The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  James ignored this and smiled instead, remembering the girl who had danced upon the stairs. “I think you do. Perhaps you can prove that to me by playing for me after dinner, as you suggested before.”

  Helena glanced sharply over to him, the corner of her mouth lifting in the beginnings of a smile. “I would enjoy such an honor,” she said, then straightened, proving that indeed she had every bit of courage he’d accused her of. “Yes, I shall play for you tonight. I have crafted—”

  “Oh, Helena, surely you will be too tired for such a strenuous evening,” Miss Barlowe put in from his other side, leaning rather impolitely into their conversation, proving that she had been listening after all. She shot a smile in James’s direction. “I do so worry about her, Your Grace. She is not used to so much excitement. The exertion might prove deleterious to her health.”

  There was something about Miss Barlowe’s comment that put his back up, though he could not say just what. “I should think that one musical piece would not be too taxing. It would be a shame to cut the evening short.”

  He glanced over at Helena, half expecting to see some grateful look for salvaging her evening, but she was staring at her plate without eating, one hand to her cheek again in a look that he was coming to know was defensive, as a way to hide.

  She looked for all the world that she was about to cry.

  “I think I had best perhaps call it a night. Aunt Phoebe sometimes knows me better than I know myself. If you will excuse me, Your Grace.” With that, Lady Barrington rose, and after making the proper excuses to the guests who seemed unsurprised by this turn of events, she left the room.

  Miss Barlowe sniffed. “I daresay it would have been better for her not to come down, but she has always been a headstrong child,” she said, and then with uncommon courtesy, leaned in to murmur, “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I would like to check that my niece is all right. I shall return posthaste.”

  “Please do. Since Helena is unwell, I would very much like to steal our young Duke for a business discussion if he’s of a mind to attend. I will need you to act as companion to Mrs. Prescott while I steal her husband away for an hour. I think Mr. Prescott might be better able to answer some of the questions he might have regarding a certain set of papers I gave young Campbell here recently.” The Duke of York turned to address James directly on these last comments.

  Not sure what had just happened, James agreed quickly to the change in plans, noting that Lady Barrington’s plate and place setting had already been removed, quite as if she had never been at the table at all.

  It was a somewhat unsettling realization.

  He stood with the others, as good manners dictated when Miss Barlowe got up to leave, but he noted as well that no one seemed to have anything further to say to her. Miss Barlowe, he suspected, was one of those individuals caught between two worlds. The poor relation who acted as servant and member of the household both. It seemed she fit rather uneasily in both positions.

  As far as companions went for the lovely Lady Barrington though, Miss Barlowe seemed rather dour, though she fought hard to fight it under the gracious manners that the ton dictated. He wondered who he ought to pity more — Miss Barlowe for her position within the family, or Lady Barrington who seemed to have no true companion other than her spinster aunt.

  It was no wonder she had bargained so hard for a mock courtship.

  Chapter 13

  Helena had never been so humiliated in her life.

  I should have recognized my own limitations. I know that fatigue will make the rash worse, and I stayed anyway, knowing full well that the redness upon my cheeks would grow more unbecoming the longer I stayed.

  An examination in the mirror showed this to be true. Her cheeks were unduly red, the blemishes standing out in stark relief down the column of her neck. She tore the fichu away to study the collarbone and tugged at the dress until her shoulder was exposed.

  Everywhere! It was simply everywhere! If Aunt Phoebe had not signaled her with a touch to her own cheek and then given her a perfect excuse for leaving the table, she would have made an absolute fool of herself.

  She tore at the gloves, feeling the bumps along finger and palm raised into a frenzy that demanded satisfaction that could only come of scratching. Why? Why did this have to happen here…now? When she had met him, finally met not only a titled young man, but one who challenged her and made her laugh?

  Helena had no willpower for this. She scrabbled among the bottles and vials upon the top of her dressing table, looking for something, anything that would bring relief. But what did any of them do other than make her skin in turns oily or scaly, and in some cases, she was sure, even adding to the redness and irritation?

  Every physician, every last one of them had proven useless. With a wild sob, she swept her arm over the surface of the table, sending medicines and unguents tumbling to the floor, falling harmlessly upon the thick rug, though more than one stopper flew from a bottle, raising sick medicinal scents tinted with rose, or sometimes the faintest hint of strawberry. Scents she loved and used to try and hide the other.

  Oh God, if thou ever were to help such as me, I beg you to do it now, lest I lose him…

  But prayers were imperfect things. Even worship had too long been denied her. She went few places, contenting herself with pious devotion as was proper in a small chapel downstairs, though truth be told, she had given up on the idea of a benevolent God with a mind to healing infirmity such as her own.

  Though ’tis most unfair. He healed worse in the Bible.

  No, there was no spiritual solution to her problem. And doctors had little to offer. If she could cut the offending flesh from her body, she would, praying that it would grow back different somehow, as something not afflicted.

  In fact, so driven mad was she at this moment, that she dropped on her knees on the floor, finding among the fallen items, a bottle that had broken, a shard of glass. It felt slippery in her hand, the remnants of whatever it held still clinging stubbornly to the decanter. The scent of roses assailed her nostrils, always roses that plagued her. Roses to bring a dream to reality. Another to take it away.

  She opened her other hand, staring at the growing rash, fancying that she could see it creeping across the flesh and up to the fingers. It trailed in a long line down her wrist, there, where it itched so, she placed the glass, scraping it carefully against the skin in an ecstasy of delight as the horrible insane urge to scratch began to ease.

  “My lady!”

  The shout startled her, the glass no longer acting as scraper but as something more brutal, slipping, biting into her skin. For a moment she stared at the blood welling just beneath her fingers. What had she done?

  A scream, a wild cry from the door, and the hurrying of feet caused her to look up. The maid…Tess…eyes wild, mouth open in a loud keening cry as she threw herself upon her Lady, propriety be damned. She could be punished for this, and still, she came, fighting Helena’s fingers for the ownership of the glass, clasping at Helena’s bloody wrist. Screaming and screaming and screaming, though Helena tried to tell her it had all been a mistake.

  Helena dropped the glass and tried to push the girl away. She needed to see the damage for herself. The blood welled up underneath the maid’s fingers, and for a moment Helena felt faint.

  “What have you done, child?” Aunt Phoebe stood in the doorway, stern and disapproving, lips pursed and face pale as she reached behind her, shutting the door so quietly that she might have been coming in to say goodnight. In moments she was across the room, dragging the servant girl away from her niece, a sharp slap bringing the child to her senses.

  Tess reeled back, silenced, a bloodied hand against her cheek where a bright handprint rose up in sharp relief.

  “It was an accident. The glass broke…” Helena started, noticing for the first time just how much blood she was losing; the glass had gone in deep.

  “She lies,” Tess said fiercely, savagely. “She had it against
her wrist when I came in. I called to her and she cut. My Da…he did the same. He died.” The girl’s face was set pale but defiant.

  “Hush. Have a care what you say! As though a fine lady would do as a laborer did.”

  Tess’s chin came up. “He was no laborer, Miss, he was a lord, though not an important one, especially once his business failed.”

  Aunt Phoebe started at that, shooting the girl a look that clearly said there would be further discussion later. “I said to BE STILL!”

  Helena watched this as if from far away. She supposed that one watched plays in such a manner, distant and removed from the story, but still feeling a vague part of it by being invited into the theatre at all. She wadded the cloth from her skirt against the wound, feeling cold now despite the fire roaring in the hearth. When her Aunt knelt next to her, she had no words to explain.

  Thankfully Phoebe seemed to need none. “Be useful, girl, and run fetch Bridget from the kitchen. She’ll know what to do. And for heaven’s sake say nothing to anyone else in the house. If any ask why you screamed say you thought you saw a mouse or some such. Can you do that much?”

  Tess nodded and fled, the door banging shut behind her hard enough for Phoebe to wince from the noise. Alone together, Phoebe drew the cloth away from the wound, with a violent intake of breath. “You have truly done it this time. Are you so desperate to ruin your father’s good name? Oh, do not answer. The dress is already a ruin, there, hold that against it.”

  “Aunt Phoebe…?” Helena felt strange, frightened now, itching forgotten. “Is it true that a cut there would cause a man to die? What Tess said…?”

  Phoebe gave her a hard shake. “You will not say such things again, do you hear me? It was an accident, as you said. And you will not die from such a trifle. The girl is mad to say such things!”

  Helena stared at Phoebe, seeing the pallor to her cheeks, a bright spot on each, her ire was so high. She’d terrified her aunt, she could see that she had. “But I was…it was an accident…I only meant to scratch…”

  “Which is exactly what we will tell your father. Oh, stop crying. You shall be fine, it is hardly more than a scrape. Look, it’s nearly done bleeding.” Phoebe lifted the cloth and examined the cut critically. “To have this happen when we have such company as all that. Though why your father called you to dinner tonight is beyond me. I suppose ’tis because of the Prescotts’ insistence; they always rather liked you.”

  Phoebe was speaking so quickly it was almost hard to understand her. But then her aunt always spoke fast when she was frightened or worried. Helena bit her lip — she had done an unspeakable thing. Helena’s tantrum had clearly been at the cause of this, and her inability to do such a simple thing as to not scratch.

  Helena sighed. “I’m sorry, Aunt Phoebe. I’m sorry I spoiled your evening. For…everything. All of this…the dinner…this mess…” She gestured at the debris that still littered the floor. “All of this is my fault.”

  “I should say so. Can you stand?” At her nod, Phoebe stood and shook out her skirts and reached down to help Helena to her feet. Helena stood there, wobbling a little back and forth a moment, allowing herself to be helped to a chair near the fire. Phoebe checked the wound again and nodded. “It has nearly stopped bleeding. Where is that servant…?”

  Helena reached for her aunt as she moved as though to go to the door. “Please…you misunderstood. All of this. It was my fault. The Duke of Durham is here at my insistence. This entire night…all of it…was my doing.”

  Phoebe turned to stare at her. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but another cry from the doorway stilled whatever it was that she would have said.

  “Helena Barrington, what in the name of all that’s holy have you done to yourself!” Bridget had come, Tess behind her carrying what was referred to as her kit, that she used for doctoring minor injuries among the servants. Tess’s eyes were wide, her face pale, though her face was set in a sort of grim determination.

  Phoebe quelled them all with a look. Helena’s heart sank, for she knew that expression well. This conversation was far from over and not likely to be a pleasant one once it resumed.

  Chapter 14

  “You should call for a doctor.” Bridget knelt at Helena’s side, lifting the cloth carefully to peer beneath at the wounded wrist.

  “And risk becoming the talk of all society from here to London? You know as well as I that old Mathers is a gossip, worse than any old woman. I daresay he would have the entire parish informed by midday tomorrow.” Phoebe stood over them both, arms crossed, absolutely immovable, though Helena had suggested several times now that she return to the dinner party.

  Truth be told, it would be better if Phoebe did leave if she were so intent on maintaining the fiction that nothing untoward had happened here. Which it hadn’t — a fact that Helena had tried to explain several times now, though it seemed no one was really listening anymore.

  Bridget wasted no time in dressing the wound, though she did so with her lips tightly compressed. Her entire body was rigid as she bent over the wrist, as though steeling herself for a blow. Bridget had never gotten along well with Phoebe and had she been even half so skilled in her herbal lore, it was not likely she would have been called at all.

  “You will not be blamed for this,” Helena said softly. “All of this was truly my own fault.”

  “My Lady…” Bridget had reverted to the use of the title in the presence of Phoebe as she always did, even though Bridget had acted more a mother to Helena that Phoebe had. Not that Helena blamed her aunt for her lack of genuine affection. She had been little more than a girl herself when tasked with raising an infant.

  But in a sense, as angry as Phoebe was now, it was plain to see it was because she had been afraid for her niece. Helena was well-loved, of that she’d never doubted, and it was true fear that had led to such harsh words for all involved.

  The task of cleaning the wound and bandaging it was done quickly. Helena hoped that whatever herbs Bridget had used to stem the bleeding, it would be more effective at healing her than all those other such poultices and lotions she had been trying over the years.

  The wrist was not even bleeding anymore by the time they finished. She’d been faint at the sight of the blood, Helena realized. She’d never been in danger at all. It had only been her imagination. She stared at her wrist, bandaged neatly and wondered at how easily it would be to hide such a thing under her long gloves. No one need ever know.

  Her aunt had been wise to make no fuss over this. Helena raised her head to thank her but was met instead with the cold fury of her aunt who wasted no time in ordering the servants to leave the room. Bridget hesitated over her kit, taking overlong to pack salves and unused bandages, but Helena took pity on her and motioned for her to go.

  She would have stayed for my sake, Helena realized as the two servants departed. Even though Aunt Phoebe would have been angry. She risked a glance at her aunt. Angrier, she corrected herself. That set to her lips did not bode well.

  “Let me help you off with that dress. I may as well put you to bed where I know you will not get into mischief,” her aunt said, clucking in dismay at the ruin of the skirt, stained with streaks of blood. “I daresay the blood will not likely come out. The dress will only be fit for rags. Though it hardly matters. It did not suit you at all.”

  “I had thought it looked rather well…” Helena murmured as she allowed her aunt to pull the dress over her head. For a moment she was lost in the folds of fabric, panicking a little until she was free and could breathe again. Truly every small thing set her off tonight.

  “Is that your excuse for your disobedience when I had clearly set out your clothing for you before you even went down?” Phoebe tutted over the dress before wadding it up and casting it aside with a shake of her head. “Fit only for rags now….”

  “I stained the other. I was trying a lotion…that one that smells so faintly like strawberries…but then I dropped it…” No, truly nothing Helena said
tonight could possibly please her aunt, and she winced at her own words, waiting for a lecture then on being the ruination of not one but two dresses.

  Her aunt surprised her though. In fact, she softened considerably. “You do have a fondness for strawberries. And the lotion shows you were trying to do the right thing. Oh, child, what am I do with you?” She helped Helena into her nightdress and sat her at the dressing table, to extricate the many ribbons from her hair.

  “You’re not angry?” Helena asked, feeling very small, and suddenly very tired.

  “You worried me. To think that I could have lost you…” Phoebe put a hand to her mouth, covering a…sob?

  Helena’s own eyes filled with tears. “Aunt Phoebe, you must believe me. It was an accident…I never…I would never…not like Tess’s father…”

  Phoebe stood a moment, her hand on her niece’s shoulder as if to protect her from things unknown. “I have not been a good mother to you. I have kept you too isolated and alone…maybe if you could have gone out into society…”