She bent her head, resting her cheek back against his chest. “I know that. I do. And I’m trying not to be unreasonable. But if there’s a chance, Justin. Even a small chance, that Giles is out there somewhere…”
“What can I do?” he asked. “What is it that will set your mind at ease?”
She made a choking sound. It may have been a laugh. Or a sob. “No one has ever asked me that before.”
“I’m asking now. Shall I write a few letters to contacts of mine in India? Or set Finchley and Boothroyd to the task?”
“Would you?”
Justin had no desire to write to anyone in India. Nor did he relish asking Finchley and Boothroyd to investigate the matter. But his feelings didn’t matter. Not when it meant so much to her. “Of course.” His lips brushed over her hair. “Didn’t I tell you I’d go to the ends of the earth for you?”
“You did say that, yes.” She fell quiet for a long moment. “Justin…”
A frisson of anxiety sharpened his senses. He raised his head at the same moment the hansom cab rolled to a halt in front of the house in Half Moon Street. The jarvey shouted out to them from his perch.
“What is it?” Justin asked.
Helena sat up. She straightened her opera cloak about her shoulders, slanting him a guarded glance from beneath her lashes as she retied the ribbon at her throat. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Only that I’m famished. I hope Mrs. Jarrow has left something out for us in the kitchen.”
I think I’m falling in love with you.
Helena had almost said it to him. A stupid schoolgirl confession, which would have made them both dreadfully uncomfortable. Only the hansom cab’s timely arrival in Half Moon Street had stopped her.
She was glad she hadn’t told him. She’d much rather cling to the infinitely dear moment when he’d called her sweetheart, or the next when he’d promised once again to go to the ends of the earth for her. Either was preferable to seeing, again, the blank look he’d given her in the theatre box when she’d first mentioned love.
There would be time enough to sort out the complicated tangle of her emotions. For now, she needed to focus on the task at hand.
Mr. Pelham had said his editorial would be published in a week. He’d promised to send word before it went to print. It was little enough comfort. She still woke each morning with her nerves on edge, never knowing from one moment to the next if this would be the day her reputation would be ruined forever.
She expected the time spent waiting on the publication of the editorial to pass at an interminable rate. Instead, the next week flew by in a whirlwind of morning calls, afternoon drives in Hyde Park, and evening visits to theatres, operas, and musicales. With Justin ever at her side, Helena’s fears began to gradually abate. Even so, wherever they were, whether shopping for gloves in Bond Street or listening to a recital of Beethoven at the home of their neighbor, Lady Poole, Helena still looked diligently about her for any signs of her uncle or Mr. Glyde.
She never saw either of them.
However, news of her uncle was carried to her door with some regularity. Visitors to Half Moon Street delighted in discussing him over tea. His behavior in regard to the jewelry Helena had inherited from her mother was a particularly popular topic.
“An absolute villain,” Lady Leticia Staverley declared as she bit into one of the ginger biscuits Mrs. Jarrow had baked earlier that morning. “How dare he keep your jewels from you? Surely something can be done.”
Helena was seated across from Letty in the parlor. Jenny sat nearby, her attention appearing to be solely occupied with the bit of needlework on her lap.
“Why has Captain Thornhill not yet intervened?” Letty asked.
“We haven’t seen my uncle since our arrival in London,” Helena replied. As she sipped her tea, she wondered if she would ever be able to mention her uncle without the accompanying quiver of unease. The feeling was always more pronounced when Justin wasn’t nearby.
She wished he would join her when callers came to Half Moon Street, but he rarely did unless the caller was another gentleman. She supposed he didn’t deem the ladies to be a big enough threat to warrant his presence.
“You must confront him,” Letty said. “And I know just the place.” She pulled her little velvet-trimmed reticule onto her lap and began to rummage about in it. “My aunt Beatrice is having a ball on Friday at her house in Belgrave Square. Perhaps you’ve heard? Invitations went out long ago. It’s guaranteed to be a crush. She claims she can’t fit a single additional person inside her ballroom. But after a little wheedling…” Letty withdrew a thick, cream-tinted card from her reticule. “I managed to wrangle this out of her.”
Helena took the proffered card, quickly skimming over the engraved black script. “I’m obliged to you, Letty, but…” She scrambled for an excuse. “Friday? That’s only a few days from now. It leaves me no time to have a dress made.”
“Tosh.” Letty waved her hand. “You’ve lately married, and not very well, if you don’t mind my saying. No one will expect you to be in the first stare of fashion.”
Helena bristled. “Indeed, I do mind you saying so. I believe myself to have married very well.”
Letty only laughed. “How ardently you defend him. I knew it must be a love match. I’ve made a friendly wager with Lady Angeline Clement, you see. She said you’d married only because Captain Thornhill was a friend of Giles’s. As if any intelligent female would wed a stranger purely to honor the memory of her dead brother. The silly widgeon. I’ll call on her directly I leave here and collect my ten pounds.”
After Letty had gone, Jenny laid aside her sewing and rose to summon Mrs. Jarrow to clear away the tea things. “A silly widgeon,” she muttered after the housekeeper had exited the room with the tray. She sat down beside Helena on the sofa. “That’s the precise term I would use to describe Letty Staverley. And that’s only if I was being kind.”
“She doesn’t realize she’s being offensive.”
“Undoubtedly. The girl has about as much depth of character as a puddle.”
Helena handed Jenny the invitation. “Do you think Justin and I need attend?”
Jenny frowned. “I suppose people will want to see how you interact with your uncle.”
“Yes, but is it necessary? By Friday, the editorial will have been published. I know I’m meant to show myself afterward. To prove to the world that I’m not mad. But to attend a ball, where everyone in attendance has read about what’s been done to me…” Helena gave Jenny an anguished look. “Must I bear it?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Jenny said. “Mr. Finchley could better advise you. This is all part of his grand plan, isn’t it?” She set aside the invitation and, once more, rose to her feet. “I’ll invite him to dinner, if you like.” She went to the little walnut secretary in the corner and took out a sheet of paper. “Mr. Thornhill will welcome his presence, I daresay. He doesn’t enjoy having odd numbers.”
“He doesn’t mind it.”
“Nonsense. I’m a veritable thorn in his side. He’d much rather dine alone with you each evening.”
Helena wasn’t so certain. It seemed to her that their evening meals were largely informal affairs. They ate as a matter of course before departing for the opera or the theatre. That Jenny dined with them made little difference. It wasn’t as if she and Justin were sharing confidences at the table. Indeed, conversation was limited to the veriest commonplace.
Not that Justin had been behaving in a cool or indifferent manner toward her. Quite the reverse. He sometimes held her hand during performances. And, in the coach, on the journey home, he always offered her his shoulder.
It was during these short cab rides from the West End to Half Moon Street that the greater part of their intimacy took place. Though intimacy was a relative word. They weren’t sharing a bed, after all. And he hadn’t kissed her again, not since their
time at the Stanhope Hotel. But his voice deepened when he spoke to her and his gray eyes regarded her with a possessive warmth that made her stomach quiver with the delicate flutter of butterfly wings.
They talked and laughed softly together. They shared humorous anecdotes about their childhoods, and not-so-humorous ones as well. She felt they were getting to know each other. To trust each other.
Was he beginning to fall in love with her, too?
Helena didn’t know. And she was afraid to ask. She felt deep down that to broach the subject again and be rejected would put an abrupt end to their present intimacy. The fragile bond they were forging together would be broken.
She didn’t dare risk it. Not yet. But she was trying so desperately to be brave. To push past her fears and regain some semblance of the strength and independence she’d once possessed.
Soon, she told herself. Soon, she’d open her heart to him. She’d offer him her love, freely and without expectation. What he chose to do with it would be entirely up to him.
“A ball?” Finchley asked. “Given by Lady Beatrice Wardlow? Naturally you should attend.”
Justin lowered his knife to his plate. “Indeed.” He glared across the dining table at Finchley, catching his eyes over the branch of flickering beeswax candles. This was not the answer he’d been expecting when he acquiesced to inviting his friend to dinner. “And how does it serve our cause to come face to face with Castleton in such a public setting?”
Finchley speared a piece of boiled mutton onto his fork. He’d arrived promptly at seven, suit freshly pressed, shoes polished, and hair combed back from his forehead and smoothed into place with Macassar oil. He wasn’t dandyish by any means, but he looked far more elegant than the rumpled and unshaven version of Tom Finchley that Justin had grown accustomed to over the years.
“Castleton won’t be there,” he said, after washing down his mutton with a swallow of wine. “Not if the editorial is out.”
Justin exchanged a swift glance with Helena. Her brows were knit in a worried line. “And if it hasn’t?”
“He still isn’t likely to show his face,” Finchley said. “Not if he knows you’ll be in attendance.”
“How on earth do you know so much about what he may or mayn’t do?” Miss Holloway asked.
“I have my methods.”
Miss Holloway wouldn’t be fobbed off. “Then I beg you would reveal them. I’ve been wont to think you’re a magician, but I know there must be a more rational explanation than that.”
Finchley’s mouth tilted briefly in a lopsided grin. It was almost boyish. “I have a spy in Castleton’s house.”
Miss Holloway gaped. “What? Who?”
“A footman. He took the place of a lad named Henry at the end of last month.”
“The Henry who went to Bridgehampton to visit his sick mother?”
“The Henry who is cooling his heels at a hotel in Margate, with a great deal of money in his pockets.”
Miss Holloway sat back in her seat. “My goodness. How devious you are, sir.” She laughed suddenly. “I suppose your spy is eavesdropping on Lord Castleton even as we speak.”
“He may be.” Finchley looked at Justin and Helena, his expression sobering. “Though it wasn’t entirely through his efforts that I learned Castleton would seek to avoid the pair of you.”
“How, then?” Helena asked.
“Common sense, mostly, coupled with what I know of human nature.” Finchley set down his wineglass. “Lord Castleton only put his hands on you on one occasion. The remainder of the physical harm you suffered was administered through his representatives, whether by Mr. Glyde, the physicians, or people affiliated with the asylum.”
“Castleton is a physical coward,” Justin said.
Finchley nodded. “Precisely. Add to that, he has an immense aversion to this scandal being publicized. If he were to attend the ball, he’s not likely to make a scene there.”
“But you said he wouldn’t attend,” Helena reminded him.
“I don’t believe he will. As Justin said, the man’s a physical coward. And you, my lady, will be in company with a fellow who’s anything but.” Finchley gave Justin a stern look. “Which reminds me, if by some small chance Castleton does show his face at the ball, you must make an earnest effort not to smash it in.”
“I can’t promise anything,” Justin said.
Finchley sighed. “At least try not to cause a scene. It won’t help, you know. We must persuade people that Castleton is the unreasonable one, not Lady Helena, and certainly not you.” He paused. “Which brings me to the subject of Mr. Glyde. The man appears to have gone to ground. Pelham is unable to find him. I’m unable to find him. It’s made me…uneasy.”
“What about your spy?” Justin asked. “Has he heard anything?”
“Not a thing. Which could mean that there’s nothing to hear. Or else…”
“Or else what?” Justin’s voice was sharp with impatience.
“It’s possible that Castleton is being exceedingly careful. He may have a plan hatched with Glyde. Though other than straight out abduction, I can’t fathom what that plan might be.”
A shadow of worry crossed Helena’s face. “Do you think he’ll come here?”
“No. Not here. But he must be lurking about somewhere. I advise vigilance.”
Miss Holloway laid aside her cutlery. “Does this mean you won’t be attending the ball?”
Justin turned to Helena. She was a vision of fashionable elegance in a dark gray dress trimmed in ribbons of bright crimson. The bodice was snug, secured at the front by a row of tiny silk-covered buttons fastened from her waist to her throat.
Since their arrival in London, it seemed to him that every time he blinked, she was in a different dress. There were morning gowns and afternoon gowns, walking dresses, dinner dresses, and evening dresses for the theatre. Each of them was made of rich fabrics and trimmed in luxurious trimmings. He had no doubt but that the cost of even one such dress would have beggared a lesser man.
“It’s your decision,” he said. “We can go, if you wish. Or stay here, if you wish.”
Helena hesitated before answering. And then, “I wish to go,” she said quietly.
Miss Holloway didn’t appear surprised. “They’ll be waltzing there. Helena does so love to waltz. How long has it been, my dear?”
“A year,” Helena said. “Since Giles disappeared.”
“You’ll be dreadfully out of trim.” Miss Holloway looked at Mr. Finchley, her cheeks blossoming with color. “I have an idea. Why don’t we practice?”
“Here?” Finchley asked.
“We can move the furniture in the parlor. It won’t leave us much room to dance, but it should be enough.”
“I haven’t waltzed in an age,” Finchley confessed. “What about you, Thornhill?”
“An age and a half,” Justin said grimly. And he wasn’t too keen on remedial lessons.
“Well then.” Miss Holloway stood, obliging both Justin and Finchley to stand as well. “Shall we repair to the parlor?”
“What shall we do about music?” Helena asked as she rose from her chair.
“Hmm.” Jenny slanted a questioning glance at Finchley. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Jarrow plays the pianoforte?”
“No,” Finchley said with a low chuckle. “Emphatically, no.”
“Then I’ll play. I don’t need to dance, after all. It’s not as if I’ll be attending the ball.”
“Nonsense.” Helena placed her hand in the crook of Justin’s arm, allowing him to escort her from the dining room. “We’ll take turns at the pianoforte. The gentlemen won’t mind practicing the waltz with us both. Monsieur Claude always said you could only become skilled by dancing with multiple partners.”
“Monsieur Claude?” Justin almost hated to ask.
Helena smiled up at him. �
��The dancing master my father employed when I was a girl. He was a French émigré and an absolute tyrant.”
“Ah,” Justin said. “Of course he was.”
Despite Jenny’s insistence, it was Helena who took the first shift at the small pianoforte in the parlor. She would have had to be blind not to see how much Jenny wanted to dance with Mr. Finchley, and Helena hadn’t the least intention of making her friend wait for a turn in his arms.
Did Mr. Finchley know Jenny fancied him? Helena thought he might. Then again, even the most intelligent gentlemen could be a bit thick when it came to matters of the heart.
“Shall I turn the pages for you?” Justin asked, coming to stand beside her.
“It isn’t necessary.” Her hands moved deftly over the keys. “I’ve memorized most of this and can fudge the bits I haven’t.”
“That accomplished, are you?”
“Hardly. I haven’t practiced in a year. My playing is slapdash at best.”
“I’m enjoying it,” he said.
Helena smiled. “You’d enjoy it more if it was played by an orchestra. A single instrument can never do it justice. Now this…” She switched to one of her favorite waltzes by Chopin. “This was written for the pianoforte.”
“Not that one, Helena,” Jenny objected from across the room. She and Mr. Finchley, who’d been twirling rapidly, were now at a standstill. “It’s far too slow.”
Helena dutifully switched back to something more energetic. As she played, she watched Jenny and Mr. Finchley resume their waltz. Jenny was blushing rosily and Mr. Finchley was looking down at her through his spectacles, a smile lighting his usually serious face.
He was an orphan like Justin. A gentleman with no home and no family. No one to call his own. But if he was discontented with his lot in life, he never showed it. Certainly not now, with Jenny in his arms.
“You’re the next victim, Thornhill,” Mr. Finchley said when the music stopped. “Come and let Miss Holloway show you how it’s done.”
Justin crossed the room to dance with Jenny. Helena played another waltz, this time choosing a piece that was slower—and shorter. She had the impression that Justin was dancing with Jenny more as a matter of courtesy than pleasure.
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