Mama scowled. “Such an outburst. If you cannot control your emotions better, you will embarrass us all, more than you already have by marrying so far beneath you.”
At once, Helena was a child again, unable to speak or defend herself. Her lips pressed shut, and she allowed the ice to freeze her expression and work its way into her marrow.
But she was different now. A new creation, since she’d allowed God to thaw her heart. Mama might be more concerned with status, but Helena knew better.
The ice inside her thawed a fraction.
“My husband is noble in every way that counts.” She stood. “Before I take my leave, I must ask about Papa’s health.”
Mama examined her buffed fingernails. “You know how he is. Struggling to breathe. Coughing. Fatigued. It is much as his father’s illness was. There is no use speaking of it.”
There was every use, if Papa was going to die from this disease.
Did he love her? Did he know she loved him, despite his sending her away? As much as her heart ached to know the answers to those questions before he passed on, she’d be content to never know if she was confident in one last thing. Did Papa know God?
Tears stung Helena’s eyes. She could pray. God had changed her. He was certainly capable of helping her family see the truth about Himself.
If only they’d open their eyes.
Right now, however, Mama wasn’t even looking at her. There was nothing to do but curtsy. “Give my regards to Papa and the girls.”
Mama’s hummed farewell followed her on her way from the room.
Out in the frost-tinged air, Adam handed her up into the coach and they returned home. Bill Coachman had to park the coach in front of the neighbor’s, however. Helena peered out the window. A familiar curricle waited by the front stoop.
John was home. Her pulse quickened. Was this good or ill?
“There you are.” John’s grin was wide when she entered the vestibule. “You must be feeling better, to be up and paying calls.”
Despite her qualms, the sight of him knocked the breath out of her, and it was no good blaming it on her cold.
She busied herself with removing her gloves so he wouldn’t see her admiration for him in her eyes. “Quite so. Enough to call on my mother, at any rate.”
“Brave of you.” His brow arched. “I’m stopping in between errands. Do you have a minute to join me in the library?”
She nodded and once there, she waited for him to shut the door. “Have you read the Post yet?”
He grimaced. “Only just. I wish I’d seen it before I left so I could warn you. I’m sorry.”
“Mama says I must accept Frederick is a hero or return to Perthshire.”
“Your mama, forgive me, is in error.”
It was easy to return his smile. “Where were you so early this morning?”
“Tattersall’s, assessing horseflesh with Carvey. For him, not for me. Last night you were still indisposed from your illness, so I didn’t wish to disturb you with my plans. Forgive me if I worried you.”
Her head shook. She wasn’t worried, she’d...missed him. Wanted his comfort when she saw that horrible article. “I hope it was an enjoyable time.”
“It was, and I thought I’d take the boys with us tomorrow when Carvey makes a final selection.”
Her hands clasped to her warming chest. “They’ll love the idea. Have you told them?”
“No, and I can’t yet. I’ve another obligation this morning. Carvey is waiting for me. Tell them, if you wish, or I’ll inform them this afternoon.” By the way he avoided her gaze when he spoke, she couldn’t help feeling he was hiding something from her. Like he didn’t want her to know where he was going.
She shook her head at herself. What foolishness, to have suspicious thoughts about her husband! Her nerves were still raw from visiting Mama and the article about Frederick, that was all. “Will we speak more about Frederick later?”
His smile was sad. “We will, Helena. I’m sorry I cannot now. I’m overdue. But please do not forget, you are safe now.”
She nodded, and he moved closer until he stood inches from her, looming over her, capturing her gaze. Fire burned behind the jade screens of his eyes, like he restrained the fervor of his feelings behind tender words.
Like he might kiss her again.
Breathing, swallowing, words, all were lost as she stared back at him.
“I mean it, Helena.” John’s hand slowly, slowly reached to cup her cheek. “I will never let him touch you again. I will protect you with my life.”
His life. He’d already given her his name, his home, the care of his children. She could not ask for anything more than he’d already given her.
But as his hand fell and he stepped away, greed crawled over her skin like an itch. She wanted more than a brief touch of his hand on her cheek. She wanted him to pull her into his arms again. To kiss her, despite their agreement.
“Until later.” John’s smile was gentle as he left.
“Yes,” was all she could manage. Not even a proper farewell, but her heart was beating so hard and fast she couldn’t think straight.
She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to love her—
This is not about being loved, remember? But about loving.
And she had people to love, given to her by God. Four of them were upstairs at their lessons right now, and come what may with Frederick Coles or her parents or even John, she had a duty and privilege to love the four children upstairs.
Helena’s footfalls landed heavier than was ladylike on the stairs, but she couldn’t help but hurry. The children should be done with lessons shortly. And not a one of them would be able to resist her offer to shop for toys.
* * *
“Where does she think you are?” Carvey pulled the reddish-brown fur collar of his coat higher up his neck as he and John strode up the snowy street toward the fringes of Mayfair.
A chill trickled down John’s spine, but not from the wind whistling between the narrow gaps between the buildings they passed. “I told Helena I had an errand. Not a lie.”
“Omission is a lie. I say you tell your wife the truth and be done with it.”
He’d told himself the same thing, over and over, but kept arriving at the same conclusion. “The timing isn’t right. I’d not worsen her day with this, not after that bit in the Post—”
“What bit?” Carvey’s tone rose as they trudged up the snowy street. “Was she mentioned in it? I didn’t see her name mentioned.”
John stifled a groan. “No. Pay no mind—she’s been ill, you know. But speaking of the Post, did you read the article on Frederick Coles? Do you know him?”
Carvey grimaced. “He’s not my friend, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What are your impressions?”
“Do you want the truth, or the polite answer I’m supposed to give?”
“I think you’ve said enough to shed light on your opinion.”
“Why do you ask?” Carvey slowed as they approached a street vendor. The scent of meat pasties swirled in the frosty air, and Carvey patted his stomach.
John waited while Carvey exchanged a coin for the small pie. When they’d resumed walking and Carvey’s mouth was full, John glanced up and down the street. No one he knew lingered about. No one passed close enough to overhear.
He couldn’t tell Carvey what happened to Helena, not without her consent. But he could enlist his friend’s help. “I’m suspicious of Coles stumbling across some of the items stolen from a party he attended, which happened to be left on the snow?”
Carvey swallowed his bite. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? My mother was at a house party with him last summer—hosted by her close friend, otherwise Mother wouldn’t have heard this tidbit, but a quantity of silver was stolen during the party.”
“Coin?”<
br />
“Forks. Teaspoons. The butler noted them gone from set tables, much to his horror. He and the housekeeper were in arms, blaming footmen, accusing half the house, as it turns out, but one of the maids insisted she spied Coles poking about the dining room the day a spoon or some such disappeared. No one believed her, of course.” Carvey took a large bite of pasty.
Poor maid had probably been dismissed. But what if she’d spoken true? “Coles could be desperate enough for money to steal teaspoons and fence them.”
“Pah. He’s Bowden’s nephew, isn’t he? What would he need with the proceeds of selling teaspoons to a metalsmith? If it was him, I’d say he did it on a lark. Some nobs pinch things for the thrill of it.”
“I wonder.”
“It is rather curious.” Carvey finished off his pie.
John glanced around again. “Tell me if you hear anything more about him, will you?”
“I doubt I shall hear anything more like I heard from my mother. Below-stairs matters tend to stay below stairs, and few would wish to broadcast they are losing cutlery.” He started to laugh, but it died when he caught John’s gaze. “This is about more than filched trinkets. This is about Coles.”
John exhaled. “I cannot explain. I ask only you to trust me.”
“Of course I trust you.” Carvey shoved a lock of thin black hair off his brow. “If you say Coles is a rotter, I believe you.”
“I didn’t say he’s a rotter.” Although the description was apt.
“But it’s clear you don’t think he stumbled upon missing jewels at that party. If that’s the case, and he’s a thief, shouldn’t we leave it to Bow Street to handle?”
“Not at this point. I require evidence to present to the magistrate first.”
“You have an investigator already,” Carvey said with a nod. “Although he’s found nothing about the identity of your, er, correspondent.”
A nice way to say blackmailer. John had told him about the letters, but not divulged that Helena was the reason for them. And Carvey, true friend that he was, never asked.
“I won’t give up. Not until whoever is responsible is revealed.”
Carvey’s dark brows rose. “Do you think Coles is the blackmailer? Is that why you’re asking about him?”
John chose his words carefully. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Your wife has no idea how devoted to her you are, does she?”
“What?” John’s boots almost slid on the snow.
“I’m not daft, man. This blackmail is about your wife. If it were over anything else, you’d never pay. But you’re meeting the demands to protect her, and keeping it from her so as to not upset her. And she doesn’t even know the lengths you’re going through to do so.”
And here he’d been thinking Carvey was too good a friend to poke his nose into John’s business. Then again, John had invited him into this mess when he’d asked for his help hiring an investigator. That didn’t mean he was free to discuss it, either. “The reason for the blackmail is not what you think—whatever it is you’re thinking—”
“I’m certain Lady Ardoch is everything honorable, and this blackmail springs from a twisted misrepresentation of her character or something else that’s none of my affair. I don’t care about that. I do care about my oldest friend, though, and this is a side of you I’ve never seen.”
John glanced at him before they crossed the street. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Don’t deny it. I’ve known you since university, and you’ve changed since this marriage.”
John snorted, the steam of his breath curling in the air. “I’m the same.”
“No, you’re not.” Carvey’s expression lost its amusement. “Your children are with you here in London and you can’t wait to get back to them at the end of the day. And when I mention your wife, you get a calf-eyed look on your face for a half second before you recover your composure. The gossips claimed your hasty marriage was a love match, and while I had my doubts when you first wrote of marrying Kelworth’s daughter, I see they were right. You love her.”
No, he didn’t—
Did he? Panic pooled in his gut.
He couldn’t love Helena. He was attracted to her, but that was not love.
He certainly cared for her, and he’d continue to champion her and be steadfast for her, as her friend, with all his heart and strength, just as he’d determined to do at Christmas.
He’d kissed her—yes, but he’d intended comfort. And gotten carried away.
She hadn’t pushed him away after that, so she must have understood he made a mistake. She was kind not to hold it against him.
Carvey was wrong. John didn’t love Helena. Nothing was changing.
Except John certainly felt happier than he had before his marriage. Not necessarily in his circumstances, what with the blackmail and Frederick Coles and the struggles in Parliament and his plan for educating children being thwarted at every turn.
But there was a deeper happiness within him. Spending time with the children, seeing to their needs, helping them grow into the people God made them to be. Growing closer to Helena. Those things had made him happy.
So he was changing, after all.
“I’ve stunned you to silence.” Carvey brushed pastry crumbs from his gloves. “I don’t care to get maudlin on you, chap. Just wanted you to know I’m glad you’ve found happiness, that’s all. I know what it’s like to be where you are. Don’t squander it.”
John stifled a groan of frustration at himself. It was January. A date he shouldn’t forget. How could he be so thickheaded? “Today’s the day, isn’t it?”
Carvey nodded, staring at nothing, his thoughts clearly fixed on the memory of his fiancée, Lydia, who’d succumbed to a fever four years ago today. Afterward, Carvey had crawled into a dark place of grief, and he still mourned Lydia’s loss, but when John’s first wife passed away, Carvey had been a staunch source of support and comfort.
John opened his mouth to offer comfort in return now, but Carvey shook his head. “All this is to say you mustn’t waste the time you’ve got. And I’m happy for you and I’ll do what I can to help you. If you think Coles is worth watching because he’s got his finger in a bad pie, you go on and speak to the metalsmith and I’ll visit some of the places Coles is known to frequent. Perhaps I’ll learn a thing or two.”
“Thank you, friend.”
“It’s time I had adventure. Lydia would’ve wanted that for me, don’t you think?” Carvey’s lips twisted into a boyish smile as he turned to go back the way they’d come.
“She would have,” John called to Carvey’s retreating form.
But Carvey was wrong about one thing. John hadn’t married Helena out of love.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t care for her by doing all he could to protect her, though. That’s why he was out right now, to put the ugly matter of the blackmail to rest. Or at least make a solid attempt.
John turned up the collar of his coat and hastened onward. Although his investigator had turned up little about the blackmailer, John determined to keep searching. Which was why he’d decided to meet the latest demand in person, at the metalsmith of Travers & Sons.
And ask a long list of questions about the person collecting the payments.
For Helena’s sake. So they could put their troubles behind them.
And as Carvey said, time was a luxury he couldn’t afford to waste.
Chapter Eighteen
“The promise of toys can settle all manner of disputes,” Frances said with a sly wink at Helena as they stood inside one of the toy vendors at the shopping bazaar. “Not five minutes ago they fought over the mechanical bear, and now they are sharing the toy soldiers.”
“For now.” Helena chuckled as the twins examined a set of lead soldiers on display. Alex and Callum weighed the figures in the
ir hands and stood them end to end, their rapid speech expressing their approval. “I suspect within five minutes, they’ll be arguing over which of them can pretend to be the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. Neither likes taking the part of Napoleon.”
“No surprise there.” Frances shrugged. “Perhaps one can pretend to be the Prussians. Although they do not wear scarlet, like the toys do.”
“The boys’ imaginations can easily overcome such a trifle.” Helena glanced over at Margaret, who lingered beside a grand paperboard theater. Louisa held Margaret’s hand, her head cocked as she listened to Margaret’s descriptions of the red paper curtains and little board dolls who performed on the stage.
The movement of the pock-cheeked toy vendor drew her gaze back to the boys. He gathered one of the toy soldiers, running his index finger down the soldier’s painted front. “See the brass buttons? Quality to detail and a reasonable price.”
“May we get them, please?” Alex was at her sleeve in an instant.
“Please?” Callum echoed.
Margaret approached in a swish of apple-green cloak. “You have soldiers already. Enough to trip us as we cross the floor.”
“That is true.” Helena tipped her head, considering.
“But these are a new regiment.” Callum’s voice rose in pitch.
“Margaret found a script and paper characters for Cinderella,” Louisa announced.
“And Hamlet.” Margaret held out sheaves of paper. “For the paper theater.”
“My,” Frances exclaimed. “I had a marvelous time producing Hamlet in my own toy theater. I drew costumes and set pieces with my cousins. What happy days.”
How fun—Helena had created paper dolls, although she’d never had a theater for them. Neither did the children. “What about a theater?”
Margaret grinned. “We have one, at Comraich. We didn’t play with it for a while, so it was put in the attic until we missed it.”
“We miss it,” Louisa insisted. It was difficult not to laugh, because Louisa’s insistence probably had more to do with acquiring something about Cinderella than any memories she might have of the theater.
A Mother For His Family Page 17
