In a stiff chair in the center of the table slumped a young woman with fiery red hair and an ink-stained apron. She appeared to be asleep across an open book.
Helena shot Declan a hopeful smile and stepped through the door. She cleared her throat. She gave a chair a gentle shove. The loud screeching sound of wood on stone rang through the hall. The woman did not stir.
Declan scanned the room for potential threats and found it empty except for bookshelves and open cases of artifacts. Another door on the opposite end was shut. Helena inched closer to the woman with intentionally loud steps. The sleeping girl began to snore.
Helena stepped closer and said, “I beg your pardon.”
At last, the girl jerked up with a start, blinked three times, and stared down at the open book before her. She frowned.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” ventured Helena.
The girl turned her face, squinting her eyes at the intrusion. “Oh. Sorry,” she said. “There are no exhibits in this room. This area is devoted to research for faculty and staff. If you’re looking for the sarcophagi, they’re actually—”
“Are you, by chance, Miss Jessica Marten?” Helena cut in.
The girl paused, looking confused. “I am Jessica Marten.”
“Oh, lovely,” said Helena. “I am Lady Helena Lark, and I’ve been searching for you . . .”
Declan drifted just outside the door to stand guard, hearing their conversation in snatches.
“Forgive my intrusion, but we have a friend in common, and she said I might find you here,” Helena began.
“No friend of mine would knowingly send someone to this or any museum,” said Miss Marten tiredly. “Forgive me, Lady—”
“Helena.”
“Right, Lady Helena. It’s been a very long week and it’s only Thursday. You’ll forgive me, I’m in a foul mood.”
“Oh . . .” said Helena. “Have you been met with some . . . frustration? In your work?”
“Well, the work that I do is entirely my father’s,” she said, stifling a yawn, “and it is the very soul of frustration. This week and every week.”
“You don’t enjoy the research that you do on behalf of your father? I can only imagine the reward of collaborating with a historian of such merit.”
“I can see how one might make that assumption,” said Miss Marten tiredly. “But if they’d spent years of their life—as I have been forced to do—in a dim, smoky museum among mummified bodies and ancient texts, they might not feel the same way.”
“But it is not your choice to assist your father?”
“Ah, no.”
“But he . . . forces you to assist him?”
“What can I say? He began my training very young; now I’m the only one who knows the languages, knows his filing system, knows the ghouls who run the research library. Who else is there to do it? Until I have something better to do—such as a proper husband and family of my own—I am expected to be here, transcribing hieroglyphics, until my mind is numb and my eyes are shot.” Another yawn.
“You are unmarried?” asked Helena.
“It’s difficult to locate a husband in the bowels of the British Museum. Most of the men here have been mummified. Figuratively or literally.”
“You enjoyed no debut Season, I take it?” asked Helena.
There was a pause. Miss Marten said, “No. I did not enjoy a debut. My father did not find a London Season to be a useful allocation of time or money. When we are in London, we must be here. Rapidly expiring of boredom.” She slammed the book shut. “I’m sorry, what friend did you say sent you? How can I help you?”
“Oh, right. Well, honestly, I cannot remember the friend. A woman I met at a party. And the reason I am here is to offer you a proposition . . .”
The conversation went from there and Declan shook his head, impressed by her cool mastery of the art of saying just enough. She carefully drew out a kind of exhausted honesty from Miss Marten—her desire to crawl from beneath the thumb of her father and the boredom of her current life—and her willingness to do anything to become a duchess.
Helena was so good at it Declan marveled that she devoted so much of her life to apples and forests. He was just about to step away for a closer look at the fox-like face of a stone carving when he caught sight of a smudged figure across the room. His eyes followed the movement. It was a hurried person in a dark velvet cloak, cutting a fast line to the far door.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. It was the cloaked figure from the market. He took a step closer, looking again. Yes, he was certain.
The hood was up, which was wholly unnecessary in the dim museum, and the figure shuffled along with a fast but not necessarily stealthy pace.
Declan began to follow, not chasing but also not allowing this person to duck into a dark corner or dissolve into the gloom.
It was impossible to distinguish gender or age. The figure had no apparent purpose in the museum—he or she wasn’t hunched over an exhibit or gazing at statuary. It was as if the person was using the halls of the museum to get from one point to another.
Or as if they were following him. Or Helena.
Declan’s stomach pitched in outrage at the thought. He glanced back at Helena through the open door. Miss Marten had her head facedown on the desk, slowly shaking it back and forth, the universal symbol for I can’t take it, and Helena stood over her, gently speaking to her, a hand on her shoulder.
Fine, good, they were in the midst of their discussion. He could be spared. Declan left Helena to it.
The cloaked person ducked from the Egyptian Hall before Declan could reach the door. He sped up, walking just shy of a jog. His yellow livery made him appear phosphorescent in the murky museum and he wished for the officer’s coat.
When he reached the door outside the hall, the landing was empty. Declan swore, looking in any of three possible directions. He cocked his head and listened.
From the stairwell, he heard descending footsteps and the muted slide of the cloak trailing down steps. Declan followed, reaching the ground floor in time to see the shadow of the draped figure sliding from view.
He swore and leapt the last five steps, scanning the corridor.
Nothing.
The corridor emptied into a library, a cavernous, shelf-lined room that was crowded with patrons, including a squirming line of schoolboys and scrum of nuns. More than half the patrons were dressed in black.
Declan rushed in, mentally dividing the room into quadrants and searching each space—nothing.
If he had an hour to track this person, to speak to people, to scout entrances and exits and case the building, likely he could find them. But he’d left Helena alone for too long. If the cloaked figure doubled back and approached Helena from the opposite direction, she shouldn’t be alone.
Taking a final look around the library, Declan jogged back to the Egyptian Hall. When he rounded the sphinx, Helena rushed into view. Her smile lit up the dark museum.
“We’ve a second potential girl,” she exclaimed. “She wants it so very much.”
Chapter Seventeen
Seven Duchesses (Potential)
Happy ✓
Sneezy
Doc
Sleepy ✓
There were no outings for Helena the next day, not alone or with her mother. The household, and in fact all of London society, was preoccupied with the inaugural event of the Season, a masquerade ball known as Winter Solstice. The ball would take place that night, the longest of the year, but the day was devoted to perfecting costumes and masks.
As with all London parties, Helena had wanted to decline, but the ball promised access to two of the potential duchesses. She could observe the girls, possibly even approach them.
Two hours before the ball, Helena stood before her bed, staring at a spectrum of pink satin, trying to sort out some costume. She hadn’t wanted to bother with fittings and refused to have something commissioned. Girdleston had been appalled and offered to send
up a few possibilities. Helena reluctantly agreed. What did it matter what she wore?
“What do you think, Meg?” she sighed, looking at her maid.
“I can’t say that one stands out as the obvious choice,” said Meg charitably. “They are so opposite from your usual style, aren’t they? It’s as if Mr. Girdleston doesn’t know you at all.”
“Imagine that,” said Helena.
“But this is the point of a masquerade, I suppose,” the maid said. “You’d do justice to any of them, honestly.”
There was a knock on the door. Helena assumed it was tea, but when Meg opened the door, her middle sister, Camille, stepped into the room.
“Hallo,” Camille began boldly, her face overly bright.
“Hello yourself,” Helena said cautiously. She was not accustomed to friendly visits from her sisters. “Is something the matter?”
Camille shook her head. “I came to see what you would wear to the ball.”
Helena narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher Camille’s expression. Her sister had never paid any mind to Helena’s wardrobe.
She turned to the dresses on the bed. “Meg and I have come to understand that Girdleston favors me in pink.”
“Oh,” her sister said, frowning at the dresses. “Does he instruct what you wear?” She sounded horrified.
“Not typically, thank God, but he is very determined that my costume might complement the duke’s. I would rather die than match Lusk, but he’s sent up these options.”
The dresses splayed across the bed were pink, pinker, and glowing pink. The first was a pig-colored affair with exposed pantaloons, ribboned staff, straw hat, and wooden clogs. A Elizabethan-era goose girl?
The second was a bright pink profusion of ruffles sewn with a swarm of beaded butterflies. A coordinated mask represented the full wingspan of a pink-and-yellow butterfly, its exaggerated antenna affecting long eyebrows.
The final dress was a sugary pink confection with tiers and tiers of poufs that would make Helena feel like a wedding cake.
“These dresses give me a toothache,” said Camille.
Helena laughed and eyed her sister. Were they actually having a warm conversation? Camille’s comments were clever—Camille had always been clever—but her joke had the underlying tone of conciliation. Her sister was trying to say the correct things. Helena’s heart felt soft and light.
“I quite agree,” Helena said slowly. She turned to Meg. “The pinks are out of the question. But could we do something with my old aquamarine silk?”
She pulled a turquoise gown from the wardrobe, one of the last pieces her grandmother bought her before she’d died. Helena’s preference to stay in most evenings meant that her more formal gowns languished. The turquoise silk had always been a favorite, ethereal and mysterious and wholly unique. The blue-green fabric shimmered with an iridescent cast, and gauzy silk strips in three shades of aqua trailed from the shoulders and hips.
“Much better,” agreed Camille. “And you should wear your hair entirely down, loose and wild.”
“Perhaps I shall,” mused Helena.
Meg cut in, “I could weave fresh flowers in your hair, my lady. Just think of spring, when the apples are in full bloom with blossoms everywhere, including your hair. So pretty. The hothouse will not have apple blossoms, but I’ll work with whatever the gardeners have on hand.”
“Brilliant, Meg. That solves it. If anyone asks, I’m Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest.”
“What is Lusk’s costume?” asked Camille.
“Who knows? A Swarm of Locust, possibly? That would be fitting.”
The three women laughed, and Meg began to pack away the rejected pinks. Helena drifted to the window and collapsed, peering into the garden. “Tonight will be cold,” she said. “Perhaps I won’t stifle in the crush of the ballroom.”
“I don’t see how you tolerate it,” said Camille, “going to these things on Lusk’s arm. You don’t enjoy London parties, and you don’t enjoy Lusk. How do you manage?” She settled on the edge of the bed.
Helena shrugged. “I decline most invitations. When we do go out, I am friendly to the point of irritation. You saw this in the carriage to Wandsworth. Hope springs eternal that he will become so annoyed that he’ll tell Girdleston he won’t have me.”
“He won’t,” said Camille.
“And then I wait for him to abandon me,” Helena concluded. “Which he always does. Almost immediately. He has his own friends, his cards, his drink. We arrive together, but I leave alone.”
Camille nodded, toying with the embroidery on the coverlet.
“I’m sorry that I cannot carry on with this system for the rest of my life,” said Helena softly. “If I could, you and the girls would benefit from the dukedom.”
“Stop,” said Camille. “I would not benefit. Not at the price of your misery. And anyway, I don’t care about dukedoms.”
“Truly?” asked Helena, her eyes stinging with tears.
“Truly,” said Camille. “And I’m sorry that you ever believed this of me. Joan cannot see why you resist the wedding, but I can.”
“I’m grateful. And I don’t blame Joan, not really. Mama and Papa have planted the notion of prosperity and rank, and it has taken root. The idea, I believe, is that we should marry well and live two lives. A title and money on the one hand, and lovers or whatever else we wish to pursue on the other. I’m so glad that you can see beyond it.”
Camille was nodding her head. “The duplicity and resentment would kill you or me.”
“Let us live,” pronounced Helena, her voice cracking.
“You first,” chuckled Camille. “I’m following your lead. But I still worry for you. I wish I could be of more use to you tonight at the masquerade.”
Camille’s debut in London society was not until next year’s Season, so she and Theresa would remain at home.
“And what would you do to be useful?” asked Helena nervously. Her maid Meg was still in the room, pressing wrinkles from her gown.
“Whatever you have planned. To end the wedding.”
“What makes you think I’ve something planned?”
“I’m not stupid, Helena.” She rolled off the bed. “I don’t blame you for not telling me. It’s not as if we’ve been . . . close.”
“I should like us to be close,” Helena said lowly. To Meg, she said, “Would you mind checking for flowers, Meg? I love your idea for my hair.”
The maid bobbed her head and quit the room.
Despite their solitude, Helena whispered, “I’m grateful, Camille. Truly—more than you know. But you needn’t worry—”
“Stop,” Camille cut in. “It’s one thing to run away, quite another to . . . Well, I cannot guess what you’ve concocted.”
Her sister began to prowl the room. She looked determined and calculating and very sincere. Helena could feel herself beginning to trust. Her heart opened and beat in a newer, gladder way. She’d wanted this for so very long.
“Assuming that I have undertaken some . . .” Helena began, clearing her throat, “. . . some sabotage of the wedding to Lusk—not admitting anything, but assuming—”
Helena stopped talking. Her emotions were a painful jumble of fear and hope and anxiety and doubt. Her belly roiled with nerves. She slept poorly and barely ate. Her plan could unravel or explode at any moment. The girls they chose could lose heart or be failures at seduction. The girls they didn’t choose could gossip about being approached. The duke could ignore the potential duchesses, or he could love them but still refuse to throw her over.
There were so many more things that could go wrong and only one very improbable thing that could go right.
And then, underlying it all, superseding it all, was Declan.
Totally unexpected, but now wholly central.
He’d begun as a means to an end, and now, in Helena’s mind, he seemed like the very embodiment of “the end.”
She’d fallen in love with him, of this she had no doubt. Her realiza
tion of this had been like discovering she was soaking wet even as she’d willingly waded into a stream. She’d wanted to sample the coolness and current and now she was being swept away.
And it wasn’t because he was the only man she’d been allowed to consider, and it wasn’t because he was strong and sensual and exciting.
It was because he was all the things that Lusk was not, plus a host of things she’d never dreamed she needed. Opinionated, interested, courageous, sacrificing, clever. The list of why she loved him was very long.
And it begged the question: Why endeavor to enact this plan, if he wasn’t there in the end?
“What of Shaw?” asked Camille.
Helena looked up. If before her sister had seemed astute and observant, now she seemed positively clairvoyant.
“Camille,” sighed Helena.
It was one thing to admit that she resisted the duke. All of London had heard of her resistance. It was quite another to admit that she’d fallen in love with her groom.
“Do you . . . love him?” her sister pressed.
“Camille,” Helena repeated. “Shaw is a servant.”
“If that is true,” said Camille, “he’s the boldest, most arrogant and entitled servant I’ve ever seen. Not to mention strapping. And clearly he operates very safely inside your confidence.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“I’m not,” Camille sang. “You’re simply fortunate that I’m the only one paying attention. I’m not sure why that is. I’m only seventeen.”
“You are easily passing for thirty in this moment.”
Camille ignored her. “What I don’t understand is why Girdleston doesn’t suspect something.”
“When I bolted from Lady Canning’s party and Shaw recovered me, Girdleston ordered him to never leave my side. The old man bound us together. Shaw’s attention is his job.”
Camille turned away, wagging her finger. “Not so very much attention. Not so willingly, both of you. Can you not feign indifference to him, Lena? And tell him to stop staring at you like you’re . . . you’re a winged angel from the heavenly host.”
A Duchess a Day Page 18
