It’d be frickin’ weird. Helen put her hand on the door, ready to shut it and give them privacy.
“Do not close the door,” he said, voice hard. It was a command.
Her gaze jerked back to his, and inexplicably, Helen blushed. “Believe me, you will want privacy for this conversation.”
He crossed his arms, the fabric of his black coat pulling taut across his wide shoulders. He scrutinized her from head to toe, and she knew exactly what he was seeing: A woman who was up to no good. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Fine. Close it. The gossip will already be salacious enough that a closed door is immaterial. Unless, of course, a pistol-toting washerwoman will barge through my front door in two minutes demanding I marry you after compromising you.”
Huh? Helen licked her lips, momentarily at a loss. Then she remembered that men went to considerable lengths not to be alone with young women for fear of being trapped into marriage. “No, I’m not a washerwoman. I guess I’d be cleaner if I were a washerwoman. And I…certainly don’t want to marry you.”
“Well, that’s a start,” he said flatly.
This wasn’t going as Helen had expected. She had to start as she meant to go on, let him know who was boss here. “Might I sit down?” she asked, already moving forward as if he’d said yes. She’d move into his personal space, proved she wasn’t intimidated.
He raised an eyebrow at her, appearing supremely superior, then paused, before inclining his head towards the chair furthest away from him.
“I expect you’ll want tea as well?” he asked, the sarcasm plain.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said and waited. She was ravenous. Helen smiled at him, wide and artificial, displaying teeth, and he blinked at her as though she’d grown another head.
“What can I do for you, Miss…?” His voice was deep and mocking, as though he knew she was there for something nefarious, and that she was no 'miss’.
Helen wasn’t sure what to say. Pleasantries seemed a bit ridiculous, and he clearly wanted to cut to the heart of the matter, so, what the hell— “I’m here to blackmail you, I’m afraid,” she said, stopping herself mid-shrug.
She took a deep breath and felt herself blush. Dammit.
His expression was blank. He waited. Didn’t say anything else. He stood, towering over her for a moment, before walking to a bell-pull and ringing for tea. He went behind his desk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure you are.” He propped an elbow on the arm and covered the lower half of his face with his hand, thumb under his chin and index finger over his full lips—a thinking pose.
She felt like they were 'on.’ This was a test of who’d break first, and she was no chump. So she waited. Her gaze strayed to his mouth, drawn there because his full lips were partially concealed by his hand. He’d just shaved, but she suspected that if he went out in the evenings, he did it again.
A clock was ticking in the room, the seconds dragging out. Helen blinked. Good Lord, was he still waiting for her to say something? The butler came in with tea and looked confused, as though unsure she would even know how to pour a cup of tea she was so backwards. He set the tray down on a table and stood there awkwardly for a moment, before giving a little half-bow and backing out of the room.
Helen was pleased to see an assortment of cookies. She went to the tray, picked one up and took a bite, disappointed that it was dry. She stared at the teapot for a long moment, trying to figure out the etiquette. She shot him a glance, surprised to see he had not moved an inch, his dark eyes trained on her.
“I’m guessing you don’t want me to pour you tea. On account of the…dirt. On my hands.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned your appearance and your lack of hygiene. You may find this surprising, but I have no interest in your appearance. I have no interest in you. But you apparently have an interest in me and are bold enough—or deranged enough—to believe you have a reason to lay claim to my time. And my money as well, is that right?” His derision made his voice low. She decided he wasn’t nearly as attractive as she’d first thought.
Helen made herself a cup of tea, careful not to spill, intent on being graceful and making it just like the British etiquette teacher had taught them, which took a ridiculous amount of concentration. Her hands were even shaking. She could feel him studying her every move, which made her feel clumsy. It was the difference between walking a straight line on the ground, or walking a straight line a hundred feet in the air on a rope. Helen paused in the act of stirring as a revelation came to her—there actually wasn’t any reason to be nervous.
He already thought she was lower class. She didn’t need him to think she was an aristocrat. It was utterly ridiculous to think she would do something so odd that he would suddenly say, “You must be from the future to behave like that!”
Some of the tension left her, and she walked back to the chair feeling more confident. Helen sat back down and took a sip of her tea. “You have not told me your name,” he said, speaking first. Ha! I won the invisible pissing contest! Put that in the history book, motherfucker!
“Your name,” he repeated.
“Helen Foster.”
“Miss Foster. Is it Miss or Mrs.?” His tone implied he didn’t care, but strongly suspected it wasn’t Mrs.
“Ms.,” she said a bit testily.
“So, Miss Foster, tell me about your blackmail. Actually, let’s wait just a moment longer.” He leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk and lacing his fingers together as though he were about to tell her a secret.
But his expression was predatory; his voice inflected with purpose, demanding she pay attention to every word he was about to say. In that moment, she felt all the distance of two hundred plus years between them. “I see you’re enjoying your tea, no doubt happy to be out of the elements on this cold day, warming yourself by my fire, in my home. However, before you take more from me than my bare hospitality, I want to make sure you understand the consequences of blackmail. Especially, attempting to blackmail someone like myself. You’ll be lucky if you get jail. With my influence, you could be hung.” He let the threat rest between them, as if he were waiting for her to conjure up the image of herself being hung, the noose tightening around her neck. Then he said, almost gently, “But you’ve not done anything yet. You may still go.”
Helen supposed that it was quite kind of him, in a perverse sort of way, to remind her of the consequences of her actions. A chance to spare her. “Your Lordship—”
“Your Grace,” he cut in, icily.
“Right. I knew that.” Helen put the empty teacup down on his desk and leaned forward, mimicking his position, laced fingers and all. Her voice a whisper to match his. “I do realize the severity of blackmail; that’s why it’s best to be sure one knows that they state the truth.”
He stood and went to the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid before coming back to sit down. Was it brandy? All the books said the men drank brandy or whiskey at times like this. He didn’t drink it, just looked at it. Almost as though it were a prop. She looked at the clock. It was barely 10 am.
“There are other options for a girl with your looks.”
Girl? She was twenty-six. In this day and age, she was a spinster. Although, thinking of the women she had passed on the streets, she looked young. Young and pretty. She supposed that a lifetime of healthy food, medical and dental care, had given her a lot of advantages. She had nice teeth and clear skin. Most people she passed had smallpox scars on their face. Even the Duke wasn’t spared, a small row of scars on the side of his neck, only visible when he’d gone to get a drink, and she’d watched him. She was a catch!
“I’m not spending my life on my back if that’s what you mean. I’m not a whore.” She wondered if there had been a more polite way to say it, but she found the recommendation offensive.
His jaw firmed, and she thought she detect
ed a blush on his lean cheeks. “With your looks, you could be a very wealthy mistress. Not only is it legal, but it has a certain level of respect.”
Helen choked back a laugh. Was he serious? She shook her head and decided to get on with it. “Yeah, thanks. So, blackmail.” She took a deep breath. “I know that you’re not the real Duke of Somervale. The real duke was stillborn. Your father was gravely ill when you were born, and everyone thought he’d die. The property would have reverted back to the crown if there hadn’t been an heir.”
There, that was the moment she should have stopped speaking. But Helen couldn’t. His expression hadn’t changed from malevolent boredom, but his fingers were white against the crystal glass. Her heart beat faster, only half aware of what she was saying, as she thought about what she would do if he did snap and throw the glass at her or attack her. The words spilled out of her.
“You support your family and sisters. You are at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution, and a lot of people depend upon you and your wise decisions. If you’re not the duke, if I tell everyone and get you stripped of the title, a lot of people will suffer, including your sisters and mother.”
He looked at her oddly when she said ‘Industrial Revolution’, and she felt like a fool. Of course, they wouldn’t call it that now. She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to say anything else in case she screwed it up even more.
“And what do you want?” His voice was silky and dangerous. He set the glass down beside him gently, and she automatically shifted in her seat. She didn’t trust self-control like that.
There was always an explosion.
“I’m afraid I’ll need money to support myself. I have an idea of how much. Assuming things go as I expect.”
“You speak like a gambler,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
Helen laughed a little. That was closer to the truth than he realized. She was gambling on the future.
“A gambler and a thief,” she said. Never bait a caged animal.
“And how much money does it take to support a woman like you…?” His voice had gotten an almost lazy drawl to it. The crisp vowels were slightly slower. Like he was speaking to a lover instead of a con woman. And whatever he was going to say at the end of that sentence was undoubtedly something she didn’t want to hear.
A shiver raced down her back. “I’ll need five thousand pounds. As you can see, I’ve come with very little.” The plans would cost 200 pounds at auction; the rest of the money was for her, so she could live out the rest of her days in relative comfort.
“You are American, yes?” He was back to perusing her outfit, his gaze skipping her chest altogether.
“Yes.”
“Are you a servant who has run away? Indentured perhaps?”
“No.”
He shrugged, as though it didn’t really matter.
“And where would you like this money? Do you have a bank account?” he asked, the same way one would inquire about the weather.
“I’ll take it in cash.”
His eyebrows raised for a moment, as though her response was boringly obvious. “That’s not the sort of money I have laying around. You’d need to come back and get it.”
Alarm bells rang through her. Giving him time to think couldn’t be a good idea. “We will go together.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. Just once. “The problem with blackmail, is that the blackmailer always comes back for more.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Now he laughed. A deep and slightly bitter laugh; the sound inherently masculine. Her stomach flip-flopped. “And what’s that promise worth? The dress on your back? The rags on your feet?”
Helen sat up straighter. “If you don’t believe me, fine. You still have no choice but to pay me. You’ll just have to hope that I mean it when I say I won’t come back for more.”
“What about proof?” he asked, head tilting slightly to the side. His skin was tanned, the hint of neck that she saw strangely alluring.
“What about proof?” she asked. Why was he so tanned? Oh yes, he’d liked to ride horses. Correction, he does like to ride horses. He was no longer someone from the past.
He raised both eyebrows at her, and a devilish glint came into his eyes, “Well, as far as I can tell, you don’t have any. So, why on earth would I give you anything, when no one will believe your outlandish claim? No one would take your word over mine. Do you understand that, at least? I am a peer of the realm. I dine with the Prime Minister.” His smile was pure condescension. She wanted to hit him. “You don’t even have shoes.”
Ouch. When he put it that way, it did sound a little ridiculous. She made sure to keep her breathing steady. He was right; she didn’t have proof, but he didn’t need to know that. “The proof is in the diary of your mother’s former maid, who was there the night you were born and saw the whole baby-switching drama occur. If confronted with it, she’ll have to admit it, or I’ll have her diary published. Long diatribes about former lovers and her hopes of one day becoming a wealthy mistress. Very embarrassing stuff. And she would do anything to prevent the world from knowing her past.” He looked down, picking at something on the knee of his trousers. Imaginary lint probably. That’s a tell, she thought irrationally.
“And who is this maid with a reputation to protect?” But she suspected he knew what was coming next. Something about his question lacked conviction.
“Mrs. Helmsley,” she said.
“Of course. Current mistress to the prime minister. Yes, I suppose she is the one woman who would happily expose me to save her own skin.”
He became perfectly still in his chair as he thought through her words. She could imagine the wheels turning. She spoke quickly, “Just give me the money now, and no one will ever know. I—” She stopped talking. She was about to make him a promise, and that surely wouldn’t do. He didn’t want promises from her, he’d made that clear.
She couldn’t give him the diary. It was real, but it was hidden in the wall of his ancestral home, and it didn’t get found until 1920, when his ancestors were renovating the house. By which time everyone concerned would be dead.
Including me. Which blows.
The Duke was still watching her, and it made her want to get up and walk away from him, turn her back so he couldn’t see her so intensely. Was he trying to figure out what she’d been about to say? Helen flexed her fingers out of nervousness, opening her hands wide, and the Duke’s eyes followed the move, a small frown creasing his face—again.
“I find myself most interested, Miss Foster, in how you came to learn this information. I can’t imagine you’ve met Mrs. Helmsley.”
She didn’t need to answer his questions about how she got the information. Especially since she had no credible answer. 'I’m from the future’ probably wouldn’t go very far. So she said nothing. She wanted to look at the floor, but that wasn’t her training— to look away from a challenge. Helen looked him in the face, even though she knew a young woman from this time might not do so. What’s a little breach of etiquette when you’re already blackmailing someone? Wasn’t that the biggest breach of all?
“I assume you do this for your young man. Has he so little respect for you, and I suppose me, that he can’t come to me himself?”
What did she say to that? There was no young man, but would it help to claim that there were one? After all, women had virtually no rights in this day and age. “You will only deal with me,” she said, hedging her bets. Things were complicated enough without making up a fictional boyfriend or husband.
“That’s not the answer to the question posed to you. I asked you if there was a young man.”
“Did you? I thought you’d assumed there was one,” she replied tartly.
One eyebrow raised in acknowledgement. It was a neat trick. “And what will you do with the five thousand pounds?”
“Don’t stall me.” He was trying to get the upper hand, but this was her show. “We go, get the money, and part ways. Yo
u are a rich enough man that the money is truly trivial to you. The sooner we part ways, the sooner we can both pretend this never happened.”
“Are you ashamed, then?” He regarded her curiously.
“It doesn’t matter what I think or feel. But we need to go now.”
He stood, smoothing his coat in a simple gesture. His gaze stopped on the untouched alcohol as he considered it. “What the hell,” he said and drank it in one big swallow. “Fine. Let’s go. I’ll call the carriage,” he said. She followed him out of the room, unsurprised to see the butler waiting outside the door like a faithful hound.
“Clemens, I’ll be going out for an hour or so. Tell no one what has occurred or where I’ve gone. Be sure the servants know that if there is any discussion about the events of this morning, they will be let go without a reference. We need the carriage immediately, and have the housekeeper bring down a pair of Amelia’s old shoes and a cloak.”
The butler nodded stiffly. They stood in silence in the entryway, the air not just thick with tension, but solid. Helen feigned interest in her surroundings, unwilling to meet his gaze. The Duke of Somervale, Edward Clifton, stared at her steadily, all of his attention focused upon her so that his gaze felt like it had a weight to it. As if it were pushing her down and would crush her.
The butler, Clemens, returned with a slightly worn cloak. It looked like an old opera cloak, and the velvet was heavy, rich, and black. He held it out to her.
Helen put it around her shoulders, unreasonably happy to be covered up. The Duke preceded her outside, the clop-clop sound of horses’ hooves striking stone and making a staccato beat. Her breath fogged in front of her, and she had the vague sensation she’d just stepped onto an elaborate movie set: the horses, the carriage, hell, even the Duke, seemed unreal. And the fact that it was 1854 didn’t help either.
As the carriage came to a stop before them, a coachman appeared instantly, hurrying to the door and opening it with a flourish. The Duke gestured for her to go in first, following right behind her. Inside, the carriage was cozy and new. It struck her as odd that the carriage would be new, having only seen them as antiquated relics.
A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster) Page 4