Helena cast down her eyes to her plate as if in maidenly modesty, but was still conscious of her mother’s steady gaze: Lady Wyatt was not entirely convinced of her daughter’s happiness.
The party had hardly risen from the breakfast table when the knocker sounded and Fishe’s voice saying, ‘Good morning, Mrs Rowlett. I am not sure, ma’am, that her ladyship is at home.’
‘Oh, never mind that, Fishe.’ Portia had evidently fluttered past him into the hall. ‘I do not want to disturb either of their ladyships, I just want to talk to Miss Helena.’
‘Very well, ma’am, I will just ascertain…’
Helena hurried out of the door and took her friend’s arm with little ceremony. ‘That is all, thank you, Fishe. Portia, shall we go into the conservatory?’
Lady Breakey emerged from the breakfast room, a carefully modulated look of surprise on her face at the sight of a woman who rarely rose before eleven. ‘Good morning, Mrs Rowlett, you are uncommonly early this morning. I trust I find you in good health?’
‘Oh, it is such a lovely morning, you know, Lady Breakey,’ Portia babbled cheerfully and unconvincingly. ‘I just had to get out into the spring air, you know.’
Helena caught a glimpse of Fishe’s face and detected a glimmer of relief: he obviously thought they had been on some jaunt together, but that at least meant that Helena had been chaperoned by a married lady.
Linking her arm through Portia’s, Helena steered her friend into the conservatory, safe in the knowledge that no one else used the room until late morning when the sun had warmed it through.
The moment the door had safely shut behind them, Portia whirled round. ‘My dear! What on earth was going on last night? I have not slept a wink all night—I do not trust that man.’
‘Man?’ Helena stammered stupidly. Adam was so at the front of her mind that she assumed that somehow Portia knew what had happened.
‘That man! That Lieutenant Brookes, of course! I am not usually wrong about men, and I liked him at first, but now I do not like him at all! The way he looked at you last night…Please tell me, my dear, that you have not committed some indiscretion with him.’
‘Only become engaged to him,’ Helena said hollowly, sinking onto a Gothick bench.
‘Oh, Helena! But you told me you loved Adam Darvell!’
‘I do, but Brookes is blackmailing me, and he has convinced my family that he is a good match for me. They all approve wholeheartedly, and if I refuse him he will ruin my reputation and destroy Adam.’
‘But Lord Darvell has survived many scandals and the only damage it has done him is to give him the reputation of a rake. What harm can Brookes inflict upon him?’
For a moment Helena was tempted to pour out the whole story of the Frenchman, the papers and Adam’s mysterious dealings. But then she remembered Mr Rowlett’s position in the Government and realised that she could not put Portia in such an invidious position.
She took her friend’s hands and looked into her eyes with an expression of deep seriousness. ‘I cannot tell you what it is, but Adam has a secret that he cannot afford to have known. Please believe me—I cannot tell you.’
Portia looked into her friend’s beautiful but troubled face. ‘Very well, I will not plague you with questions you cannot answer. But tell me what was happening last night and how you came to be in my box. And where did you go when you left? I know that was not your aunt’s coachman.’
Helena took a deep breath. ‘No, it was Adam’s man and I spent the night in Adam’s bed.’
The expression of shocked amazement on Portia’s face finally brought home to Helena the enormity of what she had just said.
Chapter Twelve
‘You did what?’ Portia finally gasped out. Mrs Rowlett might be a flirt, a well-known social butterfly tolerant of dashing behaviour, but there were rules for the conduct of unmarried girls and Helena had just driven a coach and horses through most of them. After taking a deep breath, she finally managed to say with some semblance of calm, ‘I think you had better tell me what happened from the beginning, Helena. How did you come to be in Vauxhall Gardens in the first place?’
Helena gave her friend a truthful, but carefully edited, account of her scandalous evening, leaving out Adam’s rendezvous with the Frenchman. Portia would never betray her, but to tell that sort of secret to the wife of a Minister of the Crown would be trying her friend’s loyalty too much. Fortunately, Portia was so swept up with the drama of the tale that she appeared not to notice that it was very odd of Adam to insist on keeping an appointment in Vauxhall Gardens, or that Helena should decide to leave the coach and follow him into the pleasure grounds.
‘Well, I think I understand all that,’ Portia said at length, ‘and I must say, Lord Darvell seems to have acted with great presence of mind, sending his coachman to extricate you like that. But why, if he was taking you home, did you end up in Grosvenor Square, not Brook Street?’
‘I had no key, no means to get in, without waking the household,’ Helena confessed.
‘Oh, Helena!’ Portia threw up her hands in exasperation. ‘Have you never crept out to go to a masquerade before?’
‘Certainly not!’ Helena retorted. ‘I am not in the habit of sneaking out of the house.’
‘No, but when you do, my dear,’ said Portia archly, ‘you certainly go the whole hog. Now, it is no good looking shocked—after all, you have spent the night with the man. Tell me, is he as wonderful a lover as rumour would have it?’
Helena’s face flamed. Her friend had obviously assumed that Adam had taken her virginity and that they could now have a conversation almost as married women. ‘I do not know…’ she stammered.
‘Well, of course, you have nothing to compare with. Lady M—’
‘No!’ Helena clapped her hands to her ears. ‘Do not tell me about his other women, I could not bear to know their names.’
‘Well, they all speak very highly of him.’
‘All?’ Helena asked, her tone desolate.
‘Never more than one at a time, of course,’ Portia said, believing she was reassuring her friend. ‘And he is always very generous while an affaire lasts, by all accounts. Of course, there was that time with Lady—oh, all right, I shall not name her. When she got news that he had been seen dining with an opera dancer at Covent Garden, she threw an entire shelf of Meissen figurines at him when he next called upon her.’
Despite her anguish, Helena’s interest was piqued. ‘My goodness! Did she hit him?’
‘No, apparently he ducked them all.’
‘Did he leave her?’
‘Of course! Not because she threw the porcelain, but because she then demanded that he replace the figurines and he said that was too high a price to pay, especially if he had to give up the opera dancer as well. Anyway, never mind all that—Helena, just think what the consequences of last night might be!’
‘Consequences? But no one but you knows I was there.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Helena! You could be with child!’
‘No one else seems to worry about “consequences”, from what you have just told me,’ Helena retorted bitterly.
‘Oh, do not be so naı¨ve!’ Portia said sharply. ‘None of those Society ladies would dream of taking a lover until they have given their husbands an “heir and a spare”, as they say. What happens thereafter is no one’s business.’
‘You mean…’
‘Look around you and use your eyes! Think about that tall, red-headed daughter of Lady Langford’s. The one that is the spitting image of Lord Ashwell.’
Helena’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. She knew she had been sheltered, living with her mother and John in Sussex, but for the first time she truly understood that a different set of mores prevailed in town. Loving Adam as she did, she knew she could never bear to share him in a way that appeared commonplace—nay, expected—in Society.
‘And do you and Mr Rowlett play to these rules, Portia?’
‘My dear Helena,
James adores me. He would not look twice at another woman and I am happy with him and too content with my children and home to ever look elsewhere.’
Helena stood up, moving across to touch the velvety lip of an orchid. With her back safely turned to Portia, she asked in a voice that broke, despite her best intentions, ‘Are there any children in town who bear an astonishing resemblance to Adam?’
‘Helena, my dear, I think not.’ Portia’s voice hardened. ‘But just because his other lovers have either been very careful or very lucky does not mean that you will be so fortunate.’
The face Helena turned to her friend was flaming, but she said steadily, ‘There is absolutely no danger of that happening.’
A look of puzzlement crossed Portia’s face. ‘But you have told me you spent the night in his bed. Do you mean he was not in it after all?’
‘Well, not at the beginning…’
‘Then he did not make love to you?’ It was obvious that Portia could not believe her ears.
‘Yes, he did, but I thought I was dreaming and when I realised I wasn’t he…stopped.’
Portia leaned back on the bench and shook her head in puzzlement. ‘If he stopped, then why did he start?’
‘So that I would have to marry him after all.’
Portia sprang to her feet and almost shouted at her friend, ‘I thought that was what you wanted!’
‘But he does not love me!’ Helena cried out.
The two of them were standing confronting each other when the door to the salon opened and Lady Breakey swept in, the morning’s Times brandished in her hand. She was too agog with her news to notice the crackling atmosphere between the two friends.
‘Helena, darling! Look, the announcement of your engagement to Mr Brookes is in the Society pages: I had thought it submitted too late yesterday to make today’s edition, but I was wrong. The whole of town will know about it this morning. People will be calling! Oh, I am so excited—now, what are you going to wear to receive them?’ She looked critically at the modest sprig muslin her niece had donned that morning. ‘Oh, dear, that gown will never do: I will speak to your maid.’ She turned and almost ran from the room, calling, ‘Sister! Sister! We have so much to do!’
The two young women gazed at each other thunder-struck. Somehow Helena had never believed it would really come to this, especially after last night’s fiasco, but she had completely forgotten her uncle saying he was drafting the announcement yesterday afternoon.
Fishe appeared at the door and coughed tactfully. ‘Lord Darvell, Miss Wyatt.’
His lordship strode into the room, his eyes fixed on Helena’s white face; Portia realised that he had not even noticed her own presence. Devoted wife that Mrs Rowlett was, she could not repress a frisson of excitement at the sight of Adam Darvell. He was dressed for riding, breeches moulding the muscular length of his legs, his jacket sitting easily across broad shoulders. His hair, un-fashionably long at the collar, was ruffled from the haste with which he had doffed his hat and he was quite obviously toweringly angry.
His riding gloves were in his left hand, and crushed in the same grip was a mangled copy of that morning’s Times. Ah! Portia breathed under her breath. So, Lord Darvell had finally been goaded enough to force Helena’s hand, even if he had been too squeamish last night. Well, she had no intention of standing in his way.
‘Helena!’ he said in a voice of thunder. ‘Have you taken complete leave of your senses?’
Helena simply stood there like a rabbit fascinated by the gaze of a stoat, too overwhelmed to make any response.
Portia cleared her throat and Adam swung round, seeing her for the first time. He sketched her the briefest of bows. ‘Mrs Rowlett, good morning.’ His expression contained not the slightest inducement for her to stay.
She began to draw on her gloves. ‘Good morning, your lordship. A pleasant morning, is it not? However, I must get on. Goodbye, Helena dear.’ Completely ignoring her friend’s anguished expression, Portia nodded pleasantly to Adam, who sprang to open the door for her, and with a gay wave to Helena she swiftly departed.
Adam shut the door with great deliberation, tossed his gloves onto the bench and advanced on Helena, smoothing out the newspaper as he moved. ‘Now, just what is the meaning of this?’
Helena finally found her voice. ‘I told you he had proposed to me, and that I had had to pretend to accept him.’
‘Yes, madam, and, if I recollect correctly, you told me last night that you had no intention of going through with it. However, what am I to construe when I read it in The Times? The whole of London knows by now: how are you going to get out of that?’
‘Perhaps I have changed my mind,’ she flared, not caring what she said so long as she hurt him as much as he had hurt her. ‘Perhaps after last night I have decided that I prefer Daniel’s overweening ambition to your cynical plotting. After all, you said yourself that I have to marry someone, and he is quite a good match. With my uncle’s patronage he could go far, perhaps even up to flag rank.’
‘You stupid little fool, have you not listened to a word I have told you about that man? He will use you, and when he has what he wants you will be as badly treated as all his other women.’
The fury swept from her toes to her scalp and she stalked forward to confront him, quivering with the force of her indignation. ‘You hypocrite! You stand there and prate to me about Daniel’s morals—well, sir, look to your own conduct! I know all about your other women—high-born and opera dancers both. You, sir, by all accounts, have the morals of a tom cat and it ill becomes you to tattle to me about Lieutenant Brooke’s past when yours is the scandal of the town.’
Adam flinched as though she had hit him. ‘I have never taken an unwilling woman…’
‘And that makes it all right?’ Helena’s chin came up, her eyes sparked defiance. ‘How many cuckolded husbands are there in town? How many by-blows have taken Darvell blood into other men’s families? Well, sir, I will tell you plainly, I am the daughter of an admiral, of a man who laid down his life for his country and I have more pride than to accept anything you have to offer. At least with Daniel I know where I stand.’
In the aching silence that followed her outburst she had time to observe the tight, white lines of his mouth, the hardness of his eyes. As soon as the bitter words had left her mouth she regretted them, wished them unsaid: nothing on earth would induce her to marry Daniel Brookes. She knew the accusations she had thrown at Adam were cheap and shabby of her but, like a small child thwarted by its nurse, she had said what she knew would hurt and wound and now could find no way back.
Before she knew it, his hands came up to imprison her face between implacable fingers. ‘By God, Helena, if any man had spoken to me like that I would kill him.’ His voice was very soft, very dangerous. Helena quivered, opened her lips as if to say something, but no words came.
‘Be quiet, madam,’ he commanded, still with a voice like velvet. ‘I doubt if there is anything left for you to insult me with. But I have not yet begun to insult you: you are no better than a whore, selling your body in marriage to a man you know is a bastard for ambition, for an easy life and—ultimately—to spite me.’ She made a little whimper of horrified protest, but he merely tightened his fingers, compelling her face nearer to his own so she could feel his breath hot on her lips.
‘Last night in my bed you responded to my caresses. You were wild, Helena, you were wild in my arms. You moaned for me, Helena—do you moan when he touches you? How do you respond when he does this?’ And he bent his head and kissed her, claimed her, took her mouth, his tongue invading deeply in a crude demonstration of male mastery that shocked her to her very core.
Reaction gave Helena the strength to break free, to recoil from his hands; as she did so she hit out, slapping the taut cheek with a force that jarred her arm to the elbow. She stood there trembling, staring at him, her breath coming in deep gulps, and realised with a shudder of horror that by her actions and her words she had almost goaded h
im beyond endurance. But the man who stood rubbing his cheek, his eyes burning into hers, was Adam, and despite it all she loved him, was not afraid of him.
The entry of Fishe, preceded by one of the butler’s habitual discreet coughs, was a shattering anti-climax. Adam took a couple of jerky strides towards the garden door and Helena was left confronting Fishe, whose arms were encompassing the largest bouquet of flowers Helena had ever seen.
Tuberoses, hothouse lilies and myrtle filled the cool atmosphere of the conservatory with their exotic, cloying scent. ‘These have been delivered for you, Miss Wyatt. There is a card. Shall I place them in this container here? No doubt you will wish to supervise their arrangement later today.’
‘Thank you, Fishe, that will be all,’ Helena managed to utter. The man bowed and left as quietly as he had entered and she went automatically to take the little card from its gilt-edged envelope amongst the profusion of blooms.
‘Very touching,’ Adam commented, his voice laconic from behind her. She jumped, not realising that he had moved from his position by the garden door. ‘Quite the young lover, our gallant naval officer, is he not?’
Helena conned the message, but it was Adam who gave voice to the sentiments contained therein. “‘These fragrant blooms are but a pale imitation of your beauty and purity, my love. Before these fragile petals fall, let us name the day when we two shall be one, beloved. Yours, for ever, Daniel.” I believe I am about to be sick. How any grown man can bring himself to write such drivel is beyond me.’
Yes, reflected Helena bitterly, the words ‘my love’ would never cross Adam’s lips: they might commit him to something that spoke of permanency and obligation.
Adam reached over, plucked the card from her fingers and, with almost theatrical slowness, tore it into tiny pieces. He held them clenched in his fist, before releasing them to shower to the floor of the conservatory. ‘I doubt I shall be there to throw rose petals at your wedding, Helena. I wish you well of your choice.’
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