“The gifts are another cog in the wheel that moves me along their aristocratic wedding mill,” she said. “They are not the worst part of today, but their mountain of gifts is wasteful.” She frowned at the heavily laden table.
He was quiet for a moment, and she reminded herself that he didn’t care, not about the gifts or the terrible women. He wouldn’t ask.
“What,” he sighed, “is the worst part?”
She glanced at him, feeling another eruption in her chest. She said, “The worst part is that they pretend. They carry on as if we are all in accord.”
“You could be in accord,” he said. “With them—with all of it. England is awash in women who live full lives despite being married to . . . to—”
“Men for whom they have no respect? Men who are ignorant and dullards and drunk by noon?”
“I was going to say, their opposite.”
“Lusk is not my opposite, he is my . . . my . . . abbreviation.”
“Very poetic. What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I am forced to be his wife, my existence will be cut down to a sort of foggy, half-lived, shorthand version of what it could be. My drooped shoulders and blank expression will stand in for what my whole self would otherwise do.”
She stepped away from the table. “I’ve but one life, Shaw. I will not waste it being bound to him. I will not.”
The words came out more strident and desperate than she intended, but they were so deeply felt. She found herself propelled by emotion back into the party.
Her next strategy was to glean one name each from various women who had marriageable daughters and fellow debutantes this season. Competition is a great incubator of gossip, and ten minutes later, she returned with another name.
“Miss Jessica Marten,” she told Shaw, bustling up. “Daughter of Sir Reginald Marten, who is apparently an esteemed Egyptologist. Her father has enlisted her as his private secretary and expects her to devote her life to his work, but she loathes academia in general and couldn’t care less about Egypt. She never had a debut, but she has society friends, and she complains about her lot. She can be found most days at the British Museum, pressed into service for her father. Apparently, she is on the hunt for the highest-ranking title she can find, as only marriage to a lord would free her from her father’s work. Very red hair. Curls.”
Shaw resisted less this time, scratching out the name before she could repeat it. Helena took a deep breath and paced around the gift table, her mind spinning. Four names. All of them were beautiful, according to the talk. She was encouraged. She would interview one potential duchess every day. A duchess a day. Until she found a girl perfect enough to make Lusk defy his uncle.
“You might endeavor to smile,” Shaw said. “Feign some sort of frivolity.”
He took up a velvet pouch tied with a red bow and held it out. “It’s not a dead bird,” he said. “It’s a gift. Show surprise and delight.”
She reached out and snatched the pouch. “Thank you for helping me,” she said.
“I’m not helping you. I’m keeping a closer watch. Isn’t this how you convinced me?” He cocked a sardonic brow.
Helena’s stomach lit up with a rain of shimmering sparks. She smiled at him, thinking of the stable. If she was being honest, Declan Shaw’s very presence made the terrible party tolerable. He was funny and confident and solid. He had a strong, anchoring quality that gave her a boost every time she looked at him. She was far more interested in speaking to him than anyone else.
But perhaps that was why she’d asked him to come. Not to test his loyalties or take dictation, but simply to have an ally.
She dropped the pouch with a thunk and took up a crystal goblet. Raising her eyes, she stared at him over the rim. He held that stare and her stomach shimmered again.
After a moment he said, “I need to apologize for last night.”
So he did think of the stable.
Helena frowned. “Please do not.”
The stable had exhilarated Helena. It tapped into fresh reserves of her will to fight. It made her think beyond the canceled wedding, to a future where she might meet a man she really did wish to marry and a lifetime of exhilarating dark stables.
“We were reckless last night,” she said. “I did not seek you out to be . . . to be contentious.”
“You’re worried about contention?” He made a choking noise.
“Yes, of course. But here is not the place to discuss it.” She couldn’t entertain an apology. If he thought she was traumatized by kissing him, he was wrong. She’d come alive when she’d kissed him.
She moved away, wrinkling her nose. “I’m going back in,” she sighed, but she didn’t move.
“You steal away into the night,” he marveled, “creep around dark stables with your groom, but these women you find challenging?”
“These women,” she said, “have feasted on the gossip of my evasions these last five years, and now they feast on the gossip of me being brought to heel. They look innocent to you, don’t they? Of course they do. Their voices are hushed, their movements are restricted. Do not be fooled. They achieve this through tight corsets and tighter breeding, but they will not bind and breed me. How right my grandmother was to warn me.”
“And you believe they cannot see your disdain?”
“They don’t care if I’m disdainful.” Helena sighed, drifting away. “They only care if I do as I’m told.”
With this, she melted back into the party. A half hour later, she returned with: “Lady Genevieve Vance, daughter of the Earl of Nooning. Classic English rose with blonde hair and blue eyes. She lives in Blenheim Street but can be frequently found in the shops; she has accounts all around Mayfair. Jewelry and hats are a particular favorite. She would leap at a chance for the Lusk fortune.” Helena wrinkled up her nose. “Apparently.”
“So terrible, a fortune,” he mumbled, not looking up from his notes.
“Write it down,” she whispered. “Lady Genevieve Vance, with the shopping and the money. And Lady Rodericka Newton, daughter of Viscount Jennings. Apparently she has a great wish for a high-ranking title simply because she loves to manage things. The family is from Yorkshire but they live in Curzon Street when they are in London. I can apparently encounter her at any society ball or function. She and her mother are said never to decline an invitation. She has black hair and hazel eyes.”
Shaw was shaking his head, but he scribbled the notes. Helena forced herself to feign interest in the gifts. Snatching a box at random, she held it up and examined its peach-colored tissue and mossy ribbon. The longer the list grew, the more eager Helena became to have it in her possession.
“You’ve been very good to do this, Shaw,” she said, looking up at the sky. “I—Your participation has exceeded my expectations. I cannot say what I expected, but it was not this.”
“You and I both,” he mumbled.
Dark rain clouds had begun to scuttle the sun and the garden was cast in dark shadows. A chilly wind descended, strewing linen napkins and fluttering hat feathers.
“I believe this party may meet an untimely end,” she said, backing away. “I’d feel better if I had one more name. I cannot say when I’ll have this opportunity again. Let me take one final turn.”
A quarter hour later, she returned with, “Miss Joanna Keep. She resides in Cumberland Place but spends her days at her uncle’s medical office in Wimpole Street. Apparently she is his apprentice. He’s a surgeon of some merit. She has a fascination with sickness and healing and surgical theaters. They say she would do anything to marry a duke because of the access to hospitals she’d enjoy as duchess.” Helena let out a deep breath. “I cannot imagine that Lusk would fancy someone quite so high-minded, but apparently she is very beautiful. Curly blonde hair, the usual.”
Shaw stared at her a long moment, almost as if he thought she’d made the whole thing up.
“What?” she said. “Can you not take it down?”
He continued to look, his brow
n eyes blinking, and then took up the pen and scribbled. “That makes seven,” he said.
She nodded, staring at the storm clouds. “It will have to be enough. This party will soon enjoy a very cold, very thorough soaking. Lady Canning has said she will move us inside, but hopefully rain will send everyone home instead.”
And now, the moment of truth.
She held out a hand. “Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I’ll take the list now, if you please.”
Shaw stared over her shoulder. His expression was unreadable.
“Shaw?”
“Look smart,” he whispered. “Your mother.”
Helena turned to see the countess marching across the garden, waving at guests as they disappeared into the house.
“Helena?” called the countess. Her sisters trailed behind like ducklings. “Helena, every time I look, you are in the shadows, talking to staff. Come away from there at once. The rain has held, but the sky may open at any moment. The guests are leaving and we must see them off.”
“I’m reminding myself of the gifts, Mama,” she called, “so I may thank departing guests. My groom Shaw has a list.”
The countess reached them, shaking her head. “Do not touch a gift on this table, Shaw,” ordered Lady Pembrook. “Titus has an elaborate protocol for ducal correspondence and the proper inventorying and displaying of gifts.”
She looked at Helena. “Leave the staff to their work, Helena. Titus wishes to inspect everything, God knows why, and he will instruct the grooms.”
The sky rumbled, eliciting a chorus of titters from Helena’s sisters. Drops of intermittent rain began to pelt the lush garden. The countess made a noise of exasperation.
“Inside, all of you,” Lady Pembrook snapped, herding the four girls into the house. She took Helena by the arm.
“But, Mama,” Helena protested.
“But nothing. You’ve hovered over the gifts long enough. People will begin to think you’re grasping. Come with me at once.” She tugged Helena by the arm.
Casting a final glance over her shoulder, Helena mouthed the words, I want that list.
Chapter Eight
Declan had the overwhelming desire to take up the nearest wedding gift and lob it into Lady Canning’s fountain. He took up a box and tested its weight. A vase? Candlesticks? It would hit the lily-strewn water with a satisfying splat.
He flipped it, hauling back, and—
“Ah, there you are,” said Titus Girdleston, coming around the pillar of the garden gate. Declan snatched the package from the air.
Girdleston stepped to the table like a pirate surveying his trove. “We’ll want the gifts loaded into the carriages before the rain. But take care that the presentation remains intact. Ribbons and trim and, of course, each card must be carefully preserved. We’ve brought trunks with straw to pack any loose ends. Most things will doubtless be fragile.”
Declan stared at him.
Did the man have no desire to learn how the future duchess managed the party? Was he curious about why Declan now stood in the garden instead of in the mews? Would there be no accounting? No briefing?
Perhaps Helena was correct. Perhaps they only noticed her when she was running away.
Declan had told himself he’d do her bidding because it allowed him to keep watch on her. The closer he was, the better he could understand her plan. In theory, this was true. He’d gained her trust, and learned her game, and the evidence was tucked securely in his vest pocket. He’d done his bloody job.
The next obvious step was to hand the list to the old man.
Give him the list, Declan ordered in his head.
He did nothing.
He felt the heat of the parchment burning a hole in his pocket, and he wondered if he would allow it to simply burn him alive.
“You heard me, man,” harrumphed Girdleston. “The weather will not hold. Carry on with the loading of these gifts.”
Staring at him a moment more, Declan scooped up an armful of boxes and turned toward the gate.
“Not in a jumble,” scolded Girdleston. “One at a time.” The old man plucked each package from Declan’s arms, relieving him of all but one box.
“Now it shall be protected,” cooed Girdleston, dispatching him again. Declan said nothing and trudged away.
Two other grooms joined the procession, working quickly to outpace the rain. Girdleston watched from beneath a tightly clenched umbrella, stepping out to inspect this or that parcel and to hurry them along. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Declan thought, did not monitor Britain’s coffers more closely than Titus Girdleston pouring over his nephew’s gifts.
With each circuit, Declan said to himself, Give him the list.
The threatening rain, at last, began to pound the garden, and another groom scrambled to distribute overcoats. The coat was warm and dry, and Declan thought of the list in his pocket. What if it got wet? What if it disintegrated? It couldn’t be helped.
But that felt like a coward’s way out.
Perhaps he could give the list to Girdleston in private. Or Declan could use it himself to watch Lady Helena more closely. He’d only need to restrict her movements if the information on the list became actionable.
Not for the first time, he estimated the odds of her locating these women. After that, of approaching them.
She will absolutely locate them and approach them, he thought, delivering the final gift to the carriage.
“Tom has the last of it, I think,” said Nettle, an older groom who had been friendly since Declan’s first day. “We could’ve managed with two carriages if the ladies could balance one or two packages in their laps.”
Declan nodded and circled the third vehicle, checking the contents. He was just about to slam the door when he saw Girdleston stomping up the alley, his giant umbrella pumping.
Tell him, Declan ordered himself. His hand went to the list in his pocket.
Tell him.
“Just in time!” called Girdleston. “We’ve missed the worst of the rain. I shall ride in the second carriage, and the third will be empty except for the balance of the gifts. The women will ride lead, as before. Let us pull ’round to the front of the house. They should depart presently.”
Declan hesitated. He could tell him without even explaining. He could thrust the parchment in Girdleston’s direction and claim he didn’t know what it meant. The old man would be confused and Helena could make up a lie.
If he did it now, it would be finished. He’d be doing his bloody job.
He opened his mouth to say something. The moment stretched, suspending in the damp air like a swinging rope at the top of its arc. No words came. He bit off his glove and put his hand to the list in his pocket. He paused—
And then suddenly Nettle was there, helping Girdleston into the carriage. The coachman clicked to his team. Grooms scurried to take positions.
The rope began its downward fall, taking the opportunity with it.
Declan swore and leapt onto the runner of the third vehicle.
There will be another time, he told himself.
If nothing else, at least his participation today was not nearly as bad as what he’d done last night.
Today amounted to a report that hasn’t yet happened, he thought.
Today was shite bad timing.
Helena Lark is not my problem.
When the carriages lurched from the alley, Nettle dispatched Declan to the center of Brook Street to stop traffic in both directions. The rain increased, and he stood in the cold downpour, ignoring drivers and riders as they shouted profanity. When at last he’d managed to stop traffic, the carriages bounced into road-blocking positions before Lady Canning’s front door.
Ten minutes later, the rain abated, and Lady Helena and her family clipped down the steps with heads ducked and skirts raised to avoid the mud.
Declan was careful to give the lead carriage a very wide berth, allowing other grooms to form the necessary phalanx of umbrellas and outstretched hands.
Lady Helena, thank God, was obscured. It was better if he couldn’t see her. Instead, he stood stoically in the splash of passing carts, soaking to the bone, and didn’t look.
“I should like to ride with some of my gifts . . .”
Her voice rose above the drum of raindrops.
Declan squeezed his eyes shut.
“Do not bother yourself, Mama,” she could be heard saying. “I prefer a moment alone after the crush of a party.”
No, Declan thought, slinging rain from his eyes and squinting through the mist. Five yards away, Lady Pembrook and her daughters scrambled to the front carriage amid lingering rain. All daughters, save one.
Lady Helena picked her way to him in the wet street. Another groom darted after her, trying to shield her with an umbrella. Declan swore and met them halfway, taking the umbrella handle like a baton in a race. Lady Helena huddled close.
“I want,” she said lowly, “my list.”
Declan scanned the street, checking the location of her family, the other grooms, and Girdleston, who appeared to be tucked tightly inside the dryness of the second carriage. A cold wind had begun to churn the last spitting drops of rain. The street was a slurry of mud and dancing horses. The wind yanked Lady Helena’s skirt, sending it twisting and dancing; raindrops speckled the indigo with dark dots. Her coiffeur was rapidly dissolving in the rain.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, holding out an insistent indigo-gloved hand.
“I mean to tell Girdleston,” Declan said, hustling her to the door of the carriage. He whipped it open and extended the steps. “Get in.”
“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “Shaw—no. Let us come to some agreement, make a deal. In exchange for the list.”
“No,” he said again. “Get inside the carriage.”
“Give me the list, and I will make it worth your while,” she said. Something like panic had begun to creep into her eyes. He looked away.
“It was ruined in the rain,” he said. “We’re going.”
“I don’t believe you. Let me see it.”
“We cannot stand in the muddy street and quarrel about it, get in.”
A Duchess a Day Page 7
