A Mother For His Family

by Susanne Dietze

  No, he could not fall in love with Helena.

  He must not.

  He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and quickened his step.

  * * *

  Helena’s hands trembled slightly a week later when the dainty linen draper’s assistant offered a bolt of silk for her inspection.

  Helena wanted to cringe, but it wasn’t the assistant’s fault the fabric resembled that of her wedding dress, the gown that made Papa look on her with disgust. She forced a smile. “Nothing white.”

  Frances, her companion for the afternoon, tipped her head. “No? You look becoming in white. I always thought so.”

  Still bruised from Papa’s words about her lacking purity and her marriage being nothing to be joyful about, Helena shook her head. She wouldn’t be wearing white again for some time, if ever. “The embroidery pattern is pretty. You should buy it.”

  “I wish stark white didn’t make me look ill. Usually I do not care a jot for the fancies of fashion, but I am relieved colored bodices are becoming popular for ball gowns. You should get it for the skirt.”

  Helena chuckled. “I don’t think I will require many ball gowns in Perthshire.”

  “For an evening gown, then. Styles are changing, waistlines dropping.” Frances exchanged nods with the tiny assistant, who set aside the silk for her. “I’m sure you have something new to wear to the party tonight at Lord Holliver’s.”

  “Alas, no.” Helena’s tone was light. “I will wear something from last season.”

  “Dreadful.” Frances tut-tutted like she was chucking a cat under the chin.

  Meeting one another’s gazes, they burst into laughter. Mama would be mortified if she saw it.

  “Oh, how good it is to hear your laugh.” Frances fingered a length of sprigged muslin. “You’ve seemed preoccupied today.”

  “Forgive me—I am.” With the children. Frederick Coles. And with her husband.

  He’d been occupied with work this past week, but he’d made time for the children, taking the boys to Hyde Park, listening to readings of both Cinderella and Don Quixote multiple times, and enjoying a dainty tea with Louisa and Tabitha. He’d walked Iona with Margaret and promised to teach her how to drive the pony cart this summer when the House of Lords prorogued. Sunday after church, they’d dined all together, but he’d excused himself afterward, claiming too much work to sit with her that evening.

  She’d sought him out twice. Once, to remind him about Lord Holliver’s invitation. He’d grimaced and questioned the wisdom of it, should Frederick be in attendance, but remained adamant that he’d go with her. A second time, when she’d searched out Iona, he’d shown her a new article on Frederick, whom the newspaper had dubbed Frederick “The Finder” Coles after he’d “discovered” an emerald-tipped stickpin on the floor of his party host, Mr. Covell, who’d thought it safely tucked into a drawer upstairs.

  Half of London thought Frederick’s “heroism” astonishing. Helena wanted to screech whenever his name came up, and though John tried to hide it, his fingers fisted, too—

  “Helena?” Frances’s query drew Helena to the present, where the tiny assistant stood holding a bolt of yolk-yellow silk. “What of this?”

  “Perhaps something paler.” She turned to examine spools of trim. Purchasing fabrics to take back to Scotland with her in a few weeks might be unnecessary, but she’d thought an outing with Frances would offer a chance to speak about the note Frances had sent her about Frederick Coles.

  It was a successful shopping trip, too. She’d found several things she liked, in every color but white, from blues similar to those she’d chosen to remake her rooms at Comraich to black bombazine, a necessary purchase to have on hand should it be required for mourning attire. Word was the king grew more ill by the day.

  The assistant returned with fabric of medium-yellow hue, embroidered with flowers. “Evening primrose, milady?”

  “Yes, set that aside.” But not for her. The girls would look lovely in it.

  While the assistant dashed away, Frances leaned close. “When you wrote inviting me to shop ‘and discuss Frederick Coles,’ I wondered what you thought of my note last week.”

  “I dared not reply in writing, and I hesitate to discuss among others’ hearing.” She glanced about and found the shop empty, for the moment. “How well do you know him?”

  “He called on me three seasons past, but not because he sought my friendship.” Frances shuddered. “His handsome face masks a foul intent.”

  Was Frances one of the others Frederick had referred to, one of the women he’d attacked as a challenge? Could Helena confide in Frances what Frederick had done to her?

  The earnest look in Frances’s blue eyes made the decision easy. Helena took her friend’s hand. “I thought he was my friend, too. But he wasn’t.”

  Frances’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, darling friend, did he—”

  Helena nodded.

  “I shall never tell anyone, but you must know you are not to blame for his wrongdoing. I narrowly avoided such a fate because we were discovered, but I have often wondered if he behaved so villainously with another. I’ve borne guilt for not speaking, but the disgrace of such a thing as he does is—well, I see you understand.” She squeezed Helena’s hand, and looked at her with compassion, not judgment. “Suffice to say, I was horrified to read in the Post this morning about Frederick ‘Finder’ Coles thwarting yet another attack by the so-called Thief of Mayfair.”

  Helena forced a laugh. “He has become quite the hero. First he recovers Bridgewater’s jewels, and now stumbles upon Mr. Covell’s emerald stickpin.”

  “Mr. Covell lost a small sum that night, I’ve heard. As at Lord Bridgewater’s, the thief managed to dash away with something of value while leaving a thing or two behind.” Frances leaned closer. “I have no proof but shall say it outright—he is not The Finder but the thief. I am convinced he needs funds.”

  “He is a blackguard.”

  Frances scowled. “I pray he is caught, in some way or another, before he harms someone else.”

  “Precisely.” Helena strove to keep her voice down. “That’s what I wished to speak to you about. How do you catch a thief—”

  The assistant’s return stopped her speech. She smiled and issued instructions settling the account and sending the purchases to the town house before turning to Frances. “I’ve an idea to share with you.”

  Once they were seated in the carriage, Helena spun on the plush seat to face Frances. “I’m hoping Frederick Coles will attend Lord Holliver’s musicale tonight.”

  “I do not. It would quite ruin the evening.”

  “I shall amend then—I’m hoping Frederick, the Thief of Mayfair, strikes tonight. And I’d like to catch him when he does. If he cannot be punished for what he did to me—and others—then he will at least go to prison for thievery.”

  Frances’s blue eyes widened. Then she grinned. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The next evening, John’s gaze closely followed his wife as she sailed about Holliver’s salon, where the guests milled after listening to a soprano. She greeted acquaintances, fluttering this way and that like thistle down on a breeze.

  She was beautiful, a vision in her gown of pale pink, but her loveliness wasn’t why he kept close watch on her.

  Coles was here, and John wouldn’t let the blackguard within three feet of her. How could Helena stand being in the same room with him? Since their marriage, she’d been in turns furious and afraid over what Coles did to her—rightly so—but now she glided through the room, unwilling to go home, as if Coles’s presence didn’t bother her in the least.

  Except—yes, there was a subtle working of a muscle in her jaw. She was not happy about Coles’s being here, but she was a better actor than he. John might be schooled at hiding his emotions in the most heated of
debates at Westminster, but the desire to draw and quarter Frederick Coles was proving much harder to conceal.

  John craned his neck as Helena disappeared behind a group of gentlemen. Ah, there was a flash of pink—

  “Your wife is a vision, isn’t she?”

  John’s molars ground together as Frederick Coles drew alongside, reeking of bergamot cologne and arrogance. “Brave of you to speak to me in public, Coles. Do you have the courage to meet me outside?”

  Coles’s eyes flashed with something like fear, but he quickly hid it behind a grin. “Calm yourself, Lord Ardoch. I wasn’t sure she’d told you about us—”

  John gripped Coles’s arm. He didn’t care who saw. He didn’t care if he left bruises on the villain’s skin. “Leave her be, am I clear? Better yet, leave London.”

  “Unhand me, before someone wonders why you are so cross and guesses how well I know Helena.” Coles’s tone was light, but his upper lip betrayed him by trembling.

  “You don’t know her at all.” John released Coles’s arm and watched him move away. Coles’s practiced saunter had a hitch in it.

  Lord help me, but I could do violence to the blackguard.

  Praying, John breathed deeply. Calm slowly lapped over his heated skin, even if his fury over Coles didn’t entirely fade. Perhaps it never would.

  At least Coles seemed to be giving Helena a wide berth. And Helena—and the rest of the party—seemed oblivious to John’s taking hold of Coles.

  “Have you no sense of pretense, man?”

  Well, almost everyone had been oblivious. His father-in-law, the Duke of Kelworth, appeared at John’s elbow, glowering at him before shooting an equally unhappy glare in Coles’s direction.

  Since Kelworth had dispensed with pleasantries, so would John. “It was a quiet conversation, Your Grace.”

  Kelworth harrumphed. “Your hands are still clenched.”

  So they were. “I suggested we leave the moment Coles arrived, but your daughter refused.”

  “She was right.” With an artificial smile, Kelworth nodded at an acquaintance before turning back to John. “Overt rudeness will cause speculation. So would our abrupt departures from this insipid rout—I didn’t even wish to come, but my wife was most insistent. So now, to spare us all from speculation, we must act as if Coles is beneath our concern, as opposed to giving the appearance you might challenge him to a duel.”

  John glanced at his father-in-law. “Helena told you?”

  Kelworth sputtered. “I was tossing ideas to the wind. Truly, Ardoch? A duel?”

  “It was a moment of madness.” No wonder Helena hadn’t taken him the least bit seriously. Now, she looked almost happy, her arm linked with her friend Frances Fennelwick’s as they drifted along the wall of French doors to the terrace, which were closed against the cold winter evening.

  “Remember the goal, Ardoch. Protecting our honor.”

  “’Tis more important I protect Helena.”

  “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  Not in the slightest, but it wouldn’t do to argue with Kelworth here, not about Coles, or about the duke’s handling of what happened to Helena.

  Kelworth turned away to cough, and something shifted in John’s chest. Perhaps it was the lighting, but the duke’s skin seemed sallow, his eyes weary and shadowed. Helena was right: her father was not well. And John pitied him.

  For his ill health. For having been gifted with three daughters—including Helena—and not truly knowing them at all. For placing his perception of honor above Helena’s well-being. Most of all, for not knowing God.

  Thank you for sending Helena to me, Lord, to show me how important my children are and saving me from this poor man’s lot.

  His coughing fit passed, Kelworth occupied himself with brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. “If you do not want Helena or any of us to be the subject of gossip, it would be wise to model her actions. And my wife’s. See how they circulate the room, as is appropriate, while I do the same.”

  Indeed, the Duchess of Kelworth spoke in hushed tones to their gray-haired host, Lord Holliver, breaking off to greet the duke’s brother, Lord Cecil Stanhope, and his wife, Lady Davinia, but they did not return her falsely bright smile.

  There was not much affection between them, to be sure, for whatever reason. John didn’t much care why at the moment. The whole idea of more artificial smiles and pretending was beyond wearisome. It was ridiculous.

  He preferred a quiet night at home with Helena and the children.

  But he was here for his wife, and he knew as well as Kelworth how society worked. “I shall endeavor to behave, Your Grace.”

  Did the man almost smile? “Then I’ll take my leave of you. But oh—have you heard the grim news of the king? It is said he can no longer walk.”

  Carvey had told him. “Our prayers are with the royal family.”

  Kelworth nodded, leaving John alone to watch Helena and Coles in turn while making overtures at being sociable. He’d chatted with a handful of fellows when his host, Lord Holliver, joined him with a bow. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Your wife is the loveliest lady here.”

  For some reason, the compliment sounded both genuine and barbed. Like Helena’s family, Holliver probably thought John beneath her in station.

  “Thank you. I certainly think so.”

  “I was curious about her marrying you. None of us knew you’d met, but I understand her cousin is your neighbor.” It wasn’t a question inviting conversation. More like an observation to himself. Then he glanced at John. “Pardon me. I should see to other guests.”

  John nodded his farewell, thoughtful. Hadn’t Helena mentioned a viscount had offered to marry her and been refused by her father? Was it Holliver?

  Quite possibly. John may not be the most intuitive fellow, but Lord Holliver’s gaze followed Helena with open admiration. He’d probably fancied Helena once upon a time. John couldn’t blame him.

  He continued to watch after his wife, seeing her in a way he never had before. This was her life before she married him—parties among the highest born of society, elegance and splendor. Aside from Coles being in the room, Helena was probably enjoying herself more than she had in months.

  This was her realm, not Scotland. Drawing rooms, not nurseries. The haut ton, not Highlanders. She’d chosen to be here among them tonight, rather than stay at home with him and the children. Even though Coles was here.

  He and Helena might be married, might be friends, even, but they were of different worlds. How quickly he’d forgotten.

  * * *

  Helena shivered, but not from the cold in this overwarm room. She was made of ice, stiff and brittle and ready to break. Her face would crack from these smiles, this pretending she didn’t want to retch each time Frederick Coles strode past.

  Her cheeks pained from holding her smile in place. “If it weren’t for you, Frances, I should be in pieces.”

  “Nonsense.” Frances jiggled their interlocked arms. “I shall not let you go, and it shouldn’t be too long now.” Her steps faltered. “Look.”

  Frederick slipped to the salon door, glancing behind him. He could be going any number of places in the house, but Helena doubted he had innocent intent. “Do you think the Thief of Mayfair is about to strike again?”

  “And Frederick ‘The Finder’ Coles will play hero?” Frances’s grip tightened. “We will prove to all they are one and the same when we catch Frederick alone, pilfering Lord Holliver’s wares.”

  Helena pulled Frances toward the door. “And he’ll be punished, for this crime, at least, if not his others.” And he wouldn’t hurt anyone else again.

  The ladies hurried after Frederick, but the reception hall off the salon was empty, devoid even of servants. “He’s upstairs already.” Frances extricated her arm from Helena’s. “Let’s go.”

  T
hey were five steps up when a short, snub-nosed man dressed in dingy brown ran down the stairs and bolted past them. Frederick followed, a gold chain dangling from his fingers.

  “Thief! The Thief of Mayfair!” His brows were pulled low in indignation.

  That meant—Frederick was not the Thief of Mayfair? It was another man after all?

  John rushed from the salon. Lord Holliver was close behind, followed by numerous guests. John reached Helena’s side before she could exhale.

  He pulled her away from Frances. “Did he touch you?”

  “The thief?” Her head shook. Then she realized he meant Frederick, who’d rushed downstairs and was loudly telling everyone he’d interrupted the Thief of Mayfair. Lord Holliver issued instructions for the burglar to be pursued, and servants rushed to and fro while guests thickened the hall. But John still waited, his green-eyed stare intent on hers.

  She shook her head again. “No one touched me.”

  His nostrils flared, the only evidence of his emotion. But was it anger, or fear? “You left the salon. And he’d left.”

  Both anger and fear, perhaps. “I’d scarce been gone thirty seconds. And I was with Frances.”

  “Nevertheless I feared he might taunt you or otherwise cause you distress.” Lines of anguish marred his cheeks and encircled his eyes. “Helena—”

  “Lady Ardoch.” Frederick dared speak her name—not to her, but in conversation with an enraptured crowd. “She saw the thief’s face. Miss Fennelwick did, too, and I am grateful such reputable ladies can attest to tonight’s events.”

  The way he looked at her when he called her reputable, as if he was so earnest it could only be a mockery, made her fingers itch to slap him. Her hand lifted an inch.

  But every eye seemed fixed on her.

  “Is it true, Lady Ardoch?” Lord Holliver’s voice was gentle. “You saw the Thief of Mayfair?”

  She nodded. “Briefly, but I can describe him to the authorities.”

  Mama took Lord Holliver’s arm. “Her memory is excellent. So is her sister Maria’s. Such an observant young lady—”