The sound of a throat being cleared recalled her to her senses. Fishe, the Breakeys’ butler, was standing just inside the salon doors. ‘Are you At Home, Miss Wyatt? Lord Darvell has called. Shall I call your maid?’
Helena jumped to her feet with a gasp, scattering pencils over the tiled floor. Fishe glided forward and retrieved them. ‘Thank you, Fishe, no, I am not at home.’
‘Yes, Miss Wyatt. May I enquire if you are At Home to anyone this afternoon?’
‘No…yes…only if Mrs Rowlett were to call.’
‘Very good, Miss Wyatt.’
Fishe bowed himself out, managing to imply the very faintest disapproval that any young lady should deny an audience to such an eligible caller.
Helena stayed on her feet when he had gone, pacing agitatedly up and down between the high benches laden with ferns and the Commodore’s prized orchids. The nerve of the man! He had walked out last night, abandoning her to Lieutenant Brookes and all that would have followed had she been recognised: loving Adam as she did she felt that betrayal keenly. And it was even more cruel, coming after that waltz, coming at the moment when she had sensed he was taking her aside to be alone with her. And then there was the promise of that unfinished sentence…‘As to the future,’ he had said. What future could there possibly be for them?
After a few minutes Helena sat down and picked up her sketchpad once more, but the drawing was complete, there was nothing she could add to it. And, where before it had given her satisfaction, she now felt only a great sadness.
Somewhere there was a click and a faint breeze touched her cheek and stirred the ferns. Helena supposed the door into the garden had come unlatched, but the fresh air was pleasant and she made no move to get up and close it.
‘Helena.’
She jumped violently and swung round, knocking over a tier of pots, sending orchids scattering across the benching. Adam sprang forward and deftly caught a tumbling pot, setting it back in its place with only a fallen petal to show for its mishap.
Helena could hardly squeeze the words out past her tight throat, but finally gasped, ‘What are you doing here! How long have you been watching me?’
He propped his shoulder against the door jamb, crossing his booted feet at the ankle, and contemplated her. ‘Forgive me, I did not intend to alarm you so, but you made such a pretty picture lost in thought among the flowers.’
His insouciance was stunning! ‘I told Fishe to deny me—how did you get in here?’
‘Fishe! What a wonderful name for a butler…’ He saw she was becoming seriously annoyed and stopped teasing. ‘I climbed over the wall.’
‘Over the wall? Why, it must be quite seven foot high!’
‘I stood on the saddle and shinned over. Fortunately I had my groom with me, so he is holding Samson by the back gate.’
‘Which is locked.’
‘Exactly. Why do you think I had to climb over?’
Helena shook her head as if to clear it, sending the brown curls bouncing at her neck. ‘Enough of walls and Samson and Fishe! How dare you break in here? And after last night…’
Adam was suddenly deadly serious. He pushed himself away from the wall and came and took her hands, pulling her down to sit beside him on a rustic bench. ‘Yes, last night. That is why I am here.’
‘You deserted me…’ Helena tried to tug her hands free, but with no real effort. She hated the tremor that was in her voice but she could no more control it than the sudden rapid beating of her heart.
‘I was afraid that was how you would interpret it.’ His gaze was open and clear on her face, his voice rueful.
‘How else should I interpret it?’ she demanded, finally freeing her hands with a jerk. ‘I never thought you would run away from that man.’
‘Think, Helena! It is most unlikely he would recognise you, an elegantly gowned young lady, accompanied by friends of the utmost respectability, as the befloured harridan in my galley. But you know as well as I what a strange thing memory is. He may feel he has met you somewhere before: but he would never be able to place you unless something triggers the association. If Brookes sees us together, that is all it might take. And be in no doubt, Helena, Brookes hates me enough to think nothing of ruining you if that would bring me down too.’
‘But why does he hate you so?’ Helena asked. ‘What have you ever done to him to earn his enmity?’
Adam stretched out his long legs in front of him and seemed to be looking back into the past. ‘We were at Eton together and it seemed to me we disliked each other on sight. And for some reason I always managed to be the one who beat Brookes to things he wanted: even as a boy he was overweeningly ambitious. He would do anything to win, however trivial the prize.
‘And then I found he had done something so scurrilous…I cannot tell you more, it is not fit for your ears.’
‘Oh, do not be so mealy-mouthed, my lord! Are you telling me he got some girl into trouble?’
‘Very well, if you must have it. He seduced the daughter of a respectable tradesman, then abandoned her when she told him she was with child. I happened to find out and discovered her living in utter penury, turned out of the house by her father. I secured her a position as a dairymaid with an honest tenant of my father and now she runs the dairy and her son is a fine strapping lad who believes his father was killed in the army.’
Helena suspected there was more to the tale than Adam was telling her, but she did not probe deeper except to ask, ‘And did Brookes know what you did for the girl?’
‘Yes, I told him, for I felt he should have another opportunity to right the wrong he had done and support them both. But I believe he thought I had done it for no other reason than to put him in my power and hold the shabby story over his head.’
A short silence ensued, then Helena said, ‘It is very shocking, but not, I fear, an uncommon story. I am amazed it still rankles, that he is such an implacable enemy to you.’
‘It is not just that. As I said, Brookes is fiercely ambitious. In the past my father, the Earl of Shefford, had some influence at the Admiralty and Brookes believes he was influential in denying him some crucial posting. The fact that he is presently seconded to the Excise only serves to increase his anger and frustration: he would dearly love to catch me smuggling.’
Helena was suddenly fearful and clutched Adam’s hand. ‘You will be careful—for you are smuggling, are you not?’
‘You know I am.’ He grinned at her suddenly. ‘It is a sport, something to add spice to the sailing. And how else do ladies get their silks and lace now we are at war?’
Helena blushed at the thought of the garments she had worn which had been fashioned from those silks and laces. She started to say, ‘Is that all you are doing…?’ But Adam did not notice her confusion or her words: his attention had been caught by the upturned sketchbook lying where it had fallen from her startled grasp. He bent and retrieved it, turning the pages slowly.
Helena caught the edge and tried to tug it from his grasp. ‘Please, my lord, they are only foolish scribblings.’
He said, almost absently, ‘You were used to call me Adam when we were alone. This is good.’ He had come to a portrait of John, sound asleep and curled up on the sofa, one grubby hand clutching a toy boat.
‘Adam…may I have my book back?’ He was up to the page with the half-finished fern on it.
‘In a moment—do not be so modest, Helena. These are really excellent. Do you paint also?’
‘Yes!’ Helena replied eagerly. ‘Let me show you some of my watercolours—leave that, they are only sketches.’
Too late. He had turned the page to the study of the bare feet. There was a long silence, then Adam’s startling blue gaze settled on her hectic complexion. ‘Good,’ he drawled, ‘very, very good. You have an excellent visual memory, but you had better not let Lady Wyatt see this.’
‘What do you mean?’ Helena blustered. ‘It is merely a study from a statue in the British Museum. I had intended working it up into a past
el for Mama.’
‘A classical statue standing on a deck? Most unusual. You have caught the caulking between the planks to perfection.’ Adam’s eyes were dancing with amusement. ‘Come now, Helena, stop blushing. I am very flattered that you should recall details about me with such clarity. May I have the sketch?’
Helena was totally at a loss to know how to respond, but finally blurted out what was uppermost in her mind. ‘I am surprised, my lord, after the way we parted at Selsea, that you should want anything that reminded you of our association.’
She swallowed. ‘I realise that you had to put on a social façade last night, but the way we parted on the beach, the words that were exchanged—’ She broke off, then ventured, ‘Last night you said something about the future…’
His expression was so gentle that her breath caught. ‘I was going to say that it was obvious that we would be thrown together in London and that we should start again as mere acquaintances.’ Adam patted her arm, then got to his feet. ‘We were thrown together by extraordinary circumstances. There was a degree of attraction that I now see was inevitable, however regrettable, given the conditions. I admit my pride was hurt that you should reject my offer of marriage, but now I can see it was for the best.’ He stood up, the sketchbook still in his hand, ready to take his leave.
‘Thank heaven that, while I was driven by convention, you had the courage to reject those social constraints. Now at least neither of us are in a position we would have swiftly come to regret: I believe that a marriage, to be successful, should be based on mutual affection as well as on considerations of rank and fortune.’
Between frozen lips Helena heard herself say, ‘I am glad you have come to see we have both been saved from a most unfortunate misalliance.’ She took the sketchbook from him and ripped the study out, handing it to him dismissively. ‘You may as well take it, my lord, for it is of no consequence to me.’
Adam rolled it carefully, tucking it into the bosom of his riding coat. ‘Thank you. It may be of no consequence to you, but to me it is a souvenir of a most…surprising voyage. Good day, Helena. No, do not trouble to ring, I will let myself out.’
Chapter Eight
Portia dug her spoon into one of Gunter’s famous ices and regarded the approaching cake trolley with a wicked smile of anticipation. ‘Is this not heaven, Helena my dear? A whole morning shopping and now the prospect of the very best Gunter’s can afford!’
‘Mmm,’ Helena responded doubtfully, crumbling a wafer over her vanilla ice. ‘Do you realise, Portia, that I have probably spent my entire quarter’s allowance and we have only been in London a week?’
‘Oh, do not fret!’ Portia responded with all the unconcern of a woman with a doting husband and unlimited pin money at her disposal. ‘By the time Madame Haye sends in her reckoning for those hats, it will be nearly next quarter and, of course, you would not dream of settling at once.’
‘Well, if it were only the hats…but I paid cash in the Pantheon Bazaar for those gloves, and the silk stockings, and that reticule. And then there was the Burlington Arcade…’
‘But that was on account and in any case it would have been criminal not to have bought that spangled scarf…’
‘…or that muff. I do agree, but even so, I fear Mama may be displeased.’
‘Lady Wyatt will not be displeased when she sees how charmingly you look. And, after all, why have you come up to London if not to look your best and catch yourself a husband? Just wait until Lord Darvell sees you in the satin straw bonnet!’ Portia broke off and eyed the array of sweetmeats, the very tip of her tongue showing between her teeth. ‘Do you think it would be greedy to have just one madelaine with cream?’
‘It may not be greedy, but it would certainly have an effect on your waistline and think of that new gown you have just bespoken at Miss Martin’s!’
Portia pouted, but reluctantly waved the cake away. ‘Oh I suppose you are right. I do wish you would expend as much energy attaching Lord Darvell as you do nagging me!’
Yesterday’s bland rejection was too raw to conceal. Stiffly Helena replied, ‘Please do not speak of an attachment between myself and Lord Darvell. We have agree we would not suit.’
‘You told me all about it, but that was ages ago. Look at the way he singled you out at Almack’s! And I know you would not tell me what you felt for him—but I am not blind! When you were dancing together, it was as plain as the nose on your face that there is a strong attraction between you both. And,’ she added tartly, ‘I was not the only one to remark upon it.’
‘But that is appalling!’ Helena almost wailed. ‘I would not be talked of so for anything! But there is no hope…I mean, possibility, of an alliance between us. We agreed so only three days ago.’
Portia dropped her spoon into her saucer with a clatter. ‘An assignation! My dear Helena, I would never have thought it of you! I met your mama and Lady Breakey that afternoon and they said you had stayed home with a headache—so where did you meet him, you cunning thing?’ She was frankly agog, leaning across the table, her eyes sparkling.
‘Shh! People are looking at us!’ Helena glanced round at the other ladies in the room, seated around the little marble-topped tables and exchanging delightful tidbits of gossip with their companions. ‘And it was not an assignation, he came to Brook Street.’
‘You cannot tell me Fishe let him in while you were there unchaperoned! Why, he’s the stuffiest old thing in creation.’
Helena felt the colour mounting hectically to her cheeks. ‘Fishe did not let him in. He…he got in by other means.’ As soon as she said it she realised it was a mistake.
Portia gasped with delighted horror. ‘You do not mean to tell me he climbed over the garden wall? Helena!’
‘Oh, shush!’ Helena dropped her own voice to a whisper, wishing she was anywhere but in the middle of the fashionable refreshment rooms in Berkeley Square. ‘Yes, he climbed over the wall and came in through the conservatory.’
‘Did he make love to you?’ Portia demanded.
‘Certainly not! He came to apologise for leaving somewhat abruptly at Almack’s and to agree with me that we should not suit. Doubtless we will meet again, but I trust it will be on a basis of acquaintanceship and nothing more.’ Helena was rather proud of that dignified assertion.
Portia, however, was completely unimpressed. ‘Frankly, darling, I find it very difficult to believe that taradiddle. If that was all he had come to say, he could have left a note with Fishe, not gone shinning over walls like some character in a novel! There is something you are not telling me.’ Portia’s blue eyes were narrowed in speculation.
‘There is nothing to tell you—and even if there were, I wouldn’t,’ Helena stated with more spirit than clarity. Portia regarded her friend’s heightened colour, the flush on her creamy skin, the spark in her violet eyes and recognised defeat.
‘Oh, very well, but do not say I did not tell you so.’
By the time Portia’s barouche had travelled the short distance up Davies Street from Berkeley Square to Brook Street the two friends were again on speaking terms, united in their attempts to smuggle in Helena’s numerous parcels and hatboxes before Lady Wyatt saw them.
Helena’s maid Lucy had just scuttled upstairs with the last of the shopping when the salon door opened and Lady Wyatt emerged, pince-nez in one hand and Greek lexicon in the other.
‘Ah, there you are, Helena. Good afternoon, Portia. You both look exceedingly well—have you enjoyed your expedition into Bond Street?’
‘Yes, Mama, thank you.’
‘And do you have any of your allowance left, my dear?’ Lady Wyatt enquired wryly.
‘No, Mama,’ Helena responded truthfully. It was hopeless trying to hide anything from the acute eye of her mother.
‘Never mind, dear,’ Lady Wyatt replied mildly, ‘another banker’s draft will soon put that right.’ Helena was left speechless by this unexpected streak of frivolity, but her mother swept on through the hall, saying to
Portia in passing, ‘Now, you will not forget our “At Home” tomorrow afternoon, will you, Portia?’
‘No, indeed, Lady Wyatt, I thank you. But I fear Mr Rowlett will not be able to accompany me, he is engaged with a very tedious bill in the House.’
Lady Wyatt paused on the threshold of the library. ‘By the by, Helena, Lord Hilton called and left his card, as did Mr Seymour.’
As soon as the door shut Portia exclaimed, ‘Excellent tactics, my dear! These admirers will soon make Lord Darvell jealous!’
‘I have no wish to make him jealous!’ It was the truth but, in saying it, it occurred to Helena that if she had more than one admirer then Lady Breakey might not be so fixed on encouraging Mr Brookes.
After Portia had left, Helena took up her sketchbook and retreated into the conservatory to finish the sketch of an orchid which she had promised her uncle. The flower with its exotic, almost decadent, bloom was at its peak, its heavy scent drugging in the warm room. A lone bee was buzzing drowsily in the ranks of blossoms and a slight breeze made the fern leaves whisper.
Helena struggled with the intricate whorls and curves of the flower, but her mind would not focus. Suddenly she flipped the page over and her pencil seemed to fly across the page of its own volition.
Rigging spanned the sheet, the bold curve of the ship’s rail arched below it and the figure of Adam in his canvas trousers and linen shirt, hands on hips, head thrown back, dominated the foreground.
Without any effort Helena’s pencil recaptured the crisp curl of the over-long hair at his neck, the stretched ten-dons of his throat, the suppressed energy of the taut figure.
Casting down the pencil at last, Helena held out the sketchbook at arm’s length and was almost scared by what she had created. It was Adam in loving detail, caught by a lover’s hand, all the emotion she could not express in words poured out onto the page.
Caution sent her hand out to rip the page, to crumple and discard it for fear of what it would betray to any observer. If her mama saw it, she would be dismayed; if anyone else saw it, then all the careful subterfuges would be as nothing. She could surround herself with a hundred eligible men and deceive no one.
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