It was luxurious and opulent, with fine attention to detail: hand-stitching of the dark leather seats, carvings in the wood—and the smell—polish and leather. It was rich, intoxicating, and somehow masculine. Perfect for him. She mentally slapped herself.
Save world. Don’t fantasize about irritating—but surprisingly attractive—Duke. The butler came down the steps and handed a pair of shoes to Edward before closing the door. Edward sat across from her, then he handed her the shoes with one hand, leaning forward with stiff elegance. Helen reached out for them, her fingers grazing his.
It was stupid, but his touch made her catch her breath. She wouldn’t describe the feeling as a sizzle, which always seemed moronic, but that it was as though she was riding in an elevator that stopped too abruptly—a wobbling feeling in the pit of her stomach.
He drew back, seemingly unaffected, wiping imaginary lint off his charcoal trousers before reaching into his pockets and pulling out gloves. He didn’t put them on, but looked at them harshly, as though they had offended him.
Helen set to work putting on the shoes. She lifted her dress to her knees absently as she unwound the ruined chemise she’d wrapped around her feet. She wiggled her frozen toes and pushed her foot into each boot. They were a little large, but revolutionary compared to fabric strips. The leather was cream-colored, heavily scuffed, and the heel was lightly worn down. They were comfortable though. More than she would have expected. Happiness suffused her. Maybe everything would be alright. She was here, she’d survived. She was clothed, had food and shoes, was on her way to get money. She knew there were still many ways this could go wrong, but it was nice to savor these first few accomplishments.
She looked up from her shoes, surprised to see that for once he wasn’t watching her face. She followed his gaze—her dress was still up, bunched around her knees. His gaze moved up her body very slowly, as if he could see every inch of her through the heavy black velvet. By the time his gaze reached her face, she was blushing. His look was harsh, with a fine edge of scorn.
Something inside of her snapped. “Shouldn’t a gentleman look away?”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “You can’t be a lady and a criminal. You are one or the other.”
“But isn’t a duke always a duke? Always well-bred enough to look away from a display of flesh?”
He shook his head lightly. “It is your behavior that is unacceptable. Do you know, if a man goes to a tavern or a gaming hell, and a woman lifts her skirts in such a way; it’s clear to all what’s being offered? I can’t decide if you have been so little in society that you don’t realize, or if you take nudity so casually that it doesn’t disturb you to put yourself on such wanton display.”
How the hell had he gotten through all that without actually saying the word sex or calling her a slut? His words were weapons, carefully crafted to inflict the maximum amount of damage without obvious bloodshed.
Coldness went through her as they stared at each other. She’d be stupid to underestimate him, had been stupid to feel a moment of confidence that everything would work out as it was supposed to.
I don’t have the money yet.
A thousand biting remarks went through her mind. But she wasn’t here to fight with him; she was here to steal from him. In less than an hour, she’d never see him again. “You don’t need to question my background, you just need to pay for my future,” she said sweetly. Dammit! She shouldn’t goad him. She’d meant to say nothing.
She tried to rein in her temper and caught a flash of movement at the last moment.
His hand snaked out to grab her wrist, and she evaded him, throwing herself towards the other end of the carriage. He followed her, lunging across the seat and grabbing her hands in his. He gripped them tight, and she had to force herself not to pull away from him and slam her elbow into his face.
He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me. The refrain ricocheted in her mind, but staying still and not fighting him, went against every instinct she had. She didn’t want to let him see how strong she was.
She didn’t know what his goal was in grabbing her—to threaten her, like she’d threatened him? To humiliate her and make himself feel tough? Or had he simply snapped, the situation breaking through his icy control.
And so she waited, her eyes fixed on his face, both breathing heavily, looking for any twitch that would tell her his next move. He was close to her, close enough for her to see his eyes had become almost hazel, and that he had thick, black lashes. His lips were a hard line.
He gentled his hold. She bit back a laugh.
He wouldn’t hurt her. Not really. He would harm her with words, maybe even with a look. And that was nothing. Not like she’d been hurt in training, or the mission she’d completed three years ago where she’d almost died, her stomach ripped open and her insides hanging out.
Even though she’d just met him, only knew snippets of things about him from history books and diary entries, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. This man was a protector first. That was what had shone through about him, down the centuries, that he was a good man.
She recognized it for its rarity. In her world, the world she had known, survival was everything and acting morally was not black-and-white; it was flexible depending upon the situation. This man was not flexible. She was blackmailing him; she was beneath him socially and morally, and still he gentled his hold.
He was so close to her she could smell him. Shaving soap and clean clothes, a hint of cologne. It was delicious. Almost drugging, like walking into an opium den. Was he a good kisser? Or was he so uptight and stuffy that kissing him would be like making out with a dead fish?
Jesus. Get a grip.
If anything, his inability to lash out with violence should be less attractive rather than more. Wasn’t it cowardice?
She tried to pull away and he let her, moving away from her slightly, before running his hand through his dark hair, the hair parting in waves and giving him a tousled look. She suspected he hated his hair. It betrayed him at the slightest touch.
“I...” Was he going to apologize? The future would eat him alive. He stopped himself just in time. Whatever he was going to say, she knew he was choosing other words. “Just tell me…who is making you do this?” His eyes searched hers. “I am a powerful man, and I can get you out of this,” he said, the words low and persuasive. Almost secretive, as if her imaginary partner in crime might hear him.
His words and the sincerity of them made her breath catch in her chest. Made her whole body feel constricted. This was so dumb. She wasn’t here to moon over him or make it complicated. He wasn’t supposed to be trying to save her.
Someone had to be sensible here. For Christ’s sake, this was blackmail! Helen chuckled, the sound thin and a little high. “Don’t try to rescue me. You don’t know me. All you know about me is that I display myself like a whore, and I’m taking advantage of a family secret that you need to keep hidden. The money is for me. I need it, and there is nothing,” Helen paused and leaned in to his personal space, meeting his eyes so he understood, “nothing you can do to talk me out of it.”
The carriage jerked to a halt, and the door opened. Helen peered out from the dark interior into the sunny morning. They were in front of a white stone building, tall and imposing with a guard at the front. Men in suits were walking quickly by, going about their business.
“You should wait here. It would cause quite a stir if I walked in with a hooded woman and gave her five thousand pounds,” he said as soon as he descended to the street.
What to do? If he went in on his own, would he decide to have her arrested? Not go through with it? Could she take the risk? It was only his pride and reputation that would be harmed if word leaked out that he’d taken a woman into the bank and paid her a small fortune. “I’m going with you.”
“I don’t know why I bothered to mention it,” he muttered and pulled on his gloves. Helen climbed down from the carriage, ignoring the coachman’s hand. “Oh for the love
of…why do you think I gave you a cloak? Cover yourself,” he said, sounding exasperated. And as if he didn’t trust her to do it, he pulled the hood of the cloak over her, covering her face. They walked up the steps to the bank and a guard opened the door, allowing them in. He bowed to the Duke and looked at Helen under his lashes, undoubtedly trying to see who she was, but she bowed her head.
The bank manager appeared instantly. As if he spent all day waiting for royalty to walk in the door. With much bowing, he ushered them into his office. He was short and round with fuzzy hair. Helen stopped the Duke with her hand on his arm, and he looked at it as if it belonged to a leprosy-ridden urchin.
She moved close, standing on tiptoes to reach his ear. “I’m not alone,” she murmured. “If I get arrested or you turn on me, my accomplice will go to the papers, and your story will be everywhere by tomorrow. Think of what will happen to your mother and your sisters if the estate is taken from them. And your youngest sister? Amelia? There would be no fine marriage for her. She’d be lucky to become someone’s governess.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought of little else for the last hour.” He moved past her, drawing away from her touch.
The manager tried to make pleasantries, but the Duke was having none of it, answering each question as tersely as possible. When he requested five thousand pounds, the man tried to hide his shock, but bowed and shuffled out, leaving the two of them alone. After a very long few minutes, the man came back, carrying a leather-covered case in his hands.
“Will you wish to count it, My Lord?” he asked.
“Leave us,” he commanded, and the manager hastily backed out of his own office, closing the door softly behind him. The Duke moved away from the desk, standing in front of the door and leaning against it casually as though he were simply relaxing, rather than blocking the only exit out of the room. Helen opened the leather case, taking out the bills and counting them. Five thousand pounds. A fortune in 1854. She felt sick and giddy as she put the money back into the case, as if she’d just downed three cups of coffee.
“Don’t come back for more,” he growled. An unruly lock of dark hair was on his forehead.
Well, she hated to rub salt in the wounds, but…“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” No promises. She went to the door, stopping in front of him when he didn’t move out of the way. His arms were crossed over his chest.
Ugh. He was so tall that if she went any closer, she’d have to look up to maintain eye contact. She was 5’8, not short by any stretch of the imagination, but she was no match for his tall, muscular frame.
“Where will you go with your ill-gotten gains?”
She tucked the case under her arm securely. Their relationship was over. Wham-bam-thank-you-sir and she hoped never to darken his doorway again. And so she said nothing, just stared at him, willing him to move, wishing he would let it go. She wished he wasn’t staring at her with cold animosity; she wished he was not so large and imposing. She wished he wasn’t a good man who looked at her as if she were a bad woman. He smiled tightly but spoke to her as if she were a child. A stupid child. “Let me inform you of what I think you will do. I think you will find lodging. Then you will find clothing and have a good meal—hopefully toasting my continued good name—but what then?”
“You need to get out of my way now,” her voice was husky. She told him what she thought in her expression: you don’t know me, I don’t comprehend a man like you, and I don’t want to.
“Do you understand that I can find you? I will track you down if I have to.”
There were a lot of things she could say to that. It was almost like he was taunting her. As if he were loath to have their interaction end. Because he’s waiting for a chance to get me hung! She pressed her lips together to bite back various responses. “In a city this large, you think you could find me?” Shut up!
“I’m certain of it,” he said, and he moved away from the door in one graceful step. Like the first step in a dance, using his body to express the heat of his emotions even if his words were cold. Then he pulled the door open, the tilt of his head indicating that he was dismissing her, not the other way around.
Helen pulled the cloak tighter around herself to shield her face before walking out of the bank. Half of her expected the Duke to shout 'thief!’ and cause a panic, but he didn’t.
She made it to the doors without being stopped. Her heart began to pound with a sense of accomplishment, but she squashed it down. She wasn’t safe yet, hadn’t gotten the weapon plans yet.
Exiting the bank she turned right, which led her deeper into the city. The city was filled with tiny alleys, thick with shadows and places to hide, perfect to lose him.
She turned at the first corner, rushing up the street as fast as she could before pausing in a dark, narrow alley. She leaned down, pretending to fiddle with her boot as she surreptitiously looked back down the street. There. The kid who’d ridden at the back of the carriage. He was dressed in the Duke’s livery, and he was trying to find her. As soon as he passed the alley, she took off in the other direction, almost slipping in a puddle of something best left unidentified.
If she were a cat, she would have purred. This she knew: how to evade, how to disappear. She loved a chase, loved winning. Helen strode out boldly on the next street, walking calmly, feeling a gust of wind catch the hem of the borrowed cloak and blow it outwards. A hackney was parked on the side of the street, and she hopped in, told him to take her to the Savoy, and for the first time in what felt like years, maybe even a century or two—relaxed.
Chapter 7
Edward swore. This was a disaster. He’d been blackmailed. The entire situation was beyond incredible. After all, he was a duke. He was the law for hundreds of people. At his country seat, they came to him with problems, expected him to enact justice. Even in London or with the King, he was not someone to be trifled with.
Apparently, no one told her how important I am, he thought and grimaced at himself. He wasn’t a total prig. But this was ridiculous; who the hell did she think she was? A very rich woman considering how much money I just gave her.
He went home and packed, trying to decide whom he should speak to first, his mother or his governess. There was the possibility his governess wouldn’t know…but his mother might not tell him even if it were true.
Yet another woman who is uninspired by my grandness. And then his mother would put on a spectacle complete with fainting, weeping, wailing, and as much misery as she thought was dignified, before succumbing to what would undoubtedly be days of hysterics.
That was something to be avoided at all costs. His governess it was.
Within the hour, he was on his way, taking only a groomsman and his fastest horse. He could be there by nightfall if he were fast.
And he was. He loved riding—the communion between man and beast as they traversed the lands together. But this ride brought him no pleasure. The morning replayed itself over and over in his head, the questions piling up as his horse ate up the miles. Was it true? And if the real duke were dead, who the hell was he? One of his father’s by-blows? A stray, unwanted servant’s child?
And why on earth had he given her the money? Now there was a question. She had given him no proof, nothing but a story and a claim that she had evidence. Couldn’t he have demanded she wait until the following day? Couldn’t he have called in his butler and servants, and tied her to a chair while he set off to get the evidence from wherever she was keeping it?
But it had all happened so quickly. Hadn’t it?
Looking at things in hindsight, it was always easier to see a perfectly logical course of action, he knew that. But surely he could have done something.
His reputation was impeccable. No mistresses or actresses bandied his name about; his private life was just that, exquisitely closed to the outside world. He took the responsibilities of his rank and family name seriously, and she had come and called it all into question.
Why had he given her the money? It wasn’t just
for his ego and his reputation. Yes, of course, five thousand pounds was a lot of money, but it wouldn’t bankrupt him. It wouldn’t make the slightest dent in his fortune, especially not when his house was joined with Katherine’s.
If what she said was true, and the world found out, not only would he be ruined, but his family would be too. What if Katherine found out he wasn’t even a bastard, but potentially a commoner? She sure as hell wouldn’t marry him. The fraudulent duke whose family paid the price.
In the scheme of things, it didn’t matter that he’d given some money to a blackmailer. So long as it kept her quiet. Yes, because quiet is the perfect word to describe her. Provoking. That was a better word to describe her. Or menace.
Helen Foster. Good God. From her clothing and her boldness, to her immodesty and outrageous demands…he couldn’t have imagined a more repellently vulgar woman if he tried.
So repellent you couldn’t look away. So repellent you touched her person and ogled her like a savage. He had never in his life reached out and touched a woman like that. The desire to see her up close, to hold her still for just a moment and make sure she was real, that she was actually there turning his entire life upside down and not just a figment of his imagination. He’d come close to shaking her, to kissing her, to doing some unknown thing to a filthy, amoral woman in his carriage.
She was, absolutely, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he despised himself for thinking it still, even after she’d taken his money and threatened him. She’d lifted her dress casually, unwrapped the rags from her silken legs, wiggled her pretty toes…pretty feet! Really?...and he’d lost his mind.
And then his estate was before him, and he didn’t have to think about her anymore nor his reactions to her. He could focus on finding out the truth and put all thoughts of Miss Foster far from his mind. After all, he’d never see her again. He loosened his tight grip on the reins.
He arrived at tea-time, throwing the house into turmoil. He found his governess in her private parlor in the East Wing. There were no more children to take care of, and his mother had long wanted him to pension her off, but he had refused. Lucy had no one besides him and his sisters, and had been more of a mother to them than the Duchess ever had; why wouldn’t he let her stay in the home she’d lived in for the last three decades?
A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster) Page 5