpired back there."
He snarled at her logic. "Your dress is indecent. It invites indecent behavior. That bounder Reed—who, incidentally, I am going to kill—was drooling down your neckline."
"It seems we have been down this road before, my lord," his wife said in a sweet voice that instantly raised his hackles. "What I wear is no business of yours. Nor is anyone I choose to consort with."
"Consort with?" Nicholas felt momentarily dumbfounded by the rush of blood to his head. He could barely hear himself over the roaring in his ears.
"In a manner of speaking," Helena said, hastily now. "There is no need to shout. It is just the two of us here."
"I am not shouting, I am merely trying to get you to speak some sense!"
He pushed himself away from the bench and began to pace in front of it. Calm, he repeated to himself. All is calm.
"I am speaking perfect sense," Helena said. "You have never cared whose company I've kept. In fact, I doubt that you have ever noticed. How could you, when you never deign to show your face at home?"
That stopped him in his tracks. "I have been busy," he snapped. "I told you that in the notes I sent you—every day, I might add!"
"Yes, about those notes." She crossed her arms, and her damned chin tilted upward. "I have been waiting to see you for days, Nicholas—and what do I get instead? Three wretched sentences. Poor substitute for a husband, I should say. Can you blame me for wanting a little distraction?"
Yes I bloody can when you nearly get yourself killed!
He wanted to shout. But he did not, because he was not one for shouting. At least, he had never been until his wife decided to act like a candidate for Bedlam. He tried for ca
lm again. He attempted to think of a reasonable refute to her argument, one he could utter without the use of profanity or an unduly raised volume. After a minute, he abandoned the impossible endeavor.
"What do you want from me, Helena? A sodding sonnet?" he bit out.
His wife studied him. He wished her eyes did not appear so bloody large and luminescent in the moonlight—it was distracting to his anger, and he planned to remain pissed for a good long while. Had he truly believed that Helena was a demure little thing? He shook his head in disbelief. This woman could drive a man to distraction. As if to prove his point, the minx had the nerve to smile. Her lips curved, and she actually dimpled. The smile dissolved into a gale of giggles.
"Oh, a sonnet ... from you ... man of many ... words," she gasped between fits of laughter.
He should have been outraged at her levity, or at the very least offended by her lack of wifely respect. Instead, the sound of her unexpected laughter had a strange effect upon him: it soothed the beast. It diluted the bloodlust still pumping in his veins. Bloody hell, it was good to hear Helena laugh, to see her alive and well and bewitching under the star-filled sky. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nicholas felt his own lips soften.
He firmed them immediately. "You married a merchant not a poet," he reminded her.
"Oh, Nicholas," Helena said, wiping her eyes. "I don't want a sonnet or an ode to my eyes or some such silly nonsense. Don't you know that?"
As a matter of fact, he didn't. Besides which, if he was to compose a poem to his wife's body parts, it damn well wouldn't be about her eyes. Best keep that thought to himself.
"What do you want, Helena?" he said.
"You. Just you, my stubborn, foolish husband." Potent as the sun's rays, her words reached and thawed all the chilled parts inside him. "Come, have a seat beside me before you fall down. You look like you defeated Bonaparte singlehandedly."
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