A Lady Out of Time

by Caroline Hanson

  Chapter 6

  Helen smiled at the Duke and started walking towards his office, certain that she could feel his eyes on her back, judging her. She just knew he was taking in her garb. It wasn’t good enough to be an outfit. She was squished into a cleaning-rag-worthy dress without a corset. She looked not only fat but poor.

  And she was a woman with curves. The military had done what they could, she’d been exercised and honed to perfection, but there was still junk in her trunk and under the hood. Without whale-boning or a steel frame to give her an hourglass-figure, she looked massive compared to other women.

  You don’t have time to look good. Just blackmail him and move on. She needed to get herself together for what was to come. She needed to be hard and ruthless. Demanding and cunning. Leaving him in no doubt that she wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. He needed to know that she’d do what she threatened. Especially since it was clear that he was so…imposing. Her mouth was dry, and her forehead was damp with sweat.

  Helen had hoped for someone dandy-like and mincing. She’d wanted a Victorian dandy with floppy wrists and eye-wateringly bright waistcoats. She’d hoped to blackmail him and have him say something like, ‘Well, tally-ho, you’re not a terribly good sport now, are you? No more than five thousand per year. Now be off with you!”

  But it was pretty clear that wasn’t fucking happening.

  Oh no, she was stuck blackmailing the only alpha male in all of Victorian England. She’d seen him and fixated on him. As if he was a natural focus for her eye to go to. He’d come down the stairs, and she had felt intimidated by the sight of him. Which was stupid, because she’d killed bigger, more dangerous men than him.

  But it wasn’t that he was threatening so much as better, if that made any sense. The polish and dignity of him, the very way he held himself and looked at people said that he owned them all. Maybe it was just because this meeting was so important. In order to change the future, she needed his cooperation. Well, she needed his money. Helen had a certain weakness for authoritative men. Crap, they probably gene-spliced it into me.

  Totally irrelevant.

  The mansion was beautiful and smelled of beeswax. A residence befitting a duke, one of the most powerful men in the land. When people came to visit, they would need to know just how rich and important he was. The hallway had dark paneling and huge paintings, the frames massive displays of gold gilt. Every surface gleamed, as if an army of servants were hiding around the corner and ready to clean. She’d seen hospitals less clean.

  “Here,” he said and she jumped a little, his voice abrupt and close in the quiet hallway. She turned around to face him, catching him in the act of opening a door. He didn’t look at her or wait for her to enter but strode in, expecting her to follow. He walked straight to a large wooden desk that dominated the middle of the room. He didn’t go behind it but stood in front of it, leaning against it. The leather wingback chairs were too close to him, and she understood that she wasn’t invited to sit.

  He’d claimed the office, taken away all options to sit, forcing her to stand and feel unwelcome. “Touche,” she muttered, and he leaned slightly forward, as though to catch her words. His frown intensified.

  Helen stood in the entryway, looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, undoubtedly lit just in the off-chance that the Duke decided to use the room. What would it be like to have a life so pampered that people spent their days trying to anticipate your every whim?

  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 betw
een 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 detected 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. You 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.

  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? Alway
s 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.