“It’s not as bad as it seems.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “Not by half.”
She raised her eyes to his, a glimmer of hope shining in their hazel depths.
His pulse kicked up a notch, his blood responding to the warmth in her gaze with an equal warmth of its own. He cleared his throat. “For one thing, I’ve taken over the lease from Finchley. And before you object, I would remind you that Miss Holloway is, in some degree, your cousin, which makes her my relation by marriage. It’s perfectly appropriate for a gentleman to look after an indigent relation, is it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ve also left her money for a railway ticket. If worse comes to worst, she can always take the train to Devon.”
The tension in Helena’s face softened. She dropped her hand back to her lap. “Oh, Justin.”
“I hoped that would ease your mind.”
“It does. So much. But it’s all been achieved at such great inconvenience to you. How can I ever—”
“You needn’t.”
“But after everything I’ve—”
“What’s done is done.” He strove for a bracing tone. He didn’t think he could bear it if she offered to repay him. And he sure as hell didn’t want to hear her express her gratitude. “We can only go forward.”
She held his gaze. “Can we?”
“We can try,” he said gruffly. “Which is precisely why I went to see Finchley. We can’t just drift along without a plan. Not when it comes to matters of law.”
“Is it a matter of law?” she asked. “Even though we’re married?”
“It may be. It depends…” He ran a hand over his hair. It was still damp from the rain. “There’s an issue of consent.”
She blanched.
“You understand the concept, I trust.”
“Yes, I do. It’s only…” She returned her teacup to the tea tray. Her hands were trembling. “The night they came, I heard Mr. Glyde as I was passing through the hall. He said I was unable to consent to marriage.” Her voice grew thin. “Which means you and I are not married at all.”
Justin took her by the hand. “Listen to me. I’m going to explain everything that Finchley and I discussed and everything we propose to do. But first I want you to hear me. To really listen.”
She nodded.
He threaded his fingers through hers. His words were fierce and low. “No one is ever going to take you away. Do you understand me? Not your uncle or Mr. Glyde. Not the courts. There’s always a way, Helena. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t risk—nothing I wouldn’t dare—for the people I care about.”
Helena’s fingers flexed in his. “How can you care for me?”
“You’re my wife. How can I not?”
“I’m only your wife because I played you false. Because I took advantage of your kindness and generosity.”
He snorted. “Good God, Helena. Do you think me as innocent as a babe? I knew you were hiding something the day I met you. Have you forgotten how I spoke to you at the King’s Arms? If I were squeamish about marrying a woman with secrets, I’d have turned tail and run.”
“I can’t understand why you didn’t.”
Justin didn’t wonder. He scarcely understood himself.
All he knew was that he’d always had a weakness for fine things. An incessant yearning for something more. Something better.
It had never led to anything but misery. He’d had ample proof of that over the years. Everything he’d acquired—all the way down to Greyfriar’s Abbey itself—had ended as no better than a millstone round his neck.
Which was precisely why Boothroyd had warned him against marrying her. He knew Justin’s weakness. Had always known it.
And this time it was worse. His desire to possess the refined, beautiful creature who had answered his advertisement was all mixed up with his instinct to protect her, to keep her safe.
Hadn’t Finchley said it would do him good to successfully rescue a female from harm?
Curse the man and his opinions.
After what had happened in Cawnpore, Justin doubted he had the capacity to keep anyone safe, least of all a vulnerable woman.
But he was sure as hell going to try.
“Perhaps it was because I wanted to help you. Either that or because I fancied you like mad.” His mouth hitched. “Probably a little of both, if I’m honest.”
Her blush deepened, turning her cheeks a brilliant shade of rose. “The news from London must be very bleak indeed.”
“Whatever gives you that idea?”
“Common sense. You’re clearly trying to soften an impending blow. I wish you’d just tell me, Justin. It’s worse not knowing.”
His smile faded. He’d meant what he’d said. Every blasted word. But…
“You’re right. We must speak plainly, you and I. From now on, if this is to work, there are to be no more secrets between us.”
Her expression turned wary. “If what is to work?”
“This plan of Finchley’s. He believes there’s a way to rout your uncle without resorting to a protracted lawsuit. It won’t be comfortable. Not for either of us. It requires exposure. Drives in the park, nights at the theater, and even a ball or two, if we garner the requisite invitations. And that’s not all, I’m afraid.”
Helena was looking at him as if he’d just spoken to her in ancient Greek. “Balls and the theatre,” she repeated faintly. “In Abbot’s Holcombe, do you mean?”
“Not Abbot’s Holcombe,” he said. “When the weather clears, you and I are going to London.”
Helena drew back from him in white-faced shock. “We are not.”
“Helena—”
“No.” Her voice was sharp and brittle to her ears.
She rose from the sofa and walked away from him. She didn’t know where she was going. All she knew was that she needed to put distance between them. The mere mention of London was enough to make her want to run. She didn’t care where.
“Helena, wait.” Justin stood to follow her. “Let me explain.”
She stopped in front of the bedroom window. The heavy curtains were drawn back to reveal the rain-streaked glass. She stared unseeing out over the drive. “I can’t go back there. I won’t.”
Justin came to stand at her side. He was just outside of her line of vision. She could feel him there, big and warm and masculine.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
She folded her arms at her waist. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She shook her head, refusing to explain. But there was no keeping the words to herself. They tumbled out in spite of her resolve. “Everything bad that’s ever happened to me has happened in London. My mother…and Giles…and my uncle and Mr. Glyde…” She cast an anguished glance at Justin over her shoulder. He was standing there, grave and still. “Don’t you see? I’ve never been more alone in my life than when I was in that wretched city. And if I go back now…I know my uncle will take me. I’ll be no better than an animal walking straight into a trap. They’ll lock me away in Lowbridge House and this time there’ll be no escape. Nothing I can do to save myself.”
Justin moved in front of her, filling her vision. His large frame blocked out the light as he leaned back, half sitting on the window embrasure. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Helena’s throat tightened with emotion. She bit her lip. She wasn’t going to cry. She hadn’t shed a tear since those weeks after Giles’s death. And she certainly wouldn’t do so now.
Justin reached out to her. “Come here.”
She took his hand, allowing him to draw her into an embrace. Her skirts pressed against his trousers, the deeply flounced hemline pooling over the toes of his polished leather boots. She rested her cheek on the soft woolen fabric of his
waistcoat, feeling his arms close around her, holding her safe against the broad expanse of his chest.
He said nothing for a long while. He merely held her, one large hand moving idly over her back until she began to relax against him, her breath coming slow and even.
“There’s a gentleman in London by the name of Charles Pelham,” he said at length. His voice was a deep rumble. She could hear it as well as feel it, emanating from his chest as he held her close. “He’s a passing acquaintance of Finchley’s.”
A fine hum of tension coursed through her body. “Is he a doctor?”
“God no.” He bent his head down to hers. His cheek brushed over her hair. “He’s a newspaperman. An editor at the London Courant, and a well-respected one, at that. For the past year, he’s been investigating abuses in the management of private asylums.”
She stiffened.
“Easy,” he murmured. His hand moved up the curve of her back. “Just listen to me.”
He was gentling her into submission, like a high-strung horse being readied for the bridle. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it.
“Pelham has been documenting cases of wrongful confinement. Cases where family members have paid to have a relation put away in order to gain control of their money or property. Finchley believes that, when Pelham’s editorial is published, there will be mass outrage. He expects it to instigate some sort of reform.”
She had a sinking feeling in her stomach. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“If you would talk to Pelham—if you would agree to an interview—he would feature your story along with the others. Once the details of what your uncle has done are made public—”
This time she did draw back, but only far enough to look in Justin’s eyes. “You can’t possibly think that would work!”
“I think it might.”
“My uncle would never permit such a story to be published. He’d bring suit against the paper or shut down the printers—or worse. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“What I know,” Justin said, “is that your uncle has shown a marked interest in concealing his crimes. He wants to keep what he’s done to you his own filthy secret, even to the extent of offering me a bribe to remain quiet about our marriage.”
“What?”
“The point is, he doesn’t wish to have his name dragged through the mud. He doesn’t want to take a chance that the tide of public opinion will turn against him. Which is precisely why you need to tell your story to the press. When coupled with all the rest of the cases Pelham has dredged up, people will have to believe it. And when they do—when your uncle is exposed—he won’t dare attempt to meddle with you or your money again.”
She huffed. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It won’t be. You’ll have to share some of the more unpleasant details of your ordeal with Pelham. He’ll want to know everything about you.”
“So he can publish it, for all of London to see?”
“That’s the idea.”
Her stomach clenched at the thought of it. She envisioned her former acquaintances reading the sordid tale at the breakfast table or in the smoke-filled lounges of their clubs. She imagined groups of fashionably clad ladies tittering about it over tea and biscuits. Pitying her. Laughing at her.
Her mouth went dry. “Must we go there? Couldn’t Mr. Pelham come here?”
“Regrettably, no. People will need to witness you out and about. That’s where the balls and the theatre come in. It will give them a chance to see that there’s nothing irregular about your behavior. Then, when the editorial is published, they’ll be more inclined to believe you.”
She took a deep breath. It did absolutely nothing to quell her rising sense of panic. “I can’t do it, Justin.”
“Why not?”
“For a lady to expose herself in such a way…to make a spectacle of herself for the public’s amusement…” Everything within her recoiled at the thought. “It isn’t decent.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “You’re worried about your reputation?”
“Yes,” she said. And then, “No.” She focused on the topmost button of his waistcoat, watching it blur before her eyes as unshed tears clouded her vision. “It’s all just so shameful. I can’t bear for anyone else to know.”
His hand tightened at the curve of her waist. She could feel the weight and warmth of it through the layers of silk and corsetry, settling like a brand against her skin. “It’s not meant to shame you, Helena. It’s meant to set you free.”
“By robbing me of what’s left of my dignity.”
He was silent for several seconds. “I’ll be with you,” he said at last. “If that’s any consolation.”
She lifted her eyes back to his. “You can’t want to go to London. Not for this.”
“Not particularly, no. But it’s not forever. A few weeks inconvenience, merely. It will be over before you know it.”
“A few weeks? Is that all?” Even a day was too much. Even an hour. “And what’s to prevent my uncle from—”
“I’ll be with you,” Justin said again. His gaze bore into hers. “Every moment.”
Helena didn’t know why she continued to resist him. He seemed to have a creditable plan. And who was she to naysay when her own plan had failed so miserably? “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she blurted out.
“No? What did you expect to happen?”
“I expected to marry you. To have a life here. Safe. Far away from London. I hoped I would never see my uncle—or Mr. Glyde—ever again.”
For the briefest instant, Justin’s face betrayed a flicker of surprise. “You truly intended to stay here with me as my wife?”
“Of course. Did you think it all a trick? That after we wed I’d disappear?” She was sorely tempted to laugh. “I have nowhere to go, Justin. No one willing to render me protection. I needed a husband. It was the only way to keep my fortune and my name.”
“Ah yes. Your fortune.”
“My brother’s fortune.”
“And how do you know I won’t squander it now I’ve gained control?”
“You won’t,” she said. “You couldn’t.”
“Finchley’s assurances again, I take it.”
“Was he wrong?”
“No,” Justin admitted. “He wasn’t wrong. Still…it was a hell of a risk tying yourself to a stranger.”
“What else was I to do? The only other choice was to flee with nothing. At least, by marrying you, there was a chance it would all come right. And now…”
The prospect of a trip to London loomed large in her mind. It sucked all the light from within her, leaving behind nothing but cold and darkness and roiling fear.
She shivered in Justin’s arms. “Must I go back there? Is there no other way?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He appeared to consider the matter, to truly examine the alternatives. “There are other ways. But in this case, they aren’t likely to lead to success.”
“This plan may not succeed either.”
“No. There are no guarantees, but I agree with Finchley. We have better odds of defeating your uncle in the court of public opinion than besting him in a court of law. All that’s required is a little courage.”
“Pity I haven’t any left.”
Justin bent his head, his voice a husky murmur against her ear. “Take mine.”
She closed her eyes. She wanted to say yes. To tell him that she’d go with him to London. That she’d bare her soul to whichever newspaperman he wished. She owed him that much. She owed him her very life.
But it wasn’t easy.
Justin seemed to understand. His hand slid from her waist to her back, a heavy, comforting weight. “Think on it. There are a few more days of rain yet.”
“Only a few?”
�
�It will give us time to talk.”
Talk? She didn’t know why the prospect should affect the rhythm of her heart, but it did. Most decidedly so. She moistened her lips. “To speak plainly, isn’t that what you said?”
“Precisely.”
“With no more secrets between us.”
Justin looked down at her, his gray eyes solemn as the grave. “No more secrets.”
The rain stopped sometime during the night. By morning, the dark clouds had drifted away and the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. Helena woke early, alone in the great Elizabethan bed. She was cold and hungry—and quite unwilling to wait on the grudging service of Mrs. Standish.
After washing and dressing, she made her way down to the kitchens to see about something to eat. Mrs. Whitlock was there, fluttering about the stove in a grease-stained apron. Mrs. Standish stood near the sink, filling a teakettle with water from the tap. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the room.
“My lady!” Mrs. Standish swiftly disposed of the teakettle. “What are you doing in here? And at this hour?”
Mrs. Whitlock wiped her hands on her apron. “She’ll be wantin’ her breakfast.”
“And I’ll be bringing her a tray at nine of the clock, won’t I?” Mrs. Standish retorted. “Though it’s a maidservant’s job, if I do say so.”
“Are you hungry, ma’am?” Mrs. Whitlock asked. “Shall I fix ye a plate of eggs and bacon?”
“Her ladyship prefers porridge,” Mrs. Standish said.
Mrs. Whitlock turned back to the stove. “We’ve that too, and plenty of it.” She stirred the contents of a steaming pot with a wooden spoon. “Won’t be a minute, my lady.”
Helena seated herself at the long wooden table. “Have the gentlemen already eaten?”
“Not as yet, ma’am,” Mrs. Whitlock said. “Mr. Boothroyd and Neville should be down any moment.”
“And Mr. Thornhill?”
“Up at dawn, he was, and dressed to go riding.”
Mrs. Standish removed the tea canister from the cupboard. “Meanwhile, that wretched Mr. Danvers is still abed and still the worse for drink. He’ll never improve, lest he eats something. And so I told him, the vile creature.”
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