She was still staring blankly at the flowers when the door closed behind him. Slowly Helena sank to the bench and put her hot hands to her throbbing head. She felt sick to the stomach as the cloying perfume of the lilies met the roiling emotion inside her.
How long she sat she did not know, but her solitude was interrupted by the bustling arrival of her aunt. ‘Thank goodness that dreadful man has gone! I came down immediately when I realised that Fishe had admitted him; I do not know what came over him not to tell me you were unchaperoned, especially given Lord Darvell’s reputation.’ She stopped, her eyes fixed on her niece’s flushed face and heavy eyes. ‘And now look at you! What did he do to upset you so?’
‘Nothing,’ Helena lied desperately. ‘He came because he had seen the announcement. I am sorry if I seem discommoded, it is just that I am finding all this attention overwhelming. Look,’ she said, rallying slightly in an effort to distract the sharp eyes of Lady Breakey, ‘Mr Brookes has sent me these lovely flowers.’
‘My word, what a beautiful bouquet, what tasteful colours. This bodes well, my dear!’ She poked carefully amongst the blooms. ‘Was there no card with them?’ As she spoke her eyes fell on the drift of torn pieces at her feet, then rose to look assessingly at Helena’s hot face. For a moment it seemed as if she was going to pass a comment, then she said gently, ‘Yes, it is a very upsetting time, is it not? I remember it well. Sometimes it is difficult to know just what one does want. Come, my dear, luncheon is ready and then you must change, for I expect callers.’
The following week passed in a flurry of activity, with callers arriving as her aunt had predicted, and her mother methodically working through the preparations for the wedding. Once or twice she saw her mother pause, pen poised over yet another list of lingerie or wedding guests, and regard her with a sharp, questioning gaze. She wondered if she should confide in her mama, both about her feelings for Adam and Daniel’s threats, but Helena shrank from the confessions which she knew could only lower her in her mother’s estimation. Her only hope was to tell everything to her uncle.
The Commodore seemed rarely to be at home, and when he was he spent much time in his study. Helena guessed he would soon receive his orders and be at sea again and realised that much of the urgency her aunt felt about the wedding was to ensure that Helena would be given away by Sir Robert.
Helena racked her brains for a way of extricating herself from her engagement without either causing a scandal or putting Adam at risk. Without Adam at her side she did not feel capable of explaining in detail exactly what had happened on the Moonspinner and, therefore, why she would not marry Daniel Brookes. Her uncle was more than likely to either demand that Adam do his duty by her or instigate an Admiralty enquiry into his activities.
Pressure of business at the Admiralty and his new duties also kept Daniel from visiting for more than a few minutes at a time; to Helena’s surprise and relief, her mother chaperoned her closely on every occasion. There was an odd edge of formality to Lady Wyatt’s conversation with her future son-in-law, which the Lieutenant, not knowing her well, did not recognise.
Four days after that shattering scene with Adam in the conservatory, Helena had written him a note. It had taken her hours, and many false starts, to pen even the brief lines she finally dispatched, begging his forgiveness for her intemperate words. The temptation to pour out her feelings, tell him she loved him, confess her despair at losing him, had almost overwhelmed her once or twice, but she had curbed it ruthlessly, knowing that it was hopeless.
The footman returned with her note undelivered, reporting that the knocker was off his lordship’s door and the remaining skeleton staff had told him that Lord Darvell had returned to his Sussex seat.
Helena had been in the depths of despair. She could not bear to think that Adam thought she meant those things she had said to him, yet she dare not entrust the missive to the mails. Her black mood was not helped by Lucy, who had been listening to the footman’s account of the comfortable gossip he had had with Adam’s footman in the Red Lion.
‘Lovage says that his lordship has gone down to Sussex to hold an orgy at his big house,’ she reported as she dressed Helena’s hair. ‘What’s an orgy, Miss Helena? It sounds very wicked. Are there…you know, loose women and things?’
‘Stop prattling about things you do not—and should not—understand,’ Helena retorted sharply. ‘And dress my hair more carefully today, several curls fell out yesterday.’ Lucy had sulked for the rest of the day, which mirrored Helena’s mood exactly. She could not believe the story of orgies, but she could well believe that he had a comfortable houseparty and was doubtless not short of compliant female company.
Lady Wyatt interrupted these black thoughts and hesitated, as though on the brink of speech. ‘Helena, are you sure…Oh, never mind. The Dowager Lady Grantchester is below, do come and receive her congratulations.’
Helena moved through the social niceties of the visit like an automaton at Merlin’s Magical Museum, where she had taken John one wet afternoon. She smiled and blushed and said everything that was proper in response to the old lady’s questions and was finally able to retreat from the centre of attention and pour tea. Listening to her aunt and the Dowager chatting happily about the wedding plans, she realised with a sudden rush of resolution that no one was going to rescue her from this predicament but herself and that she had to seize the bull by the horns and take her uncle into her confidence.
The Dowager’s visit seemed interminable, especially as Helena heard the door of her uncle’s study open and shut as she was refilling cups. Once Lady Grantchester was safely seen to her carriage Helena marched up to the study door before she could lose her resolution.
Her hand was raised to knock when she heard voices within and the door opened to reveal not only her uncle but another man of similar age, also wearing the uniform of a Commodore of the Royal navy. He was a stranger to Helena, a short man with mouse-brown hair, heavy eyebrows and a decided twinkle in his eyes when he saw who was standing on the threshold.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Wyatt.’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Helena bobbed a slight curtsy wondering how the stranger had recognised her.
‘Helena, my dear, allow me to present Commodore Sir William Thorn. Commodore, my niece Miss Wyatt.’
They shook hands and Sir William tucked Helena’s hand under his arm as he walked towards the door. ‘I knew your father, young lady, a brave man and a fine sailor.’ He looked at her piercingly. ‘You look just as you have been described to me.’
It seemed unlikely that he would truly recall her father’s description of his young daughter, or that she had changed so little, but Helena was grateful for his attempt to recall her father to her.
‘Lady Thorn would like to meet you, my dear,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you would care to join us on my yacht in the Solent some time.’
Helena cast him a startled glance, but he was regarding her with smiling, intelligent eyes and without a hint of guile on his face. It had to be a coincidence, that was all. She must learn not to react guiltily to that sort of chance remark. ‘Thank you, sir, that would be delightful. I do not think I would be a very good sailor, however.’
‘No, no, you would be quite at home.’ He freed her hand at the door, turning to take his cocked hat and gloves from Lovage. ‘Would you not like to stand on deck with the wind in your hair, or hear the howling of the Wolf Rock or watch the Isles of Scilly come up on the starboard bow?’
Helena was so taken aback that her uncle was descending the steps beside Sir William before she had the opportunity to ask him to stay and speak with her a minute. Shaken, she turned back inside. Who was Sir William? Did he know about her adventure on the Moonspinner and was he now taunting her with that knowledge?
It was that same evening that Helena found herself entirely alone with Daniel Brookes. She had hoped to find her uncle alone when he returned, but the opportunity did not arise. After an early dinner the rest of her family h
ad gone off to see a new play at Drury Lane, but she had pleaded tiredness and remained alone in the small salon. Her embroidery lay disregarded in her lap after the first few stitches and Helena sat gazing into the fire, no thoughts of any consequence in her weary mind.
She was vaguely aware of the front-door knocker, but did not heed it for callers at that hour were likely to be from the Admiralty for Sir Robert. When Lovage opened the door and announced, ‘Mr Brookes, Miss Wyatt,’ she jumped up, sending her embroidery hoop curving across the floor.
Lovage bowed himself out without waiting to ascertain whether Helena wished to call for her maid, and it occurred to Miss Wyatt that the man had probably received half a sovereign for his pains.
‘Mr Brookes! I did not look to see you this evening,’ Helena stammered. ‘My family are all at the theatre.’
He stooped to retrieve her embroidery hoop and handed it to her, dropping into the wing chair opposite hers without invitation and crossing his long legs at the ankle.
‘Yes, I know they are. I thought it was about time we had a little talk, Helena.’
‘About the wedding?’ she hazarded, a little too brightly, wishing he would not make himself quite so much at home. And yet this was the opportunity she had been steeling herself for. If she could not tell her uncle, she would just have to face Daniel down, convince him that she would no longer yield to his blackmail. Her uncle’s decanters stood ready by the side of the chair he had taken and Daniel reached out a casual hand and poured himself a generous measure of port.
‘No, not about the wedding. About that little incident at Vauxhall Gardens.’ He took a thoughtful sip of the red liquor.
Helena’s heart leapt with hope, but she managed to keep her face serious. ‘Yes, that was rather an ill-judged romp, I am afraid. Mr Brookes, are you come to tell me that on reflection you feel my behaviour unfits me to be your wife?’ Despite her best efforts to sound chastened, a tiny hint of hope must have shown in her voice for his face hardened.
‘On the contrary, my dear Helena, I have come to ensure that arrangements are proceeding as planned. Indeed, it was a “romp” and I should be interested to know exactly what that was about, and what part Lord Darvell played in it.’ He leaned forward, suddenly large and threatening in the subdued light of the room. ‘I will not be deterred by such behaviour—after all, I have long reconciled myself to the fact that in you I am getting used goods—but I warn you, you will not have the opportunity for the slightest indiscretion once we are married. I will keep you under lock and key if need be.’
‘How dare you threaten me?’ Helena retorted. ‘It is about time I ended this farce once and for all: I am not going to marry you and nothing you can say or do will change my mind. Now leave, please.’ She stood, hoping to lessen the power of his presence, but he stood too, looming above her. ‘Go,’ she almost shouted, ‘or I will ring for the servants! Adam warned me…’
‘Ah, yes, Darvell. You will marry me, Helena, because I have an account to settle with that man.’ The hatred dripped from every word.
‘No.’ She stood up straight and defied him. ‘I will not be blackmailed. Adam has done nothing wrong and you will never prove that he has!’
‘But, my dear, gullible young woman, I have evidence of exactly what he has done. Even as we speak he is meeting with his French spy and his fellow traitors in Sussex under the guise of a wild houseparty. I set out tonight to apprehend them and even now a squad of dragoons from Chichester has the house surrounded. I can do one of two things, my dear, and the choice is yours.’
Helena stammered, ‘I do not believe you, I do not believe he is a traitor!’
Daniel’s teeth were very white in the gloom as he smiled at her wolfishly and continued as though she had not spoken. ‘If you are very, very nice to me, my dear, I can send ahead and warn him, give him the chance to escape to France on his yacht. But if you are not—’ he reached out and let his hand trail shockingly down over the curve of her breast ‘—I will arrest him and you can see him hang.’
Before she could move, before she could protest, he was kissing her, his mouth wet and open on hers, his hands straying intimately over her body. Helena threw herself away from him, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth to expunge the taste of him and almost threw herself on the bellpull.
Daniel tugged down his uniform jacket and hissed, ‘Oh that’s not nice, Helena, not nice at all. I am afraid Lord Darvell will bear the consequences of that.’
To Helena’s immense relief Fishe appeared, his brows drawn together in disapproval at seeing the young mistress alone and obviously distressed.
‘Fishe, see Mr Brookes out. And, Fishe, I will not be at home to Mr Brookes at any time in the future.’
‘Very good, Miss Wyatt. Your hat, sir.’
Fishe reappeared minutes later to find Helena seated at the escritoire, feverishly penning a note.
‘Miss Helena, are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Fishe. Please send this note with all speed to Mrs Rowlett’s house. If she is not at home, the man must find where she has gone and take the note to her. And Fishe—do not send Lovage.’
‘Indeed not, Miss Helena. Lovage will find himself without a position this very evening,’ the butler replied stiffly.
Helena almost ran up to her chamber, surprising Lucy, who was turning down the bed.
‘Lawks, miss, you did give me a shock,’ the girl cried, clutching her throat. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘I have to travel down to Sussex this night and I have sent to Mrs Rowlett to lend me her second carriage and coachman. Pack me an overnight valise and a bag for yourself.’
Lucy had just finished her task and Helena was shaking the sand over a hasty note to her uncle when they heard the sound of carriage wheels in the street below.
She hastened downstairs, followed by Lucy, and found Portia, in full evening dress, standing in the hall in agitated conversation with the butler. On seeing her friend, Portia rushed over and hugged her. ‘My dear, what is happening? Your note was so strange!’
‘It is imperative I go to Sussex; Adam is in grave danger and I must warn him.’
‘Then I am coming with you,’ said Portia with determination. ‘It is inconceivable that you should travel that distance alone and at night.’
‘Thank you, my friend, I am so grateful. Come, Lucy, hurry with the bags. Fishe, please give this note to my uncle the minute he returns—it is of vital importance that he sees it this evening.’
As the coach bounced over the cobbled streets Helena recounted the full story of her voyage with Adam without leaving out any details about the mysterious Frenchman or Daniel’s accusations and threats.
Portia sat silently agog, only the sound of Lucy’s exclamations and gasps of horror interrupting Helena’s narrative. At the end Portia leaned across and took Helena’s cold hand in hers. ‘I believe, like you, that a man like Adam Darvell would never be a traitor. Something else must be going on; there is a rational explanation for his behaviour, I am certain, and I will do everything I can to help you both.’
Mr Rowlett kept not only a fine stable, but went to the added expense of maintaining his own change of horses on the routes he most often travelled, including to his mother’s estate in Hampshire. Portia, therefore, had no trouble in securing fresh horses and a rapid change at each posting inn and the progress they made was remarkable.
The moon was full, illuminating the road ahead of them and allowing the coachman to obey his mistress’s demands to ‘Spring them, Jevons!’
They finally entered West Itchenor as the church clock was striking three, and made a more sedate progress down the country lane that lead to Adam’s house.
Lucy, worn out by the hour and the unaccustomed excitement, slept heavily in one corner, but both Helena and Portia were wide awake, their eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. As they wended their way through the narrow country roads the silence was riven by a vixen barking in the wood behind them and moths
fluttered up from the vergeside, their wings white in the moonlight.
The carriage turned in off the lane past a pair of lodges. The gates were open and, peering out, Helena could just glimpse the dull gleam of metal and a flash of pipe-clayed bandoleer in the shadows of the buildings. Her heart leapt in her chest and she clutched Portia’s arm. ‘The dragoons! They are in place already, we are too late!’
‘If they are still out here, it means that Brookes has not yet arrived,’ Portia reassured her. ‘And that means we are in time to alert Adam. He can still make good his escape.’
‘He has done nothing wrong!’ Helena cried, and Portia shushed her.
‘Better to live and fight another day,’ she said grimly.
Ahead of them the house blazed with light despite the hour. It seemed every room on the ground floor was occupied, and many bedchamber windows were also lit. Despite her fears for Adam, Helena’s heart sank at the sight: she had no wish to walk in and find him in the arms of some doxy.
It was love that sent her hurrying down the steps as soon as the coachman opened the door, love that compelled her to push wide the huge front door and walk unannounced across the hall and into the room from where most noise came.
Helena threw off Portia’s restraining arm and stood on a threshold of a large salon lit by multiple branches of candles on every available surface. Her horrified eyes took in a scene which could have been straight from one of her mother’s translations of Ovid. Perhaps half a dozen young men, their shirts open at the neck, their jackets and cravats discarded, lounged around the long central table. Each had a girl with them, young but painted, their flimsy gowns jarringly bright to Helena’s eyes. Some sat on the laps of their companions, others hung over the backs of their chairs, but all eyes were riveted on the one girl who was dancing on the table top, discarding garments as she did so in an impromptu dance of the seven veils.
The cries and catcalls echoed off the walls as the dancer swirled surefooted amongst the debris of dinner: wine glasses and empty bottles, a great Stilton cheese and the wreck of half a dozen capons.
The Admiral's Daughter Page 20
