by Amy Lake
“Indeed.”
Helène was not yet accustomed to having such a powerful man claim kinship with her. Yesterday, after she had finally accepted Lord Sinclair’s assurances that Charles had certainly known nothing of her family connections prior to that very moment, the duke had stepped forward to insist that Lord Quentin ask his permission before paying his addresses to Helène.
“I find I do not like this talk of mistresses,” said Lord Torrance. “You, sir. Are you worthy of my cousin?”
“Your grace, I am quite sure–” Lady Pamela, alarmed, had begun to expostulate when Lady Detweiler burst into laughter.
“Hoisted on his own petard!” Amanda had cried. “Oh, Charles, I do so love irony.”
* * * *
The day past had provided a surprise from the marquess, as well. After Jonathan had escorted Celia to her rooms, he had returned to face a number of questions from his sister. Yes, the marquess had explained, he had known Helène was the granddaughter of the old Duke of Grentham from the beginning. Did Pamela think he would hire just anyone as governess for his children? And yes, he had written Lord Torrance, asking him to visit Luton upon his return to England.
“But how did you know Miss Phillips even existed?” asked Lady Pam.
The marquess turned toward Helène, and the governess wondered how she could ever have mistaken the gentleness in his eyes for indifference.
“I knew your aunt,” said Jonathan softly. “Matilde. When I was a younger man. She refused me, you understand. Your father was so bitter against all ton society by that time that he would never have allowed you to live with us. And Matilde would not leave you.”
Tears rose in Helène’s eyes. She knew that her poor father, angry at the death of his wife, had been determined to provide for her on his own. And he had done so, well enough, until near the end. But her aunt, giving up her own chance of marriage–
“But I made her a promise,” said the marquess, “that if Mr. Phillips died with you still unmarried, I would bring you to Luton Court. As it happened, when your father knew he was dying, he contacted me himself.”
* * * *
Peter was squirming; Helène lowered both children to the floor and sent them off to the kitchen with a promise of cocoa. She turned to the duke and Lady Pamela.
“Oh!” she said suddenly. “Oh, your grace! I have something for you.”
Lord Torrance looked at Helène curiously. “You have something for me?”
“Indeed. From my grandmother, you see–your aunt. I never knew her, of course, but before she died–”
Lady Pamela, who had forgotten about the sapphire ring in all of yesterday’s excitement, at once realized what Miss Phillips was talking about. Pulling the ring from her finger, Pam handed it wordlessly to Helène.
“Here it is!” Helène offered it to Lord Torrance. “This ring,” she said, “belongs to the Duchess of Grentham.”
He took it from her hand and then glanced at Lady Pamela.
She blushed. “Yes, I was wearing it. How did you know?”
“Know what it looked like?”
Pam nodded.
“I’ve seen portraits of several of the duchesses. They were all wearing that ring.” He smiled at Lady Pamela. “It does look very nice on you.”
Lady Pamela’s blush deepened, and she turned to Helène. “I spoke with the marchioness late last night,” she told the governess. “I believe she is truly sorry for the trouble she has caused.”
“That will have to do, I suppose,” said Helène.
“Someday she may even tell you so herself. But at the moment, Celia has focused her efforts on mending fences with her husband.”
“I dare say.”
“And I believe that Jonathan has fences to mend himself.”
Helène’s face showed her surprise.
“I think you will find that the typical male can fix his attention on only one subject at a time.” Lady Pamela shot a quick smile at the duke. “And for my brother,” she added, “it has been the estate.”
“Ah... ”
“But Charles has convinced him that the steward should take on most of those duties. Jonathan will have the chance he needs to convince Celia that she is cared for and loved. Now, as for Beatrice Harkins–”
Helène grimaced.
“My brother has had a talk with her as well, and I think you can be assured there will be no gossip. Lady Harkins very much wishes to continue a welcome guest at Luton Court–”
“Indeed,” said Helène.
“And,” added Lady Pamela, favoring Lord Torrance with another wry smile, “she has high hopes of forming a favorable connection with the illustrious Duke of Grentham, as well.”
* * * *
Lord Quentin now entered the petit salon. He crossed immediately to Helène’s side and took her hands in his. She rose to face him.
“I vow to you that I shall spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of a carriagemaker’s daughter,” he told her, his eyes twinkling.
“I should hope so,” said Lady Pamela. Lord Torrance looked on without comment, his lips twitching.
“And I,” said Helène, “proving myself worthy to be a Tavelstoke wife.”
Lord Quentin bent to kiss his bride-to-be, but for a moment she held him at bay.
“In truth, my lord,” said Helène, “I find all this talk of ancestors to be quite beside the point. Does not true nobility lie in the soul?”
“Indeed.”
“Then let us strive only to be worthy of each other,” said Miss Phillips, “and of our love.”
Copyright © 2002 by Amy Lake
Originally published by Five Star
Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.