by Joan Smith
Severn felt culpable when the matter was put into these blunt terms, but if Helena knew his papa, she would realize “a little scolding” did not begin to describe his rages. Of course, Severn was not about to admit to his behavior. “I am sorry if you have found my efforts to entertain you unsatisfactory, Cousin. In the face of your total disinterest, I can hardly see that it matters.”
She did not stamp her foot, but she looked as if she would like to. “What matters is your cowardice. I told my father I would marry where I wished, and I do not wish to marry you, so your paltry schemes were unnecessary.”
“Then you have no reason to complain at my lack of ardor, if that is what has caused this outburst.”
“I do not want your ardor!” she exclaimed haughtily. “What would an Englishman know of ardor? You ingléses have ice water in your veins. What I am complaining of is your duplicity.”
“Where is the necessity for duplicity when you have told me you would refuse an offer?”
“Yes, but you had no way of knowing that, had you? I have always behaved with warm friendship toward you.”
“Why was that, I wonder, as you did not wish to marry me?”
A flush rose up her neck. “We are cousins. I hoped we might be friends,” she said.
“You hoped I would offer for you,” he said firmly.
Her eyes grew large in outrage. Her nostrils pinched, and her breath came in gasps. Severn couldn’t make heads or tails of the spate of Spanish that flew from her lips, but he understood the anger in her words. He also appreciated the beauty of her flashing eyes. The girl was part wildcat.
“Hope for an offer!” she said, switching to English. “I hoped for no more than to keep you biddable, but that is not necessary after all. It is your mama who is my chaperon.”
“And you have done a sterling job of ingratiating her!”
“How dare you imply I am insincere!”
“Emptying the butter boat on us to insure our good humor does not qualify as sincerity in my books.”
“But I love Madrina! I was never insincere with her.”
“Only with me,” he said, with a quizzing look. “We have a saying in English, having to do with the pot calling the kettle black. We are neither of us snow-white in this affair, Cousin. Now that the ground is cleared, there is no need for simulation between us either, is there? You do not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry you. Perhaps we can now become true friends.”
Helena considered this a moment, then said, “Si,” in a grudging way. When he moved to refill her glass, she withdrew it. “I shall retire now. Good night, Severn.”
“My name is still Eduardo.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Friends?”
“Si,” she said reluctantly, and left.
Her hot Spanish soul would have relished a more passionate argument. The ingléses understood neither love nor hatred. Not that she hated Eduardo, precisely. She only hated his resorting to reason in the heat of argument. He should have been either straining at the leash to strike her—she would have enjoyed egging him on, knowing he was helpless to retaliate—or he should have swept her into his arms for a passionate embrace. That would also have been a satisfactory conclusion to their argument. But only if they were in love, of course. Which they were not.
At least they were now friends. A female friend of her own age would have been more satisfactory.
Marion would never be her friend. Marion hovered over her life like a shadow that cast an air of gloom. Helena had the strange sensation of being constantly observed, as if she were a criminal suspect. Ah, well, tomorrow morning she would escape the Argus-eyed Marion and meet a few people from Spain. That would be amusing, and hopefully she would find Moira.
Chapter Ten
Helena waited until Severn had left in the morning before telling Lady Hadley her plans. “You have no objection to my going with Mr. Malvern to El Cafeto, Madrina?”
“Doesn’t it sound exotic! El Cafeto. What is an El Cafeto, my dear? It is not something shady, I hope?”
“It can be shady,” Helena replied mischievously. “The words mean ‘the coffee tree,’ but in this case, it is the name of a coffee shop.”
“Ah, tree, shade—I catch your little pun. Good gracious, there can be no harm in that. The gentlemen used to keep the coffee shops for themselves, but everyone goes now.”
“I shouldn’t be longer than an hour.”
“I shall write to Hadley this morning. He suspects I am enjoying myself if I don’t keep him informed.”
“Ah, we would not want him to suspect the worst.” Helena smiled.
Lady Hadley, determined to do her duty as a chaperon, was in her saloon to meet Mr. Malvern before turning Helena over to him. She found no fault in either his manners or appearance.
“I shall take good care of your charge, ma’am,” he assured her before leaving.
“Enjoy yourself at El Cafeto,” the dame said. “I may have a little siesta after I write my letter, Cousina.”
“Buenos días,” Malvern said, and made his exiting bow.
As they reached the door, a knock sounded on it. “Who can that be?” Helena asked.
Sugden opened the door to admit Mrs. Comstock and Marion. They did not say, “Aha!” but they looked it.
“Going out so early, Lady Helena?” Mrs. Comstock inquired, her eyes running up and down poor Mr. Malvern as though he were a wild beast at Exeter Exchange.
“As you see, ma’am, I am just leaving. I hope you will still be here when I return. I shan’t be long.” Her hope was to get out without introducing Mr. Malvern.
“You have not introduced us to your beau,” Marion said.
“Mr. Malvern is not my beau,” Helena said coolly, “but by all means let me introduce you.” She made the introduction.
Malvern behaved himself like a gentleman and said he was charmed to make their acquaintance. Ever on the alert for an heiress, he gave Marion a special smile and said he was sure he had seen her before. One did not soon forget such beauty.
When Marion, unaccustomed to such flattery, made a simpering smile, her mama prodded her in the back with her fist and said, “Marion will go with you, Helena. That is why we called, so that you would have an escort for your drive.”
“I already have an escort, thank you all the same. Lady Hadley will be so happy you are here.”
“Go with them, Marion,” the dame said, and that was that.
Malvern, who was accustomed to tight corners, kept up a lively flow of nonsense while Helena steered her tilbury through the morning traffic on Piccadilly. He directed her to Haymarket, then to Orange Street, where the El Cafeto flourished, or at least survived, in England’s cooler clime.
Malvern was an excellent cohort. When Marion asked where they were going, he said, “Your cousin became homesick to hear a Spanish voice, so I told her of a certain spot. She feared she would never find it, and she accepted my escort. I hope you enjoy it, too, Miss Comstock. It is something a little out of the ordinary. That is what is so fascinating about London, is it not? One can find anything, if one looks hard enough.” He allowed his wicked eyes to flicker over her sluglike face and added, “Even the perfect lady,”
Marion was by no means sure she wanted to find such a place as the El Cafeto. It was small, dark, noisy, and crowded with people, mostly men, in strange clothes.
Malvern found them a table. “Perhaps you had best speak to the waiter, Lady Helena,” he said. “I would say my Spanish is rusty, except that I don’t have any to have rusted. You will know what to ask for.” His glance suggested more than food.
She ordered coffee and cakes, and as the language ensured privacy, she also inquired for Señora Petrel-Jones, an inglésa.
“Ah, si.” The waiter knew of the señora. She came frequently but was not here this morning. Was there a message?
Helena preferred to deliver her papa’s letter herself, but she scribbled off a note while Malvern entertained Marion.
“What was that you were writing, Helena?” Marion asked as soon as the waiter left.
“I have ordered some coffee to take home with me,” she lied. “The waiter gave directions how to make it.”
“I see,” Marion said. She had not heard the name Moira, but she meant to see if that letter had left the reticule.
The waiter had apparently spread word that Lady Helena was among them, for several dark-visaged men stopped at the table and shouted in unnecessarily loud voices. There was a deal of laughing, and even some tears—from men! Marion looked to Malvern for condemnation. He shrugged his handsome shoulders.
“The Spanish are so emotional,” he said.
One man, very handsome except that he wore a gaudy green jacket and a Belcher kerchief in lieu of a proper cravat, was particularly persistent. When he left, Helena said, “Juan is from Andalusia, my home district. They are famous for their guitar music there. He is going to play us a song.”
Juan stood on a table and strummed his instrument. His voice was deep and rich, and his black eyes gleamed like oil as he sang straight to Helena. Marion, could not understand the words, but she knew what amor meant, at least. She also could see that Helena was having difficulty controlling her feelings. She did not cry, but her eyes were glazed with unshed tears.
Marion felt a curious softness grow inside herself, too, as the plangent music hung on the still air. It excited a strange longing inside her. The shadowy room, the dark faces and liquid eyes, and especially the strumming guitar throbbed with passion. No wonder Helena was so different, growing up amidst this turbulence. How cold and stark England must seem to her.
When the song was finished, the room shook with applause. Helena rose and went to speak with Juan. Marion watched closely as she opened her reticule. The letter did not come out, however. What she was doing was giving Juan money. Really!
“Surely it was not up to you, a lady, to give him a pourboire,” Marion said when Helena returned.
“It was not a pourboire, but a gift. Juan hopes to bring his family from Spain. He is having difficulty finding work.”
“What does he do?” Malvern asked idly.
“He is a musician. He plays beautifully, does he not? And he composes his own music. I shall ask Lady Hadley if he might play a few numbers at my ball. One never knows. It might catch on and bring him more customers to raise the necessary funds.”
Helena seemed strangely eager to leave as soon as the music was over. She remembered to ask the waiter (in Spanish) if she might buy a bag of coffee, to allay Marion’s suspicions. He filled her request with no difficulty.
When they rose to leave, Helena managed to whisper aside to Malvern, “I must speak to you a moment alone.”
From El Cafeto they drove directly home, with no chance for privacy. Marion was strangely lethargic, even for her, but she was not entirely comatose. Helena feared she would rouse herself if she suspected anything. They reached Belgrave Square without the desired privacy having been achieved.
Desperate, Lady Helena said, “Won’t you come inside for a moment, Mr. Malvern?”
He agreed, but doubtfully. When they were inside, Helena set aside her bonnet and said, “Will you tell Lady Hadley we are home, Marion? I want to speak with Malvern about hiring Juan for my party. Perhaps Juan does not do that sort of thing.”
Malvern donned his most charming smile and turned to Marion. “It has been a great pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Comstock. I hope it will not be long before we meet again.”
“I look forward to it, Mr. Malvern,” she said, with a rare smile of genuine pleasure.
As soon as she was gone, he said to Helena, “What is it?”
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked.
“I have cards to half a dozen routs.”
“To Lady Mobrey’s ball?”
“Alas, I do not fly so high.”
“Which routs?” she asked, and he named a few.
“Mrs. Stephen’s, you say. We have cards for it. I shall manage to get to Mrs. Stephen’s do around eleven, I want you to take me somewhere. Just a flying visit, and we shall return to the rout. Will you do it, Mr. Malvern?”
“Am I likely to end up at the Court of Twelve Paces with Lord Severn? You may think these hole-and-corner affairs are nothing to a man like me. You are quite mistaken. Gentlemen in my tenuous position are as closely watched as a deb. You are charming, milady, but you are not likely to marry me, and I cannot have you blackening my fair name.”
“Juan told me Mrs. Petrel-Jones has purchased a ticket for a masquerade ball in aid of the Spanish émigrés. I want to attend and give her my father’s letter.”
“I’ll deliver it for you,” he said at once.
She hesitated. Malvern was kind and helpful, but he did not share her sense of urgency. “I would prefer to go myself.”
“Surely Severn would take you. There can be nothing amiss in your wanting to attend such a do.”
“Oh, but I do not want Severn along, asking questions. And besides, it is not the sort of thing he would approve of. It will be a rowdy affair, I fear. It is a public ball with sold tickets. I bought two dozen, as I feared Juan would not accept charity. You know the sort of hurly-burly affair it will be.”
“Very well, I’ll take you, but if trouble arises, you must do the gentlemanly thing and protect me. We shall require dominoes and masks. I’ll take care of that.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “How can I thank you?”
“I’ll think of something.” He bowed and took his leave.
Lady Helena joined the ladies, expecting questions on her unusual outing. As it turned out, Marion had already given a satisfactory account. The only questions had to do with hiring Juan for her ball, and with the coffee she had purchased.
Mrs. Comstock said, “It sounds an odd sort of morning, but there is no harm in broadening one’s horizons, after all. Do not hesitate to include Marion in such outings another time, Helena. She will be happy to accompany you. Malvern is some kin to the Beauforts, you say, Marion?”
“On his mama’s side,” Marion said.
It seemed that Malvern, without a feather to fly with and no real claim to distinction, had passed inspection. He had had the insight to recognize a lady of rare beauty and accomplishments in Marion, and so he was allowed to be eligible.
The Comstocks soon took their leave. Severn did not return directly home that day. Curious as to Helena’s outing, he stopped at South Audley Street to ask Marion for an account.
“You worried for nothing, Edward,” Marion said. “Malvern took us to a Spanish cafe for Helena to meet some Spaniards.”
“Travel is broadening,” Mrs. Comstock informed him, for it was not to be supposed Marion met Severn without a chaperon. “They heard Spanish music, accompanied by guitar. Marion says it was quite moving. Lady Helena speaks of hiring Juan somebody to play for her ball.”
“She will make a laughingstock of herself, and you tell me it is nothing to worry about!” Severn exclaimed.
“I met Mr. Malvern,” Mrs. Comstock announced. “He is well mannered. Marion says he behaved very properly.”
“Of course he behaved properly, to lure the ladies into thinking him fit for decent society. His pockets are to let. He is sniffing around only in hopes of claiming Helena’s fortune.”
“Actually, he was very attentive to Marion,” Mrs. Comstock said with a sage nod. She hoped to convey the notion that Severn had best look sharp if he hoped to win the prize.
“That must give you cause for concern. Marion’s ten thousand would be a boon to the likes of Malvern.”
“I don’t say Marion will be allowed to go out with him, but he is seen everywhere. There can be no harm in standing up with him at a ball or rout.”
“I would not advise you to permit anything of the sort,” he said, and rose in a huff to take his leave.
“Severn is developing green eyes, I think,” the mother said sagely. “Malvern can be put to good use. If he is a
t Lady Mobrey’s ball tonight, you may give him a dance, Marion.”
“I asked him if he would be there. He is attending Mrs. Stephen’s rout. We have cards for it as well.”
“We are promised to the ball, but we shall make Severn stop in at the rout for a moment. We cannot hurt dear Mrs. Stephen’s feelings by not showing up. Lady Hadley will not be going with us this evening. She has some cronies coming in for cards, so I am chaperoning you girls. I fancy Severn will want to stand up with you twice this evening, Marion. I shall not allow it, of course, until he has come up to scratch.”
Marion listened to this complacently. She wondered if Mr. Malvern would want two dances.
Chapter Eleven
Lord Severn’s annoyance had risen to a fevered pitch by the time he reached Belgrave Square. He had warned Helena away from Malvern, and what did she do? Invite the scoundrel to his house. She had gone with him to a foreign den to hire a guitar strummer to play at her ball. Was this the way to treat a friend? It was time he let her know who ran this household.
“Send Lady Helena to my study at once,” he growled at Sugden as he handed him his curled beaver and York tan gloves.
“Yes, your lordship.”
The message was relayed down the hierarchy of servants. By the time Sally delivered it to her mistress’s ears, it had reached alarming proportions.
“His lordship’s sore as a gumboil, milady, and demands you go to his study this instant, if you know what’s good for you.”
Lady Helena’s gore rose at this command. She lifted a nail file and began nonchalantly filing her nails.
“He said right away,” Sally reminded her.
“I heard you, Sally. Would you mind brushing my hair?”
“He’s waiting, now!”
“Let him wait,” Helena said, and handed Sally the brush.
After her hair had been brushed to a high gloss, she took up a bottle of perfume and dabbed it behind her ears. She went to the clothespress and selected a fringed shawl, which she arranged with elaborate concern over her shoulders.