“I regret the damage to your good self. That is entirely the reason for my change of heart.”
He had signed it with his initials.
Underneath, scrawled in the same hand, but much more untidily, there was a postscript.
“I will always stand your friend.”
Her world fell apart.
* * * *
After a week Helena could manage a day without crying. By the time she reached Mary’s, she could plead a nasty head cold. The duenna her mother had hired had not said a word about her condition, or the way she spent most of the journey to Devonshire sobbing into a handkerchief. Either she did not care or she assumed Helena was being sent away after a scandal. Helena didn’t care which reason she believed as long as she was left alone.
Mary welcomed her, cosseted her, and teased her back to health. At the end of two weeks, Helena knew she had lost a part of herself, a part she would never get back.
And she was married. A clandestine marriage she could tell nobody about. He said it was a sham—she would ensure that for herself. Otherwise the Dankworths had a sword over her head that they could drop any time they chose. Interrupt any wedding she cared to engage in.
But that man, the man she’d shared a bed with, the man who had told her more about himself than he had anyone else. Or so he said. She was not such a fool—was she? Sitting in the pretty room overlooking the ocean, Helena dreamed about catching one and forgetting everything else. Taking a ship to the other side of the world, where nobody knew her and she could start again.
After another week, she stopped looking.
Mary invited Helena to join her at a nearby assembly. Helena laughed for the first time in weeks, surprising herself. She hadn’t been aware one could laugh with a broken heart, but the feat was entirely possible.
She would never heal, but she had covered up her wound, scabbed it over. The scar would always remain, though.
At home the next day, Helena picked up a piece of embroidery that Mary had abandoned and found solace in it. She was creating once more. She made a bunch of violets in the corner of a runner and discovered a distraction from her pain.
Late autumn sunlight streaked over the oak table in the center of the room, making the old wood glow. The scent of furniture wax rose, and she went straight back to the morning after her marriage, when the sun warmed her back and the scent of spent candles wreathed around them.
She pushed the thought away, but the faint memories of the perfumes were harder to dismiss.
The doorbell clanged. Of course, this was early afternoon, the time for visiting, but she had no idea anyone was planning to arrive. Sounds in the hall heralded the visitors, but like the lady she was, she waited. When a masculine voice cut through the general chatter, she sprang to her feet, embroidery forgotten.
Julius entered the room in full command, as always, but he was on edge. She felt it rather than saw it, the nervous energy her brother always emitted when he was on high alert. Had he heard or discovered what she had done?
Her stomach tight, her heart beating hard, she forced herself to remain still. Her brother gave her a perfunctory bow. “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit, Helena, but I need you.”
“What is it, Julius? What’s happened?”
He surged forward and took her hands. “Caroline is dead. I have a fractious motherless baby at home. Please come back with me. I’m at my wit’s end.”
Part 2
Chapter 9
1755
“I cannot fathom why she isn’t married yet.”
“She’s too proud for anyone. Too rich, as well.”
Helena smiled as she passed the chattering group of ladies sitting by the dance floor, but her smile was tinged with bitterness. Even her family had taken to saying that, and at five-and-twenty she was nearly on the shelf. Her mother still wanted Helena to return home. Except that Julius’s house was more home to her than the Abbey or the Vernon’s London residence.
What would they say if they knew that today was the fifth anniversary of her wedding to Tom Dankworth, Lord Alconbury?
They’d probably call her mad. On her worst days she would agree with them, but she had cultivated her mask of quiet serenity so well that the “proud” epithet was often the one attached to her name.
A gentleman blocked her path—Lord Everslade, an earl from the north who had taken a particular interest in her. Not a passionate man, but he was friendly, handsome, and wealthy. Helena did not look for passion or love any more. She would happily settle for friendship. “Would you do me the honor of dancing the next set with me, my lady?” His smile revealed deep indents either side of his mouth.
Charmed, she laid her hand on his arm. “I would be delighted.”
He led her on to the floor, where they joined the other couples preparing for the country dance. “London is growing more full every September,” she remarked lightly. “I have no idea why.”
“We live in interesting times,” the earl said. “Also, many find the dearth of young, marriageable females a refreshing change.”
She laughed. “They flood in every April, secure their prizes, and join the throng of matrons. But yes, I know what you mean. Their enthusiasm can sometimes be tiresome. I would have thought a gentleman like you would have enjoyed their presence. Fresh and nubile.”
“And full of nonsense,” he said, as the four-piece orchestra struck up for the dance. They played a country air Helena had heard many times over the last five years. “I prefer someone with a more mature attitude.”
He gave her a meaningful look, and then, thank heaven, they parted in the dance and she moved on to her next partner. Lord Everslade was becoming far too blatant in his hints. He might be seeking an interview with her soon. The devil of it was that she was growing to like him. Most of her suitors did not interest her in the least. The love of her life had come and gone, but he’d left her with a legacy she could not overcome.
She was married to a man who all but ignored her in public and refused to meet her in private. They had to do something about their predicament. A divorce was impossible, since the procedure was so public, but if she was to give herself to another man, she needed proof of what Tom had told her that fateful day five years ago. That their marriage was invalid.
Thinking of her husband would not help. She had a copy of her marriage lines tucked away in a secret compartment in her jewelry chest, together with a key for a house in Folgate Street, which she had not visited in five years, and a signet ring with a carved ruby set in gold.
She needed to draw a line under her past, and for that, she needed to face the man she still called husband.
Helena moved by rote, every movement practiced and honed over the years. She’d moved to live with a newly widowed Julius, and except for a few times when her mother had tried to drag her back home, she continued to do so. On the whole, Julius preferred to live in London, but this last summer he’d gone to the country and had only returned this month to execute some business. Business that concerned her.
Julius was about to give Helena an annuity, enough to make her independent. Oh, she was worth a fortune, but she could not touch any of it. Her portion would not be available to her until she married. Five years ago, distress had scattered her mind and she could do nothing but force her mask into place and face the world with a smile.
Behind the mask she was numb and had remained so for at least a year.
By then Tom had reappeared in society, and she went into another spiral, until she pulled herself firmly out of it. Her mother unwittingly helped when she declared that as the unlovely daughter, Helena would become her support in her old age. Fighting that fate gave her a reason to continue, as did helping to care for baby Caro, Julius’s acknowledged daughter.
As she turned in the dance, she caught a glimpse of a familiar dark head among the sea of powdered wigs. Tom had taken to wearing his own hair, in some kind of obscure defiance, to what, she did not
know. Annoyingly, her heart quickened, until she took a few deep breaths to get it back under control.
The smile she cast on her partner when they came together again was probably brighter than it should have been. Lord Everslade’s response was a smile as broad as hers.
After the dance, he offered her his arm. She laid her fingers on it, just so, and turned her full attention on to him, since Tom was glowering at her on the other side of the dance floor. “Could you take me to the supper room?”
His lordship moved closer, speaking quietly. “I have a better idea. You seem in need of a rest, my dear, and I wish to speak to you.”
“Ah.” Better get this over with. His green eyes twinkled with good humor. In other circumstances she would have been glad of his interest. “Very well.”
They were in one of the few remaining mansions in London, which meant there was an abundance of small rooms where he could take her.
As they went outside, the realization struck Helena with the force of a hammer. They were in the same house where she’d first kissed Tom. And if she was not mistaken, Lord Everslade was taking her to the same room.
Perhaps finally she could kill all her hopes stone dead. Do what she should have done five years ago and refused a man’s suit. It would serve as a reminder of what she should do, rather than what her impulses had led her to do.
Lord Everslade left the door slightly ajar, a gentlemanly thing to do. They could claim they were not alone, and in any case, she was old enough to claim a little leeway to society’s strictures. She was hardly a newly brought out girl, fresh from the schoolroom.
His lordship led her to the sofa set in the center of the room and plucked her fan from her grasp. “Allow me,” he said gently. “It is hot for September, is it not?”
“With the added heat of a hundred candles.” She smiled as he wafted the fan in the perfect way, sending a cool breeze over her cheek and neck. “That feels so good.”
“Then I dare not stop. Maybe I should apply for the position of your fan-holder.”
What a lovely way to propose. “Perhaps you should.” The least she could do was to hear him out and be as gracious as she could.
“Lady Helena, you cannot be unaware that I admire you enormously.”
She turned to face him, pasting an expression of interest on her features. “I am aware of that, yes, but I’m not a coxcomb, my lord. I do not immediately assume that every man who speaks to me is interested in more.”
“It is one of the things a man most admires in you.” He continued to waft the fan, but lowered it and changed the angle somewhat. It meant he could gaze into her eyes without the sparkling edge of the fan interfering with their vision. “I have come to admire you more. My lady, this is not the place, but may I call on you in the morning for a private interview?”
His consideration charmed her. To reappear at a ball with a new fiancé at her side would be exceedingly gauche. To steal the attention of everyone present was not the behavior of someone well-versed in the way society conducted itself. Such a shame she would have to refuse him. “You will be wasting your time, my lord. I cannot say that you will achieve your aim.”
“Then I will hope to persuade you.” He moved closer, his lips parting.
Surely he did not mean to kiss her! If they were discovered thus, their engagement would be considered a reality. Perhaps he hoped for that. Helena prepared to move away. He could keep the fan and return it to her tomorrow.
“Am I intruding?” The dark, devilish voice breaking into her quandary held a note of sardonic amusement.
Helena snapped her head around to face her nemesis. “I fear you are, sir.” She had not seen Tom so close for…years. A few lines were graven deeper into his face, but he had that same air of dark detachment that had drawn her five years before. He kept to his dark clothes, adding to the demonic air he cultivated so well these days.
Tom leaned against the wall next to the door and folded his arms. “I would have my turn speaking to the lady in private.”
“I will not leave you,” Lord Everslade assured her.
“Leave, or I’ll throw you out,” Tom said. “I wish for a few private words with my…friend.”
The pause before the last word gave what he said connotations that made Helena even hotter than before. The threat was implicit. He would not call her “friend” next time.
Lord Everslade got to his feet and deliberately stood before her, blocking her view of him. “I think not, sir. I know the history of your family and hers.”
“Who does not?”
She could still see him, if she leaned ever so slightly to one side.
Tom cocked a brow. “However, I don’t mean any harm to the lady. I have a message for her, that is all.”
“If this were tomorrow, I would have the right to knock you across the room.”
Lord Everslade sounded thrillingly threatening. But Helena could not see trouble of that kind caused.
“And you wish me to be the talk of the ball now?” she said acidly. “I am perfectly safe with this man, my lord. For all his faults, he knows how to behave like a gentleman.”
Reluctantly, and rather cravenly, his lordship returned her fan to her and left.
Tom closed the door.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said.
“Maybe, but we need to talk.” He kicked away from the wall, probably leaving a scuff on the silk wallpaper. He glanced around. “They’ve changed the decorations in this room since we were last here. Pity, I preferred it as it was.” He strolled toward her but halted when she held up her hand. “You would not have done that once.”
“I trusted you once,” she said bitterly.
He sighed. “Yes, you did. I deserve that and every other calumny you choose to heap on my head.”
“Was it you?” she said abruptly. If she had no other chance of speaking to him, there were a few things about him that puzzled her.
“Was what me?” He regarded her closely, hungrily.
“Have you been helping Julius recently?” In his fight against the Stuarts, her brother had found some help from an unusual source. Nobody knew why—except, perhaps, Helena. Was it for her he’d done this?
“Ah.” His face cleared. “Perhaps. Your brother is probably aware of what small aid I can render him.”
“Why would you do that?”
“If you think back, I told you once.”
She never thought back. The memories hurt too much. “I daresay you did, but if you did so, I have forgotten. Besides, times have changed, have they not?” Since she had nobody to waft her fan for her, she did it herself. His lordship was right. The room was stiflingly hot, and the fire was not even lit.
“They have, in many ways.” Pushing back the skirts of his heavy gold-laced dark blue evening coat, Tom stuck his hands in his breeches’ pockets. “Not least of which is the revelation that King James was married to another woman before his official marriage that produced Princes Charles and Henry. That kind of secret?”
She had not been aware that he knew for sure. “You have proof?”
“My father does. But you are also aware that he wants to discover one of the children, especially a female, and marry her to either William or myself.”
That was news to her. “He does?”
“Your brother knows.” He shook his head. “I have no wish for it.”
“Not to mention that you are already married.” She had not meant her tone to be so acidic, but there it was. She felt that way, so why not articulate it?
His slumberous eyes opened wider. “That was a fraud.” His voice gained a harsh edge.
“No it was not. I went to the Fleet and obtained a copy of the certificate. I have it still.”
“So that’s why you haven’t married?” He laughed harshly and turned away, striding to the end of the room and back.
God help her, she still wanted him. She gazed over his legs and those broad shoulder
s, under which she had reason to know very little padding lay.
“We are not married, Helena. I told you in my note.”
“You lied.”
He shook his head and gazed up at the ceiling, as if to find the answer written there. “God, you’re a stubborn woman! I say we are not. I can prove it, too.” He paused and gazed at her.
She met his eyes steadily, but after a minute, she glanced away, tears choking her throat.
“Don’t cry.” His voice had softened.
“I have no intention of crying.” She swallowed. “You used me badly. I will not forgive you for that.”
“I had very good reasons.”
“Then tell me what they were.” Once the first numbness of her grief had passed, Helena had wondered why. The answer that he was the best actor in the world and set out to fool her did not ring true. When she could bear to do it, she thought back and recalled their times together. Not even Garrick was that good an actor.
Then when she heard rumors that he was helping her brothers and cousins discover the poor unfortunate but legitimate children of the Old Pretender, she had wondered even more. Was it for her, or for himself? Of course if his father wanted him to marry one of the children, that would explain much. The Emperors were hunting them down to keep them safe and prevent civil unrest. With the death of Prince Frederick, only the old King, who was getting frailer every day, and a young boy stood between the Stuarts and the throne. With the military option closed to them, they fell back on their first love—scheming. “Tell me!”
When she looked at him again, he appeared stricken. They stared at one another for a few seconds, or maybe it was minutes, before he said, “You deserve to know. You need to know if you are to move on. Come to the house tomorrow.”
“I’m fully engaged tomorrow.”
“Then the day after. At eleven in the morning.”
A sob came unbidden to her when she recalled that was their time before. Too early for most of society to be about, but not unusually early. Just right. Those precious weeks when she’d thought he loved her and they would work out their problems, when she thought he wanted to be with her as much as she wanted to be with him.
Wild Lavender Page 12