by Jen Turano
“Ah . . .”
“I told you he was shy,” Francis said even as he casually removed his arm from Madame Bellefonte’s grasp. “I think we’ll wait on the gambling though, my dear. Since the ladies are barred from that room, I believe we’ll repair to a secluded table and enjoy your lovely atmosphere while we have a drink. The night is far too young for me to disappointment Miss Hound, but perhaps later she’ll be more disposed to want to part with my company.”
“Very smoothly said, Mr. Brown.” Madame Bellefonte considered them with eyes that had, unfortunately, turned contemplative. “And you’re quite right about the evening being young. Why, it’s barely ten, and you’ll have hours left to gamble, if Miss Hound decides that’s permissible.” She smiled a very odd smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to business.” Releasing a laugh that had the hair standing up on the back of Agatha’s neck, Madame Bellefonte patted Francis’s cheek and glided away.
“That was close,” Jeffrey mumbled. “I was afraid there for a minute we’d have to abandon the ladies.”
“That would have never happened, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Francis said. “Something’s wrong. I have no idea what it is, but we’re going to leave as inconspicuously as possible, but as quickly as we can.”
“I’m not arguing,” Agatha said, taking Francis’s arm and strolling with him in the direction of the door, Drusilla and Jeffrey following only a few steps behind.
Unfortunately, when they reached the entranceway, the door was blocked by four burly men, all of whom were standing with their arms crossed over muscular chests, and none of them seemed willing to move out of the way.
“Leaving so soon?” one of them growled.
“I’m afraid Miss Hound had her heart set on gambling, but since we’ve just discovered she won’t be permitted to do that here, we’re going to move on to another establishment,” Francis said.
“We strongly encourage patrons to stay for a drink,” another man said, his eyes hard. “Madame Bellefonte expects certain funds to be spent once someone steps foot through her door.” He pointed behind them. “You’ll find the bar in the next room.”
Jeffrey stepped forward and handed the man a wad of bills. “I’m sure that should cover what we’d spend in the bar.”
The man smiled, pocketed the money and pointed again. “The bar’s that way.”
“And we’ll be simply delighted to find it,” Francis said, turning Agatha around even as Jeffrey’s brow wrinkled.
“He’s just going to keep my money.”
“He is,” Drusilla agreed, “which makes this situation all the more concerning.”
When they reached the room the man had indicated, Francis steered Agatha to an empty table. He helped her into a seat even as he looked around, slowly sitting down in the chair next to her although he didn’t stop scanning the room. She glanced down and discovered he’d taken out his pistol and placed it on his lap.
“Do you think we’re going to need that?”
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling when a buxom lady sauntered over and gushed over Francis and Jeffrey for a moment. Then, with their drink orders scribbled down on a pad of paper, she turned and sashayed away.
“Why do you think we’re not being allowed to leave?” Jeffrey asked, leaning forward across the table in order to be heard over the noise of the other patrons.
“That is the question of the hour, isn’t it?” Drusilla replied, her eyes constantly shifting from the left to the right as she surveyed the room without moving her head. “Do you think we’ve landed ourselves in a trap, Francis?”
Agatha frowned. “You think Dot set us up?”
“She’s not exactly reliable, Agatha, and someone might have learned she was asking questions about Mary and paid her handsomely to tell us that woman might be here.”
“Dot does have a sketchy past, but I don’t believe she’d set us up, not intentionally.”
“You might be right,” Francis agreed, “but we have a more pressing concern than wondering if Dot sold us out. We need to find a way out of here.”
Agatha bit her lip as she glanced around. “Is it my imagination, or are there more brawny men than necessary mingling around this room?”
The serving lady suddenly appeared again at their table, her tray heavy with drinks, which she set down as she smiled at Jeffrey and Francis, making certain to bend over all too frequently, thereby drawing attention to her low-cut gown and charms.
Francis, being the consummate professional, played along with the woman, extending her outrageous compliments, even though Agatha couldn’t help but notice his eyes never once lingered on her cleavage. After the drinks had been passed around, the lady straightened and smiled again, but then she froze as she looked across the room.
Swiveling her head ever so slightly, Agatha saw Madame Bellefonte standing across the room, surrounding by even more burly men. She was whispering something to them, and then . . . she turned her head, caught Agatha’s eye, and . . . smiled.
“We have to go,” Agatha said, finding her arm taken by Francis a mere second later, as Drusilla did the same to Jeffrey, who was looking incredibly alarmed.
“The back door?” Francis asked.
Noticing the line of men now blocking the way to the front door, Agatha nodded. “I don’t think we have any other choice.”
Francis tightened his hold on her as they began walking, but before they’d been able to move more than a few feet, their progress came to an end when Madame Bellefonte’s voice rang out. “Leaving so soon, are we Miss Hound?”
“I’m not feeling very well.”
Madame Bellefonte looked at her for a long moment and then snapped her fingers. “Seize them.”
Francis shoved Agatha behind him as he brought up his pistol right as someone fired at them. “Get her out of here,” he yelled to Drusilla before he fired off a shot of his own.
Drusilla was by her side in a flash, pistol in hand and expression hard. “Come on.”
“I need to get my pistol.”
“There’s no time.”
Pushing through the panicked patrons who were trying to get away, they made it to a hallway and headed down it. “Drusilla, we can’t just leave Francis and Jeffrey.”
“You’re the target, and yes, we can.” Drusilla suddenly stopped moving when the hallway began filling with men, all of them holding pistols pointed in Agatha’s direction.
Drusilla shoved Agatha behind her right before she fired off a shot, but it didn’t slow the mob racing toward them even though one of the men crumpled to the ground. “Run!” Drusilla yelled as another shot fired, and then . . . Drusilla was falling, the men were closing in on her, and . . . Agatha was suddenly hefted over a man’s shoulder. He turned, ignored the fists she was pounding against his back, and ran with her out of the brothel and into the night.
18
Tension radiated through Zayne as he sat staring at Helena, still unable to comprehend what the woman was doing back in New York or why she seemed to be under the impression he’d be willing to marry her.
After Matilda had charged through the ballroom, complete and utter insanity had taken over the Watson house. Guests began fleeing for the doors while Matilda had gone straight for Helena, forcing the lady to turn on her dainty heel and flee, her screams of terror mingling with the shouts of the guests. She’d sought refuge in the Watson library, after Matilda had taken a few bites at her stocking-clad leg, and she’d barricaded herself in that room, refusing to open the door even for him.
Servants had been forced to break in through a window, and when he’d finally gained entrance, he’d found Helena sitting on the floor, sobbing hysterically, although she’d been coherent enough to proclaim, numerous times, that she expected him to remember his pledge to her and that they needed to get married without delay. After wailing for a good five minutes, she’d suddenly slumped motionless to the floor and refused to open her eyes, even when he’d threatened to dump a glass of water
over her face.
Hamilton had come to his rescue and picked Helena straight up off the floor, causing one of her eyes to open. When she’d gotten a look at Hamilton’s furious face, she’d evidently decided fainting was a prudent option because she went limp in his arms and didn’t move another muscle, even when Hamilton carried her outside and practically tossed her into Zayne’s carriage. After seeing Helena settled, Zayne had hobbled back into the house and began to search for Agatha, but she’d disappeared.
Cora had found him standing in the empty ballroom. She’d shaken her head rather sadly, told him her daughter had needed some air, but then her eyes began to glint and she’d told him to “Go take care of that woman, and, dear, take care of her well,” before she’d turned and marched out of the ballroom, leaving Zayne alone again. In no particular hurry to see Helena, he’d looked for any and every excuse not to leave the Watson home, but eventually he accepted he had no choice but to deal with Helena.
So here he was, back at his house, with Helena stretched out on the settee, more irritated than he’d ever been in his life, yet worried as well since he hadn’t spoken a word to Agatha after Helena’s surprising and untimely interruption.
She had to be furious with him. Once again, she had to believe he’d chosen Helena over her, although that wasn’t the case at all. He had no intention of giving in to Helena’s demands, didn’t feel the slightest compulsion to even humor her, and couldn’t, quite frankly, believe the woman had the audacity to show up in New York after she’d left him for another man.
“Zayne, be a dear and fetch me another cool cloth,” Helena purred.
Zayne looked at his leg propped up on the table, looked at Helena who was sitting right next to a pitcher of water and a stack of cloths, and crossed his arms over his chest. “The pitcher is right next to you, Helena. Get it yourself.”
“Why are you being so hateful?”
He could think of numerous answers to that particular question.
She’d left him without a second thought when he’d needed her most, left him for another gentleman.
He’d been in the middle of proposing to the woman he now knew he loved more than life itself, when she’d burst into the room and ruined everything.
She’d kicked poor Matilda, although to be fair, the little pig had been trying to gnaw on her leg, but still, Matilda was just a small creature. It wasn’t as if she could have done any major damage to the leg.
“What are you doing here, Helena?” he settled on asking.
Helena released an overly dramatic sigh. “I’m feeling faint.”
Since he’d gotten remarkably adept at faking that particular symptom, he let out a snort. “Your face is blooming with color, my dear, which means you’re not feeling faint in the least. So again, what you are doing here?”
She plopped the back of her hand over her forehead. “I came to my senses and realized you’re the man I truly long to marry. Isn’t that wonderful news, darling?”
“Not particularly.”
The hand fell from her forehead as Helena abruptly sat up. “You promised you’d marry me.”
Zayne narrowed his eyes. “Have you gotten yourself into some type of . . . trouble?”
Helena’s mouth dropped open. “Of course not . . . Well, perhaps,” she admitted as she smiled a little too slyly.
She’d never been a lady who’d mastered the whole poker-face business. Annoyance caused him to drum his fingers against the arm of the chair. “What type of trouble are you in, Helena?”
“Oh, let’s not get into that just yet, darling, but about that cool cloth?”
“The water pitcher is right beside you, Helena,” Gloria snapped as she stormed into the room. “I finally caught Matilda with Piper, Lily, and Grace’s help, but it wasn’t an easy feat by any stretch of the imagination. The poor dear was completely beside herself, especially after the horrendous treatment she suffered at your foot, Helena.”
Helena sent Gloria a glare. “That beast was attacking me. And I cannot believe you have the audacity to chide a lady who has just suffered the indignity of watching the man she’s supposed to marry almost propose to another lady and then get set upon by a mad pig.”
“Helena just claimed she might have gotten herself into a little trouble,” Zayne said, drawing Gloria’s attention.
Gloria advanced farther into the room. “Am I to assume this trouble might just demand you find yourself a husband before you start getting a little . . . round?”
Helene’s face turned pink. “Ah, well . . .”
“I realize you’re probably not the type of lady who has a mind for math, but you haven’t seen Zayne for over a year. If—and I stress the if part—you are in trouble, Zayne had nothing to do with your condition.”
“He’ll still marry me though.”
The annoyance he’d been feeling turned to anger. It boiled through his veins and caused his skin to heat.
The woman smiling so very smugly in front of him might have just cost him everything—not that she would care about that. She was manipulative, selfish, and downright mean, and he’d had quite enough of her.
They’d been friends for years, since childhood, but friends didn’t abandon a man when he was at his lowest. They also didn’t put their needs, and their wants, and their problems, before everyone else’s, specifically those of the gentleman they intended to marry.
Helena wasn’t his friend, certainly wasn’t the love of his life, and never had been—that was very clear.
Agatha made him laugh, wanted what was best for him, and had never, not once, demanded a cool cloth be fetched for her.
Hadn’t Helena noticed his leg was encased in plaster?
She certainly hadn’t inquired about his health.
“You claim you’ve gotten yourself in trouble, dear, and if that is the case, I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove it,” Gloria said, pulling him rather abruptly back to the situation at hand.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When are you expecting?”
“Ah, January?”
“Then that would make you about seven months along, but you don’t look to be seven months along. In fact, you’re looking remarkably svelte.”
“I’m not svelte at all,” Helena protested, although she unconsciously smoothed down her gown as she protested, drawing attention to the fact she was, indeed, rather svelte.
His temper edged up a notch. Leaning forward in his chair, he smiled. “Let me see.”
“What?”
“You’re apparently attempting to pass yourself off as an expectant mother, so I need to see proof of that.”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you. You once promised me you’d marry me, and I’m here to hold you to that promise whether I’m in trouble or not.”
“So you’re not in trouble?”
Blowing out a breath, Helena rolled her eyes. “Well, fine then, I’m not in that type of trouble. Can’t you just believe that I’ve come back because I still love you?”
“You never loved me, Helena.”
“That’s not true, I’m sure I must have at some point.”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard his mother let out a grunt.
Helena seemingly heard it as well, because she swung her attention to Gloria and sent her another glare. “I don’t think you need to be here. This is between me and Zayne. Besides, you never liked me.”
“God forgive me, but you’ve got the right of that.” Gloria began advancing toward Helena again, her eyes blazing. “You took advantage of the fact Zayne is a true gentleman. You used his sense of honor against him, and I never said much, believing he’d come to his senses, but then . . . you left him when he was at his weakest. Even though God expects me to forgive you, I’ll never like you, ever, and hear me well, dear, you’ll never hurt my son again.”
Zayne felt the oddest urge to jump to his feet and applaud his mother, but the cast on his leg prevented any jumping. Also, since Helena w
as now bristling with indignation, he didn’t think it would really help the situation currently taking place in front of him.
“I didn’t come here to hurt your son. I came to allow him the pleasure of my hand in marriage.”
Zayne cleared his throat. “I don’t believe either of us would find any pleasure being married to each other, Helena. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re really here?”
Helena looked as if she wasn’t going to reply, but she then took a deep, dramatic breath, slowly released it, drew in another, released that one more slowly than the first, and finally opened her mouth. “I need you to marry me before my parents get back to town and force me to marry Gilbert.”
Of anything he’d been expecting her to say, that hadn’t even crossed his mind. He simply sat there, stunned, unable to find his voice. Luckily for him, his mother didn’t seem to have a shortage for words.
“I always knew there was something horribly wrong with you, dear, but may I presume this Gilbert is the gentleman you took up with after you abandoned my son?”
“Honestly, Mrs. Beckett, I take offense at the term abandoned,” Helena said with a sniff. “You, of all people, considering you’ve known me forever, should know that I certainly couldn’t have nursed your son back to health, especially since it appeared to me he was never going to fully recover.” She shook her head. “I am a lady of tender sensibilities, and those sensibilities do not allow me to cater to the needs of others. I am too delicate, too refined, so I had no choice but to part ways with your son, even though it pained me to no small end.” She turned to him and smiled. “You understood though, didn’t you, darling?”
Zayne blinked and realized that he understood only too well.
A great weight lifted from his shoulders, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for allowing him to see that Helena had never been meant for him.
She was too shallow, too self-consumed, and she would have never made him happy, nor would he have been able to make her happy, no matter how many cool cloths he fetched for her.
He shifted in his seat, surprised to feel a smile tug the corners of his lips. “What did Gilbert do to you to make you run away?”