"You ... you worked as a chimney boy, then?"
He blinked. Dropped his hands. Helena was looking steadily at him, and he had to swallow down the tide of revulsion before he could speak again.
"I was ten at the time, but puny enough to pass for younger. Grimes took me on. The three years I worked as a climbing boy were a hell you cannot imagine. I lived in soot so thick that it fills your lungs, every crevice of your skin." As he spoke, the scorched stench filled his nostrils, the filth permeating his every cell of his being. "And somehow you get used to it. From dawn to dusk, I climbed the stacks, up passages so narrow that a mistaken breath could jam you into a grave within the brick walls."
"How did you manage not to get trapped?" she asked in a trembling voice.
His fingers gripped the back of a chair. "I didn't always. When it happened, Grimes had powerful incentives to get a boy loose. Lit straw, for one."
"He burned you?" Helena gasped.
"It got me loose."
Before he realized her intent, Helena came to him. He shuddered when her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek pressing against the rigid muscles of his back. Her voice sounded muffled, choked. "No boy, no human, should ever experience such horror. How strong you are to survive it, my darling."
He gave a mirthless laugh. He moved out of her embrace and turned to face her. "The days in the stacks, that was the respite. Most days I took extra care, polishing the flue until it was spotless, to avoid being hauled up again."
"But ... why?"
"Because of the nightly entertainments. Because after a hard day's work, Master Grimes expected 'is boys to help 'im unwind."
Helena stared at him. He noticed how tightly she was clasping her hands; he imagined her fingernails would leave marks on her smooth perfect skin. He looked past her, thankful for the numbness spreading over his insides. The truth tumbled from his lips with a force of its own.
"Some nights, 'e wanted one o' us to ... to service 'im while the res' o' the lot watched. Other times, 'e made us to play wif each other. I ne' er stopped 'im. I was one o' the good boys, did whate'er 'e asked ..."
The small, hollowed faces flashed in his mind. As if from the outside, he saw himself amongst the tattered bunch. All of them with eyes flat and dead, past caring. Past most anything save the instinct to stay alive.
"You did what you needed to survive." Helena's urgent words returned him to the present. "You must see that."
Self-revulsion churned in his gut. "I was 'ungry. Like a bloody mongrel on the street, weren't nothin' I wouldn't do fer a scrap."
"Nicholas ..."
"Ev'ry time, I tol' myself it would be the las'. I swore I'd kill 'im if 'e touched me again." Feral satisfaction pulled his lips back. "An' then one day, I did."
"Did what?" Helena whispered.
"I killed him. Stuck 'im in 'is bleedin' black 'eart and left 'im to die."
TWENTY-SEVEN
For a moment, the sides of Helena's vision wavered, compressed. Nicholas had killed a man. Even though she knew intellectually that death came quick and ugly for many in the streets of London, it was another thing altogether to comprehend that her husband had taken a life. As she watched, Nicholas stared at his hands and flexed his fingers. A look of revulsion crossed his features as he studied stains that only he could see.
If there were stains, they contained the blood of a man who deserved to die. How many children besides Nicholas had been fouled by the villain? The thought of such cruelty, such predation on the weak and vulnerable, tightened Helena's throat. She was not so innocent that she did not see the justice in Grimes' end. She bled for the pain Nicholas had suffered as a boy, and for the self-hatred and guilt he carried as a man. He still stood there, held captive by his invisible sins.
"Nicholas! Stop it. Come back, now!" Helena grabbed her husband's forearms and gave him a shake. When he did not respond, she shook him again. Firmly.
Nicholas blinked. She saw the moment he returned to the present, when anguished shame replaced the blank sheen in his eyes. She never thought to feel relief in his pain, but she did. Pain meant he was with her, alive, and not drowning blindly in the quicksand of his past.
After a pause, he continued woodenly, "There is more. After I stabbed Grimes, I panicked. There ... there was another boy in the room. I don't even remember his name." His voice catching, Nicholas knuckled his eyes. "He was a new boy, younger than me. He witnessed what I'd done. I went over to him, with the knife still in my hand and blood dripping everywhere, and I ... I ..."
Despite the fear clutching her heart, Helena said, "What did you do, my love?"
He raised his tormented gaze. "I threatened him. I told him if he ever breathed a word about that night, I would slit his bloody throat. And all he did was look at me, his face whiter than a ghost's and he said ..."
Breath held, Helena waited.
"Take me with you. Don't leave me here." Nicholas' eyes shut against the memory. "He kept begging me, grabbing my arm. By God, he was no older than seven or eight; he must have been frightened out of his wits. But I was frantic to get out, and when he wouldn't let go, I struck him. I still remember the sound of him crying as I escaped through one of the windows." His voice throbbed with self-hatred. "Not only am I a murderer, I am a cursed coward."
She couldn't stop the tears from falling—for the unknown boy, for Nicholas, for the suffering that neither of them had deserved. "You are not to blame, do you hear me, Nicholas? Not for any of it." Reaching up, she took his jaw in her hands. Forced him to look at her. "You were thirteen years old, Nicholas. A child and a brave one to fight back. But you could hardly protect yourself, let alone another boy. I cannot imagine how terrified you must have been after ..." He trembled within her touch. "You must forgive yourself—Grimes is the one responsible for all this suffering. At least you freed that boy and the other children from his clutches."
"Did I? Or did send him and the other boys to a worse end?" Nicholas' grip on her arms bordered on painful as he looked upon her with a ravaged expression. "Later I learned that the flash house went down in flames that night. I do not know what caused the fire, and, at first, I was relieved, for it was named the cause of Grimes' death. His remains were found in the wreckage, you see. Then I heard that several children had perished in the inferno as well and"—his voice cracked—"I have always wondered ... if that boy ... if I had only. . ."
Helena could think of no appropriate response. So instead she circled her arms around her husband's waist and held him as tightly as she could. She felt shudders travel through his large frame as he held onto her like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. She could feel his hot, unsteady breathing above her ear.
"For years, I heard the boy's voice in my dreams. And I could feel the breath of the magistrate down my neck, smell the foul stench of the waiting prison hulks. In my bones, I always knew justice would find me sooner or later."
She tipped her head back to look at him. "Any magistrate would see you had just cause," she said firmly. "That you acted in defense of your well-being. Grimes was the criminal, not you!"
"I killed a man, Helena. Indirectly, I may have caused the death of an innocent child." He shook his head in bleak resignation. "I am a murderer, and nothing can change that."
"The offenses Grimes committed were far greater than yours. In the end, justice was served. Please tell me you see that." The expression on his face shredded her heart. For so many years, he had hoarded his pain, let it fester inside him. She did not need to ask why. The guilt, the self-loathing—he was still paying penance for what he had done. "You have suffered enough. All you have done is survive, and you must forgive yourself so you can go on. So we can have a life together."
Nicholas let go of her and stepped back. Beneath his swarthy skin, he was pale, his gaze haunted. "You cannot mean that. After all I have said—Helena, you must see I am not deserving of you."
"I see that you are more of a man than I ever knew," she said fiercely. "One I am
proud to call husband."
And still it seemed he could not allow himself to believe her. Raking his hands through his hair, he went to the fire and began to pace before it. "There is more, you know. Before I met Jeremiah, I spent a year running with one of the dock gangs. I was a thief, a ruffian, a good-for-naught—"
"Who turned his life around," she finished. "Who, despite the greatest odds, made something of himself."
Nicholas stopped. Turned to look at her again. "Odd," he said hoarsely, "those were almost his exact words. My sire's, I mean."
"You met your father? I thought you learned of your inheritance after his passing."
"You are correct. My father's solicitor approached me, a month after his death. When he realized he was dying, my father had had a Runner track my whereabouts. His second marriage had produced no offspring, you see. Apparently, he found my progress in life to his satisfaction—in his will, he named me the legal heir to his land and entitlements. There was a copy of a marriage certificate to confirm my legitimate status. He left me a note—two lines actually. Against odds, you have surprised me and made something of yourself. I trust you will attend to your duty with similar diligence."
So that was where Nicholas had inherited his penchant for laconic missives. Really, could his sire not have summoned a single iota of fatherly affection? "It must have been a shock finding out the truth about your birth," she said gently.
"Aye, to put it mildly. At first, I wanted nothing to do with my father. Not his estate, not his bloody title—I would have had it all buried to rot with the rest of him."
"What changed your mind in the end?"
"Jeremiah." Nicholas' jaw tautened. "He, too, was dying. He told me I was a fool for throwing away my birthright, for refusing a gift that he himself could only dream of. You see, rich as he was, Jeremiah could never escape his origins. He made his fortune as a merchant, so the doors of Society would forever be closed to his wife and his children. Do you know what his fondest dream was?"
Helena shook her head.
"To have Percy presented at court. So trivial a matter, is it not? Yet so utterly impossible, this crossing of two worlds." The bleakness in his eyes caused her throat to constrict. "Tonight's fiasco was just another reminder of the irreconcilable disparities between us. You, my love, are everything good and pure and innocent. Whereas I ..." His shoulders moved, a movement as heavy as if he carried the world there. "I am what life has made me."
She went over to him, made him face her. "What has happened to you is not who you are. You," she said, placing a hand over his furiously thudding heart, "are the finest man I have ever known. The only man I could ever love."
"How could you mean that?" Nicholas released a serrated breath. "After all that I have done—"
"You were a blameless child, for God's sake!" Helena cried.
"I could have left sooner. I could have found someplace else to go, rather than endure Grimes' brand of hell."
"Where would you have gone? Back to the workhouse, or perhaps one of the rookeries which swallow up young children and spit out hardened criminals?" Desperately, Helena gripped his arm and waited for him to look at her.
"What do you know of rookeries?" Nicholas finally asked.
"The Misses Berry invite political conversation at their parties. I know children die every day, of disease and starvation. And I know many more live on, in filthy conditions and unspeakable terror." The rawness of her husband's gaze drew tears down her cheeks. "Oh Nicholas, do not blame yourself for the wrongs that were inflicted upon you!"
"Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm not worth it."
"I'll cry if I want to," Helena said fiercely. "And you would be worth every tear. Haven't you been listening? I love you."
Nicholas closed his eyes. "How could you?"
The words hung in the air which suddenly felt as thick as the fog over the Thames. For the first time, however, she could see clearly through the miasma that separated them. His shame and self-doubt swirled in the ghostly, brutal images from his past. A far cry from her own sheltered upbringing, for certain. And yet ... were he and she all that different? For did she not also harbor shame and self-doubt and secrets that she feared to reveal?
Trust in a marriage had to be earned, by husband ... and by wife.
"Wait here one moment," she said. "I'll be back."
The trip took her less than five minutes, yet when she returned to the study and her husband, she realized she had been taking this journey all her life. Nicholas was sitting in one of the wingchairs, his head held in his hands. At her approach, he got to his feet. His gaze honed in on the reticule in her hands.
"What is this about, Helena?"
She wet her dry lips. "I ... I have a secret of my own to confess, Nicholas. Something rather shocking."
Nicholas' smile was sad. "Compared to my sins, what unworthy thing could you have possibly done?"
It was his certainty, his absolute faith that she existed in a moral realm above him that pushed her over the edge.
She held up the reticule. Embroidered with orange blossoms and clusters of seed pearls, the bulging satin bag looked innocuous enough. Which only lent credence to the adage that one should not judge a book by its cover. Nor a wife by her demure disposition. She hesitated under Nicholas' intent regard. Her hands trembled on the strings.
"What is it then?" Nicholas asked, his brows drawing together.
"I have acted in ... an unworthy manner, as you call it. Indeed, it was a most wanton action which I committed. And, unlike you, my behavior was not performed under duress. I," Helena paused to fortify herself with a deep breath, "chose to act in this fashion."
"Wanton manner? What is it that you have done?" Amused wariness crept into Nicholas' tone. "Did you filch a slice of Chef's cake before supper, Helena? Take a morning ride with your bonnet askew?"
Every fiber of her being pulsed with dread and anticipation. "No, my lord," she managed to say calmly. "I went to a bawdy house and enticed a stranger to bed me."
It took a moment for Nicholas to react.
"You did what?"
Relieved to see the spark of life returning to his eyes yet wise enough to fear the rapidly rising flames, Helena loosened the strings and tipped open her reticule. Curls of brassy red spilled out. At the sight of them, Nicholas froze.
"Oui, monsieur." The breathy quality of the accent emerged naturally, given the way her throat constricted with love and fear. "It was me those two nights at the Nunnery."
"You were ... at the Nunnery?" If circumstances had not been so dire, Helena might have laughed at the comical look of incomprehension on her husband's face. He looked like someone who had bitten into an apple and discovered it to be a lemon. She could see him struggling to assimilate her revelation with his own vision of her—it was a long fall, she supposed, off so high a pedestal.
"Yes, I was there." Helena bit her lip when he said nothing. "At the masquerade. And a fortnight ago."
"It was you. Both times. You were the nymph." Nicholas looked dazed. "But I ... you ... we ..."
"I know. I was a harlot." Truly, it felt relieving to confess herself, to no longer hide her nature. Still, Helena squeezed her eyes shut to confess the last, most secret part of her deception. "And, my lord, I found the experience quite exhilarating. In truth, I can profess no regret for my behavior."
Silence followed her words. Unable to bear the tension, Helena peeked through one eye. Nicholas was staring at her as if he had never seen her before.
"Well, say something," she begged, desperation scaling her tone. "Lecture me or berate me or ..." she swallowed, fearing the worst, "tell me how disappointed you are in me for failing to be the virtuous wife you wanted."
"You pretended to be a nymph." Perhaps Nicholas thought that repetition might allow him to absorb this fact. "A French nymph. And you seduced me."
To her mind, the seduction had been rather mutual, but she thought it prudent to allow his assertion to pass. She nodded.
Her husband continued to look as if he had been struck by a bolt from above.
"Forgive my slow wittedness," he said at last, "but I still fail to comprehend what you were doing at a brothel in the first place."
"The first time I went to find you." Suddenly embarrassed for chasing after him like a jealous fishwife, Helena looked down at her reticule. The red wig did not look so alluring and seductive now. In the light of the lamp, the wiry curls appeared tawdry and false. "By happenstance, I saw you possessed a ticket to the Nunnery masquerade, and it was not difficult to surmise your purpose in attending. If you recall, you were avoiding me at the time, so I did not have the opportunity to discuss with you my feelings on the matter."
"So you followed me there." Nicholas fixed her with an astounded look. "To discuss your feelings?"
"That was my initial plan, yes. But things got rather ... out of hand," Helena mumbled. A wild blush stained her cheeks. "I did not plan that part, my lord. It just sort of happened."
Nicholas quirked a brow. "Did it, mademoiselle?"
"Oh. The accent," Helena said in a small voice. "Truly, 'twas not a planned deception, my lord. It was more of ... an extemporaneous measure."
"But why the ruse?"
"I was afraid," Helena admitted. "My behavior being so wanton, I feared you would react with disgust to discover that I was not the wife you believed me to be. You see, I know how much you value my virtue and strength of moral character."
"And the second time? Why did you invite me back?" he asked evenly.
She bit her lip. No one had ever said honesty was easy. "I was ... angry and hurt by your rejection. I thought to teach you a lesson, to seduce you in the doxy's disguise then reveal myself as the wife you had professed not to want."
"Then why did you not follow through with your plan and divulge your identity that night? It was because of my ... behavior, wasn't it? Bloody hell, I must have shocked you out of your wits." Ruddy color spread over his cheekbones, and his eyes slid from hers to focus on the ground. "Helena, the things I did ... said ... had I known it was you, I would never have—"
Her Husband's Harlot Page 26
