by Darcie Wilde
“No, you should have. You did exactly right.” Helene kissed her sister’s brow and then took her nightcap and tied it under her chin. “I’ll be in bed in a minute, Annie-bun. Just as soon as I’m changed.”
“All right.” Annie planted a kiss on Helene’s cheek and trotted back into the bedroom. Through the open door, Helene watched her climb into the curtained bed the three sisters shared. From behind the draperies, Susannah made a sound of irritation, probably because Annie kicked her as she snuggled back beneath the covers.
Susannah, who was all of fifteen years old. Whereas Lord Crispin was approaching sixty.
She can’t mean it. Not even Mother could plot such a match.
Except she could, and she would, and she’d have Father’s willing and eager assistance. Helene picked up her candle and tiptoed out of the dressing room. Softly, she stole down the stairs and, as carefully as she could, hurried up the side corridor until she reached the library.
At least, it had been a library, once. Now it was mostly empty shelves with a few precious volumes still waiting for their lost companions to return. The remainder had been sold one after the other to pay off various debts.
Helene set her candle down and pulled two books from their place. Behind them, flat against the back of the shelf, waited another slim volume, this one a notebook. She took it to the desk and flipped it open.
These days, Helene kept most of her notebooks at Miss Sewell’s house at No. 48 Wimpole Street. Mother and Father both believed that anything their daughter did or wrote was their business, and Helene could not risk Lord and Lady Anandale learning the full extent of her plans for the season. This book, though . . . this one she could not risk Miss Sewell or the others finding. She still had some pride left. Not much, perhaps, but some.
It was an account book, filled with columns of numbers—amounts for lessons in drawing and dancing and maths for Susannah. Amounts for clothing and books and tutors for her rapidly growing brothers. There were notes about the future as well: So much for an apprenticeship for Colin. So much for a commission for Edward. So much to buy Arthur in as a law clerk.
So much. So much.
Helene smoothed the book open and took up a quill. She turned the page and added fresh figures to the tidy columns there. So much for new clothes for Annie. So much for the language lessons and the new subscription to the circulating library for Susannah . . .
Her hand shook. She stilled it. It will be better soon, she reminded herself. You’ve made a good start.
In one of the books she kept at Miss Sewell’s house, Helene had already begun a list of the matrons who controlled the various charitable boards and who also seemed inclined to form a more favorable view of her. These were the ones whom she needed to cultivate carefully as the season moved on. Tomorrow she would add Mrs. Pollerton and Mrs. Wrexford to that list.
Helene turned a page of the book in front of her. The lists drawn up here were of an entirely different order. They were lists of furnishings, of supplies, of food and coals and salaries. There were notes about provisioners and warehouses, and a very short list of addresses of properties that might soon come up for sale.
In the margin there was a name, written very small:
Lady Helene’s Special Academy for Young Gentlewomen
If the next few months went well, if she was able to conduct herself with pride and dignity, Helene should be able to convince at least one of the matrons to advance the necessary funds for the Special Academy. Many of the others had young daughters. If she could present them with them an image of fashion and propriety, they could be convinced to send their daughters to her for their education. It was becoming much more the thing to send girls to schools in the same way boys were sent, especially if the women who ran the school could boast a pedigree.
Her pedigree was the one thing Helene had left to bargain with.
Once she opened her school, she could move all her siblings there. The boys could go to their trades, and the girls could be raised up amidst industry and calm. Susannah could even help teach a class of very little children. Her French was quite perfect.
Their parents would rail, of course, and might try to force them all to come back. But Helene was prepared to deal with that as ruthlessly as proved necessary.
She hated her circumstances, hated the necessity of secrecy and connivance. Worst of all, she hated the cold iron band across her heart that had come to replace the love and respect she should have felt toward her parents. None of that mattered, though. It was up to her to ensure her siblings’ futures, and this was the way open to her. She had no other choice. None.
Except.
Maybe.
There had been the dance, after all, and the kindness afterward . . .
No.
Even if a match with the Duke of Windford—one of the richest and most respected men in England—was possible for a girl in her reduced circumstances, that was far too slender a hope to hang the weight of her siblings’ lives on. Perhaps when she came home tonight some portion of her had considered holding back on her plans, just a little, to see what the season might bring. However, this news of Lord Crispin having an eye for Susannah meant waiting was impossible. Helene must move, and move quickly. Even though she knew that once she did open her school, even slender hope would vanish.
By daring to work for money, Helene would sacrifice her gentility. That gone, she would be abandoned altogether by the world of the haut ton. She would become a sort of superior member of the dreaded middling class. Marriage to any titled gentleman would become as far beyond her as the moon, let alone marriage to such a man as the Duke of Windford.
Helene closed her eyes, but that was a mistake. Lord Windford’s handsome face filled her private darkness. Her hands remembered holding his. The music of the waltz they’d shared rolled through her. But the worst torment was how much her skin remembered the press of his steady arms as she fell and he caught her.
Helene wrenched her eyes open. She carefully blotted the fresh notations in her book and hid it away, pretending to herself that the two fresh splotches on the page were candle grease instead of tears.
IV
“Did you see Lady Helene, yesterday?” Marcus asked Adele.
The family was at breakfast. Marcus had just sat down at the table with a plate full of chops in white sauce. The question was by the way of polite conversation. What was the matter with all these women that they suddenly had to be staring at him?
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” said Adele. At least she did after she closed her mouth.
“Was she well?” he asked as he concentrated on cutting off a portion of chop.
Adele didn’t answer. Marcus glanced up to see she was busy smiling with an unusual amount of amusement for someone who was looking at poached sole, wine sauce, and plum cake. There was something amiss with Adele. She’d spent an extra day at Miss Sewell’s. Her note had pleaded a sudden indisposition and a need to rest. There was certainly no sign of illness about her this morning. In fact, if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought his sister was harboring some secret. And was that a new necklace she was wearing? He couldn’t be sure, as the end was tucked beneath her neckline, into her dress.
Clearly, he needed to have a word with his aunt about Adele and her behavior. Unfortunately, it was not Adele whom Aunt Kearsely seemed most interested in at this moment.
“Why would you want to know about Lady Helene?” Aunt Kearsely interrupted his thoughts. His aunt seemed to have a score to settle with her own fish and was cutting it into mincemeat.
Marcus shrugged. “When a woman faints in my arms, I think it perfectly natural to wish to know how she does.”
“I saw you dancing with her,” Adele remarked, somewhat too knowingly for Marcus’s taste. “You two looked surprisingly comfortable together.”
“She dances very well.”
“Mrs. Pollerton should thank Helene,” said Adele.
“What?” cried Aunt Kearsely.
“Oh yes,” said Adele. “Helene was the one who made sure that Marcus danced with Miss Pollerton.”
Aunt Kearsely’s eyes narrowed. Having reduced her fish to shreds, she seemed determined to make hash of her bacon. “Well. I wouldn’t have expected Lady Helene to be so delicate in her understandings. You must be having a good influence on her, Adele.”
Patience rolled her eyes.
Marcus cut another piece of chop and dragged it through the sauce. He had the distinct feeling of losing control over the conversation. “I may take it then, Adele, that Lady Helene is quite recovered?”
“Oh yes,” said Adele. “She was up immediately the next morning.” There was something she wasn’t saying. He could tell in the way she kept glancing at both Patience and Aunt Kearsely. “She got your note,” Adele went on.
Patience groaned. “You sent her a note? Oh Lord, Marcus, you’re not thinking of courting the Fitzgerald, are you?”
“Of course he’s not,” snapped Aunt Kearsely. “Why on earth would he? What attraction could such a girl hold for the Duke of Windford?”
“Oh, none at all,” said Adele. “She’s only extraordinarily intelligent, competent beyond average, well-read, witty in that same particularly cutting way Marcus is. She’s also musical, and, of course, she’s beautiful, although I will admit that’s not the first thing people notice about her . . .”
“Marcus is not in the least interested in Lady Helene,” declared Aunt Kearsely.
“Thank goodness for that,” said Patience. “I’d have to go to Switzerland to escape the shame.”
“I don’t suppose any of you would do me the courtesy of allowing to decide for myself who I am and am not interested in?” said Marcus, irked, and annoyed at being irked.
“Apparently not,” said Adele. “But that’s quite normal, you know.”
“Adele!” cried Aunt Kearsely. “That it not a ladylike comment.”
“That’s also quite normal,” said Patience.
Which lead to Aunt Kearsely admonishing Patience, which lead to another barbed comment, which spread out into the light bickering and scolding that was a fairly routine accompaniment to breakfast with three strong-willed females. It was not the conversation he enjoyed most, but it was better than unwarranted speculation about his interest, or lack thereof, in Lady Helene.
Especially as he had been unusually worried not to receive a reply from her. Girls fainted; it was a normal occurrence. The combination of heat and overexcitement made the physiological response inevitable, but this had been different. First of all, Lady Helene was not a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. She was a mature young woman, both in her age and her outlook. Secondly, no one could accuse Lady Helene of being easily overexcited. He’d not had much time to form an impression, of course, but from what he’d seen, she was a remarkably steady individual.
Until, that is, she met with Broadheathe.
Marcus hadn’t meant to charge in to her rescue, until he saw Broadheathe grab her arm. Then, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. By the time he reached her, she was white as a ghost.
No. It wasn’t high spirits that brought on her faint. It was shock. Whatever Broadheathe had said or done, it had so overwhelmed Helene’s steadiness and good sense, she’d collapsed. He’d lifted her in his arms, and his first thought was to get her to the retiring room. Fortunately, Miss Valmeyer had been on the spot to offer assistance. But even as he sent her running for their chaperone and maid, he was marveling at how light Helene had seemed, and how well shaped she was beneath that silver dress. How childlike and lost her expressive face had looked as he cradled her.
A surge of protectiveness had risen in him then, and a surge of something else, far less gentlemanly and entirely inappropriate.
“Did you hear what I said, Marcus?” demanded Aunt Kearsely.
Marcus shook himself. No. He hadn’t. None of it. His thoughts of Lady Helene had blotted out the rest of the conversation. That was insupportable. It was, in fact, dangerous.
Marcus was about to make some covering remark, when their butler, who was rather incongruously named Shepherd, stepped up to his chair and murmured an apology. Shepherd bent close and added, “Mrs. Darington is here.”
Marcus felt the blood drain from his face.
“Marcus, what’s the matter?” said Adele.
“Nothing.” Marcus blotted his mouth and folded his napkin. “A small matter of business. You will excuse me?”
He left the table, ignoring the looks that flashed between the women who remained behind.
“You should have refused Mrs. Darington entry, Shepherd,” muttered Marcus as the man followed him up the stairs and through to his private study.
“I tried, sir, but I was afraid she would make more of a scene if I insisted, and that would only attract attention.”
Marcus sighed. “Yes, of course, and I’m sure she knew that, which was why she chose to come during breakfast.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“It’s not your fault, Shepherd. I’ll deal with her from here.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Marcus took a moment to school his face into a calmer expression before he pushed open his study door.
“Bernadette,” he said by way of greeting for the woman who stood by the fireplace. “What are you doing here?”
Bernadette Darington was a tall, dark, generously curved woman. She could have played a gypsy queen onstage. Her black hair fell in natural ringlets, and she could make her large, dark eyes as sultry or as pleading as circumstances called for. No one had taken her coat or her bonnet. No one had brought her a cup of tea while she waited. The staff knew her, and knew she was not a visitor to be made welcome.
“Don’t be angry at me, Marcus, please don’t.” Bernadette clasped her gloved hands together. “I had to come. I had nowhere else to turn.”
Of course not. Marcus made sure the door was closed and locked behind them.
“What’s Marius done this time?”
In response, Bernadette burst into tears. Marcus folded his arms and waited. He had seen this much before.
The fashionable world wondered why such an eligible and responsible man as the Duke of Windford chose to remain unmarried. That world speculated and it gossiped and it hinted, and when it did, the possibility of infatuation with inappropriate women was suggested. Possibly even married women.
None of them had ever hit on the truth. The inappropriate women with whom Marcus concerned himself were those his father had taken to bed.
Not all of them, of course. Just the ones upon whom the former duke had sired children.
The extent of the old duke’s affairs had come to light the first day Marcus had seated himself at the old man’s desk and started going through the piles of papers. As if the debts and the disastrous investments weren’t enough, at the bottom of the last drawer, he’d discovered a stack of letters tied in pink ribbon. They were from various addresses and written in widely varying hands. Some were in English. Some were in French. All were begging for money. All of them mentioned children.
Marcus could still remember sorting the letters into separate stacks, and the growing anger and disbelief as he did. There were five women altogether, and among them there were fifteen children.
Fifteen half brothers and sisters, and those were just the ones he knew about. All of them lived in varying degrees of poverty or infamy, and he could find no sign whatsoever that the old duke had ever once answered any of the
se letters.
Bernadette Darington had been his father’s first mistress, and the mother of three of his children. Marcus had gone to her, as he had to them all. He’d put what money he could in their hands immediately. As his income increased, he set up trusts and accounts with discreet bankers for their maintenance. He promised to exert his influence to make sure their children were properly placed, or dowered if they were girls. He’d kept his promise, too.
Two of them had been angry and bitter, and he could not blame them. Two had been grateful and understanding, and had even apologized to him, an act that left him burning with shame.
Then there was Bernadette.
“Oh, Marcus.” Bernadette’s chin trembled, and a tear glistened in the corner of each dark eye. “Marius has agreed to a duel.”
“What?”
Bernadette clasped her hands together, a picture of anguish. “It was some foolish quarrel over cards, I hardly even know, but there were accusations of cheating . . .”
“The young idiot!” growled Marcus through clenched teeth. It was endless. If it wasn’t a loss over a horse, it was some business with a woman, or a moneylender, and now this . . .
Marius Darington was just nineteen. Marcus had tried everything he could think of to settle the boy; university and law, the church, the military. All of these potential paths had been rejected either by the boy himself or his mother.
Bernadette flung herself against Marcus’s chest and pressed her face into his shoulder. “I’m so frightened! He will have to flee the country He has no money, Marcus. I’ve come to beg you . . .”
“That much is obvious,” he muttered, and he felt Bernadette freeze in the midst of all her tremblings and flutterings. “I’ll go see the boy.”
“Oh no!” Bernadette clutched at his arm. She was wearing a new perfume, he noted, one with a great deal of musk and jasmine. She’d rouged her cheeks, too, and her coat hung open to expose the low neckline of her fine burgundy gown. “He’ll know I came to you. I cannot wound his pride. His sense of honor is so keen. So very much aware of his family’s . . .”
