The parlor door was open and he walked in, blinking at the new yellow wall coverings. They were very bright. It was like looking into the sun. He went over to her and kissed her hand, settling across from her and looking longingly around the room for the tea tray.
“Edward, I did not know you were coming. Will you be staying long?” Lucy asked, her voice sounding frail.
“No, my dear, I will not. I’m needed in London; it is simply that something rather…astonishing happened this morning, and I was hoping you could give me some answers.”
Her white eyebrows crinkled together, and she pulled her shawl tighter around herself. It was warm in the room, but was she cold? He stood up and went to the fire, adding a log and arranging it properly. “You haven’t taught your footman how to build a fire,” he said.
She chuckled. “If they ran around with as much destructive energy as you had when you were a boy, then perhaps I would have taught them.”
He dusted his hands and came back towards her, smiling gently. “Imagine my surprise when I went to boarding school and realized that none of the other boys spent their days carrying firewood from one room to another.”
“You were a very good helper when you weren’t being a devil,” she murmured as he sat back down.
He had no response to that. The fire popped, and he took that as a sign of a job well done. He cleared his throat, uncertain where to start. “A woman came to visit me this morning, and she claimed that I am not the real duke. That I am…no one, I suppose. She claimed that I was switched at birth and that the real duke was stillborn. Does any of this sound familiar?” he asked, and tried to smile, needing her to understand that he wouldn’t blame her for perpetuating a lie.
Lucy looked away from him, her gnarled hands twisting in her lap. “Ridiculous! Never has there been a boy more suited to the title. Generous and caring, intelligent and fair—”
“That is not an answer,” he said. Edward couldn’t help but cut her off; he wasn’t looking for a list of his good qualities. And then he sat back, realizing that perhaps what she said was an answer, after all. “More suited,” he repeated. “Caring? Generous? Now you have me confused with someone else.” He paused while he worked through her statement. “Surely it must be true if you’re trying to soften the blow by attributing those imaginary and saintly qualities to me.” He leaned forward, squeezing her cold hand gently. Holding on to the one person who’d known him and cared for him when he wasn’t perfect. “If it is true, I would like to hear it from you,” he said, softly. “It was not your place to tell me. I know that. But I’m asking you now. You must tell me….”
Her eyes grew misty. She shook her head. “There was another child. You were no more than two weeks apart. A maid…and everyone knew that she carried your father’s child. She had a son, and the babe was healthy. I’ve never seen such a plump and robust baby. It was quite a surprise when the child passed. It happened fast. In the middle of the night.”
“The same night I, or the real duke, was born?”
She nodded sharply, staring vaguely into the distance.
So it was true. “Presumably the maid had a name?” His voice was cold. My mother. My mother the maid.
“Susan. Susan Landry.”
“And she was from?” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. How in control and unruffled. His world was unraveling, and yet he still appeared calm.
The governess looked at him with pity. “That I do not know. She was pretty and your father took a liking to her.” She leaned forward, her voice steely. “And it won’t do you any favors to be asking about her. The woman is not your mother in any way that counts. You are the duke. That is the end of it.”
Then she looked at him intently. “So this woman came to you and what? Threatened to expose the family’s dirty secret?”
He nodded.
“What did you do?”
He wanted to look away, like a guilty child who’d raided the kitchen for sweets. “I paid her. Then came straight here to find out if it were true,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “You paid her? She must have damning evidence indeed.”
“She said there was a journal, kept by Mrs. Helmsley, when she was father’s mistress and mother’s companion.”
“Is it any wonder your mother is delicate. Forced to have her husband’s mistress as company. That doxy!” she exploded. “Now there was a woman who got above her station! For the last decade, she’s wormed her way into men’s hearts and pocketbooks. She’s with the prime minister now if you can believe it.” She stopped, her expression changing to one of confusion. “The prime minister’s mistress is blackmailing you?”
“No. But she had a diary apparently. Which my blackmailer somehow got a hold of. Helmsley would happily sacrifice me and my family to keep Palmerston from finding out her sordid past.”
“Oh, Edward,” she squeezed his hand hard.
He didn’t want her to worry about this. “It wasn’t very much money in the end. I decided to pay her and have done with it.”
“And a woman, too! Was she a common sort? Could you smell alcohol on her breath?” his governess asked, a cunning expression crossing her face. She read a lot of gothic novels and fancied herself knowledgeable about the lower classes.
“No, no alcohol.”
Had Miss Foster felt guilty? There was something about the way she had taken the money, the way she spoke, veering from apologetic to aggressive within the blink of an eye that made him think she was conflicted. That what she did—blackmailing him—was out of necessity rather than preference.
Lucy interrupted his thoughts. “What will you do when she comes back, Edward? Blackmailers always come back. You have to get the diary.”
Edward stood and paced to the windows, looking out at the cloudy sky. It was going to rain. Wonderful. He’d have to head back in the mud tomorrow. “If a blackmailer could seem…repentant, she did.”
His governess snorted. “Your father had a love of low-class women. Made the duchess crazy. Don’t go following in his footsteps, you hear me? The woman will return. She’s dangerous.”
“He was also a gambler and violent as hell.” He chuckled grimly, unwilling to show his face for fear it would betray him. “You will think this fanciful, Lucy…but for just a moment, when she told me I was not the true duke, I felt such joy to think that man wasn’t my father. That I might not…be like him.” He wished he could call the words back. They exposed him, made him weak.
“You are nothing like him.”
He turned around, staring her in the eyes. “But the foundation is there. He is my father. It is simply my mother who is not related to me by blood. Is it any wonder her constitution is so fragile?”
Lucy waved at him dismissively. “Do not make excuses for her. There are two options in life: To give in or to fight. Your mother has spent her entire life giving in. Your father did too. Giving in, being weak, that is easy. But that is not you.”
She leaned forward, as though urging him to believe her. “You are a good man. You are not your father. And this information changes nothing. Now, I want you to promise me that if this tart returns you won’t give her any more money but will do the right thing.”
His voice was bland. “By which, you mean I should get her hung outside of Newgate Prison?”
“Well, of course.”
Everything he knew about himself was a lie. The Duchess was not his mother. Was his birth mother even alive? Should he make an effort to find her? Make sure she was provided for? He felt a desperate need to escape and be alone. He needed time to think through the momentous events of the day. If he sat here for a moment longer he would go mad.
Lucy watched him, expectantly.
He stood next to the chair, desperate to leave. If ever there were a time to be rude, to get up and walk out, this was it. Lucy wouldn’t judge him for excusing himself. For fleeing. He sat down on the edge of the seat. The need to stay and focus making him feel ill. He needed air, to go outside. There w
as the faintest sound of ringing in his ears. If people found out he was illegitimate, the title and estate would pass to someone else. His mother would be kicked out, his sisters penniless and unable to make decent marriages. It was impossible to sit here and pretend that everything was fine and exactly the same as it had been this morning. He simply couldn’t do it. Edward forced a smile and settled back in the chair—a parody of comfort. “Now tell me, Lucy. How are your roses?”
Chapter 8
Helen went to the Savoy, booked a room, and paced the small space while she waited for a bathtub to be brought up to her. Cleaning herself with a bowl, water, soap, and a cloth just wasn’t gonna cut it. The room was small and not nearly as grand as she’d hoped it would be. And there was a chamber pot. She was now in a time she would be expected to crap in a bowl. It put things in perspective. Not that she was getting used to being in another time, but she supposed she had a certain level of acceptance. Hell, she could now go a few minutes without thinking about how she had left everything behind. But then something like this would happen—portable poop that would be chucked out the window—and she’d realize how alien this time period was. And how alone she was.
The tub was made of tin, and servant after servant came in carrying buckets of steaming hot water. Helen scrubbed her skin and washed her hair, the mud from her journey sloughing off and a sense of…something came over her. A peculiar variety of emotions from relief at having survived, joy at having the money, but there was more, and those emotions were the ones she couldn’t put a name to.
She could still see the look of fury and disgust on the Duke’s face as she blackmailed him. Helen didn’t like being a bad person. Even if it were for a good cause. She rubbed her skin harder, as if the guilt of blackmail was something she could wash off as well. Tears filled her eyes, and she covered her face with the washcloth, the heavy scent of flowered soap invading her nostrils. It wasn’t just the blackmail, and the dirt that left her.
It was as though she were scrubbing off the remains of her entire life.
If Mary were thinking of her right now, Mary was thinking that she was dead. Helen was someone who people thought of in the past tense. She’d say, “I miss Helen; that bitch knew how to drink a pint of beer.” Or “My friend Helen used to love to dance and watch sappy romantic movies.”
Helen stayed in the tub until the water went cold and her eyes drooped. She wasn’t just physically tired, but emotionally tired. She dried herself with a crappy piece of linen and fell naked into bed, snuggling deep under the covers, before falling into a deep sleep.
Chapter 9
She awoke to knocking. The room was bright, sunlight seeping in from between the curtains. Helen looked around the room as if clothing might have magically appeared in the night.
“Who is it?”
There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound. “I am from Madam Dumas, to take your measurements, madam.”
“Are you alone?” She could just imagine the heart attack she’d give some guy if she opened the door only in a towel. Or a boner.
Another pause. “Yes, madam.”
Helen wrapped herself in the still damp towel and opened the door; a thin young woman with mousy brown hair and large eyes looked back at her. “Come in, please.”
The seamstress entered the room with a large black bag.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what they told you. But I don’t have anything to wear. My clothes—” Were stolen? All of them? Helen wasn’t sure what to say.
The woman nodded sharply as if she dressed clothes-less women all the time, and opened her bag, pulling out a thin, white linen shift. “Put this on. Then I will measure you.” While the woman set her bag down on the bed and began to pull out her measuring tape and other things that she would need, Helen dropped the towel and put the shift on. Her stomach growled.
The woman came at her with professional determination, measuring her and marking it all down on paper. After several long minutes, she stepped back and looked at Helen’s face critically. “We have some dresses that are already made and would fit you nicely. Your complexion is unfashionably dark, but your skin is excellent. I’m thinking bold colors would suit you. And your eyes are very green, which we can bring out with the right colors.”
A ticket-porter, a man who ran messages and packages around London, was sent to the dress shop with instructions on what clothes should be sent over. Lunch was sent to her room while they waited. She pulled off the covers with a sense of fear. Half expecting something revolting like jellied eels, or haggis. But all she found was a nice soup and cold-cuts with cheese and bread as well as some fruit. She hoped that the food would help her regain her strength. Adding it up, Helen thought she’d slept for almost a full 24 hours. And she was still tired.
The clothes arrived within the hour; swaths of color and beautiful fabrics piled high on Helen’s bed. The following two hours could only be described as a bizarre exercise in torture. She had expected the corset to be unbelievably uncomfortable. But she hadn’t realized how hard it would be to sit down, then get back up.
The modiste pulled at her, ordered her arms up, legs up, turned her all around and in the end, Helen stood looking at herself in the mirror, shocked by her transformation. She was clad in an emerald-green walking dress that was the most beautiful gown Helen had ever worn. Screw that, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And she was wearing it. Her waist was unbelievably small and her bosom shockingly large.
It was totally irrelevant to her purpose, but damn she looked good. All women should get to dress like this, she thought. Minus the corset. The rest of Helen’s clothing would be delivered over the next few days once alterations were made. Helen paid the modiste in cash, giving her a healthy tip which made the woman’s eyes water in gratitude. Helen checked the numbers. A pound. She’d only given her a pound, but from the way she reacted one would think it was a hundred-dollar bill.
And then it was time to go to the auction house.
As Helen made her way there, she ran through the details in her mind. The auction would take place in three days, and the plans would be sold for 200 pounds. Although she feared the bidding might go higher now that she was involved.
Whitby and Sons Auction House was an uninspiring building near Russell Square. The front room looked like a hotel lobby and the man who came to greet her eyed her speculatively. She could see him trying to make a calculation of her wealth as she came in. His eyes narrowed. “Can I help you, madam?” His English accent had a weird French twist to it. As if he were either French and pretending to be English or English and pretending to be French.
“I’m interested in an auction you’ll be having in a few days. Blueprints, for Roland Black’s gun modifications.” I’m actually here, doing this. I’m changing the future at this very moment.
He looked down his nose at her. “I’ll check. When is the auction scheduled?”
“This Thursday.”
He scowled down at his paperwork.
“I show that item as having been removed.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there will not be an auction.”
Wait. That wasn’t right. Helen was speechless for a second, her mouth open. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” She’d heard him wrong, that was all.
“I said Mr. Black has nothing to be auctioned. He withdrew the plans.”
She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “That’s impossible. He can’t take them back. That’s not how it happens.” He shrugged and looked at the door longingly as if he wished she would leave.
Helen took a step closer, her skirts pressing up against the counter. “Did he say why?”
“No, madam.”
“Is he going to have someone else sell them?”
He sniffed. “We are the premier auction house in London. I assure you, he would give the plans to no one else if he were seeking to sell them.”
Helen doubted that they were the best aucti
on house around, but that was the least of her problems.
“But I have to buy them,” she said stupidly. “I came all this way. A really long way.”
He turned his back on her, walking back to his desk. A million thoughts raced through Helen’s mind, sweat breaking out on her forehead as she tried to make sense of what he was telling her.
“Are you lying to me?” she asked, hearing a tiny amount of panic in her voice.
He scowled at her darkly.
“I’m not trying to offend you. But I had really expected him to sell the plans. I don’t understand why he’d change his mind.” What did this mean? Had history changed already? Helen took a deep breath. She hadn’t failed yet. As long as she got the plans and destroyed them, the mission would be a success.
Helen smiled disarmingly. “I would really like to contact Mr. Black, see if the plans are available for purchase.”
“I’m unable to disclose that information.”
Inspiration came to her and she opened her reticule, pulling out a pound. “For your help,” she said, holding it out to him as though she were waiting for him to kiss her hand.
He took the money and looked around shiftily. “Mr. Black withdrew the plans but made no reason for the disclosure. Mr. Whitby himself spoke to Mr. Black. I do not know his address, but Mr. Whitby said he suspected Mr. Black had found a private buyer,” he said the last part as if Mr. Black had contracted a deadly disease.
“Why would he do that? Wouldn’t he get more money by an auction house? Bids and competition would drive the price up.” Helen licked her lips and pulled out another coin. “Was there anyone else who was interested in the plans?”
A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster) Page 6
