The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  Helena stood her ground. “What do you mean? ‘The damage is done’?”

  “This seems hardly the place to discuss it, where everyone can hear. My dear, you seem pale. I think perhaps it best if you eat in your room today. Come, I will take you.” Phoebe reached for her arm, but Helena wrenched away.

  “You are saying he came to see me, after all. I thought so! I was sure of it when I saw him in the door, but he seemed not to hear when I called…” Helena started for the door, frantic, not thinking of anything except going to him, of not letting him leave thinking so ill of her.

  “What foolishness is this?” Phoebe caught her arm and drew her away. “You are half besides yourself!”

  “Why are we standing here arguing? Let me go! I must be away. Aunt Phoebe, I beg you!” Helena pulled free and threw herself at the door, wrenching it open and stumbling into the cold before anyone could stop her.

  The street before the house lay empty, but for a delivery driver huddled against the cold in a dray pulled by a miserable creature that seemed glad at least to be in motion. A light snow fell, from a sky iron grey. The Duke of Durham had disappeared. She might have thought he’d never been there at all, had she not seen him herself.

  She stood, not noticing the cold until she realized she was shivering. Blinking back tears she took another step toward the street, and another, as though she could bring him back if she only knew where to go.

  “Helena.” Phoebe stood behind her on the doorstep, her voice as sharp as the wind that cut through Helena’s clothing. “You are being ridiculous. Now come inside before you make yourself sick. As it is, I shall have to tell your father about this.”

  “He is gone.” Helena half-turned to stare at her aunt. “He is not here.”

  “You, yourself, saw him leave, what did you expect? That he would be waiting for you to throw yourself into his arms in an unseemly display? Your manners, my dear, are absolutely beastly, and now you shall be growling at me from your bed for a fortnight I am sure, for you have assuredly made yourself sick.”

  “I am not sick,” she said, walking back toward the house, her feet dragging through the snow that danced around her feet. The wind tugged at her dress and hair, her cheeks stung with the cold.

  “One who is well does not stand exposed in the snow. Now come inside and cease this nonsense.”

  Helena allowed herself to be led back into the warmth of the house. She paid little mind to where she was going until she found herself in her own chamber, being tucked into bed. It occurred to her then, that Phoebe had been carrying something through all of this, her arms full of fabric as she’d drawn her into the house. “Aunt Phoebe, why were you carrying my dress?” she asked as she was bundled into a clean nightdress and tucked beneath the blankets.

  “Such nonsense you prattle on about,” Phoebe said, watching with a critical eye as one servant built up the fire, and another slid a warm brick beneath the blankets to heat the bed.

  “But you had it in your arms.” Helena sank against the pillows, suddenly very tired.

  “Then obviously I was taking it to be cleaned. The lazy servant of yours had not dealt with it. I daresay we’ll have to replace her next.” Phoebe tugged at the coverlet, straightening it. “Now you stay put, and I will see that someone brings you some warm broth. Then I think perhaps a nap is in order.”

  “I am no longer a child,” Helena muttered, plucking restlessly at the blanket. “And I thought you said the dress was ruined. Fit for rags.”

  “And you need to quit acting in such a childish manner. Running out like that! What if someone had seen you?” Phoebe shook her head and started for the door. “If you think you can obey me, then perhaps your father need never know about this incident at all.”

  He would know. The footman had been horrified. It was likely he had already given his report to her father. Helena suspected her father knew far more than he let on. But she kept silent as Phoebe left the room, knowing full well there was little that could be said at this point. All of this was her fault and no one else’s.

  She had been playing the harp without her gloves on, allowing all and sundry to see the bandaged wrist and draw their own conclusions. Any number of servants had probably already seen it, so it was likely that the gossip already made its rounds throughout the household, and from there out into the world.

  Helena burrowed under the covers, blinking back tears. Her aunt was right to be harsh with her. Furious even. The fact that the injury had been an accident mattered little to the outside world. It was appearances that mattered, and Helena always would be seen as a monster, a thing to be feared. A thing to be pitied.

  Even the Duke of Durham had come to discover that truth. Why else would he have left in such haste when it was clear he’d come to call. To imagine that he had been greeted with a bloodstained dress and saw with his own eyes the evidence of her transgressions…he would never return, and it would be all her fault.

  She would never be free of this curse.

  Helena had thought that if a gentleman had come to call, that she could enjoy the semblance of the life she might have had, had she not been so disfigured. She had thought that she could be normal. The very thought caused her to laugh now. Brooch or not, there was no way she could expect anyone to keep such a twisted and evil bargain.

  Frustrated and angry with herself, she threw back the covers and got out of bed, padding barefoot to her writing desk and withdrawing a sheet of foolscap.

  But here she hesitated. He had taken the brooch, had he not? Then to all intents and purposes, that meant he had agreed to her conditions. Today’s visit obviously wouldn’t count, for he hadn’t stayed.

  Helena stared at the paper. She had already acted like the worst kind of monster in his eyes. Did it honestly matter what he thought of her any longer?

  A small part of her told her that it did. Fake courtship or not, this had become more than an opportunity to talk to someone new and experience the fine dance that was the flirtation between a man and a woman. In just one true visit she had come to enjoy the quickness of mind and the way in which he had teased her.

  In truth, she wanted another such encounter. Longer perhaps. A true conversation. An opportunity to look into those eyes, and to see that smile.

  He has taken the brooch. I have paid for this, then, have I not? I have a certain right to receive that which I paid for.

  Helena shivered. What she was proposing was wrong. She knew it to be so. She was taking unfair advantage of the Duke’s situation. She was being unreasonable. He had already made himself clear that he was repulsed by her and by her actions.

  But the true beast demands satisfaction, she reminded herself. He must come back because I say he must.

  Lips set, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and thought what to say.

  Chapter 19

  Two letters. Two letters from the venerable Duke of York’s household awaited James when he came down to breakfast Tuesday morning. He saw the missives next to his place and halted in his tracks.

  They were not the only correspondence next to his plate — the morning post was traditionally left just there, that he might look over his letters while he ate. But that these two were left very deliberately fanned out in such a way that he could not mistake the sender. Either of them.

  Lucy bustled into the room, carrying eggs and potatoes which she set before him before turning back, no doubt to fetch the rashers of bacon and a selection of bread and jam. Apparently today she was a server.

  Of course, she would be. My god, one would think there was not another servant in the place.

  “Lucy!”

  To her credit she did not flinch, only paused with a certain look he’d come to know all too well. She stood, not as respectfully as a servant ought, nor with downcast eyes, but looking at him squarely with that pointed chin of hers raised, blue eyes flashing fire, just daring him to say something.

  At what point did I lose control of the household? Was it all at once? Or
did it just creep in steadily?

  Not that the other servants treated him this disrespectfully, for which he guessed he should be thankful. Lucy was…well…Lucy. And had she not been the one to raise him, he suspected that matters would be entirely different. He half suspected that the servants had no idea what to do with her and stood back and just let her go where she wished and do whatever she wanted.

  Which also meant some serving girl was getting an unscheduled morning off. He sighed. This was no way to manage things.

  “Was there something you needed, Your Grace?” she asked, regarding him calmly while his eggs cooled before him.

  Was there? He sighed again. Her point had apparently been made. Two letters. Both from the household of the Duke of York. “Nothing, Lucy. Just…for heaven’s sake let Matilda serve breakfast. You are far too…”

  Her eyes flashed dangerously, and James hastily checked himself. Telling her she was ‘too old for this’ was certainly not going to gain him any ground and would likely cost him his bacon.

  “…busy to bother yourself with such nonsense. Am I to assume you also read these letters before leaving them here?” He took a forkful of eggs before they grew any colder.

  If Lucy lifted her chin any higher, he’d be able to see clear up her nostrils. “Your Grace would please notice, that the seals upon each are quite intact.”

  He looked at her one eyebrow raised, knowing full well that any servant worth his salt knew how to raise a seal from the paper with a hot knife and restore it again. “You seem to be adapting well to the use of my title.” He reached for the first letter, knowing there would not be a moment’s peace until he’d looked at both.

  Lucy dropped into the chair next to his. “I quite seriously think you should reconsider. The offer from the Duke of York is one not to be cast aside easily or without a great deal of thought. To act emotionally...”

  “I daresay, I will not likely see any bacon at this meal, will I?” He sighed. “And you are such a master of your emotions that you removed a priceless jewel from the household of a duke, why again?” A cursory examination showed the traces of the original wax seal having been at least a quarter inch to the right of where it had started. “You seem to be slipping, Lucy. There was a time the seal would have been perfectly placed.”

  “My eyes are not what they used to be, Your Grace.” She bowed her head, about a meek as a lion.

  James snorted. “You might as well drop the ‘Your Grace.’ When you say it like that it fails to sound quite…respectful. And see if you can get someone to bring me my bacon. I am not discussing any of this with you sitting there hovering over me.”

  “Even though the matter concerns me?” Lucy asked quietly, as she started to rise.

  James threw out a hand to catch her. “Stay a moment. What are you saying?”

  “Do you wish your bacon or not, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly from behind her chair.

  “Blast you, woman, there are at least a hundred other servants in this house, not that anyone would know it when yours is the only face I ever see. Is there not someone else who can serve my bacon? It grows cold as we speak, much like these eggs!” He threw his fork down in disgust.

  Lucy bit her lip. “Allow me, I have been most selfish.” She bent and took his plate, escaping back in the direction of the kitchen with spry agility that belied her age.

  James threw himself back in his chair with an exclamation of disgust. Knowing full well, she would have his entire breakfast re-made, and there was naught to do while he waited, he reached again for the first letter.

  He had written to the Duke of York when he had arrived at home the previous day. Still distressed at what he had seen, of how his visit had affected Helena, he had spoken simply that he could see no way to continue on this course of action.

  In retrospect, it might have been better to return the brooch to Barrington himself, rather than to trust it to Miss Barlowe, but at least the duty was done, and it should have been the end of the matter.

  Though what remained to do with his household with his fortunes in such tatters was somewhat beyond him. He was already running with something of a lower staff than he should. Had that not been the case, he highly doubted that Lucy could be getting into so much mischief as she was, in co-opting whatever position suited her needs at the time.

  Can we make do with less?

  Being winter, he supposed that he could. Perhaps if he reduced the number of horses in the stables. But he would have to give a particular consideration to his country estate then. To let it would be a blatant advertisement to the ton that he was struggling financially. But on the other hand, wouldn’t leasing the property not only support this household but maybe with some fine maneuvering of the amount it could bring in, perhaps be used to do what he’d set out to do with Barrington himself?

  The problem was, he would be doing it without Barrington’s contacts, and the matter would be much more difficult. And was that fair to those who depended on him? What had already happened to the servants he had let go? What would happen to Lucy if things grew worse?

  Regardless, he had already closed this door. He opened the letter thinking it would be an acknowledgement of his withdrawal.

  The note was brief:

  Will expect you as planned at the hour of three o’clock at Thornhill. Do not delay.

  James swore under his breath and set the letter aside. Apparently sending a message had not been effective, and he would have to grovel at the man’s feet to be free of his responsibility. He groaned and put a hand over his eyes, wondering just where his breakfast was, and worrying that Lucy had taken it upon herself to aid in the preparation.

  The second letter was the one he eyed with trepidation. Since there had been nothing, other than a somewhat imperious order to show up at Thornhill that afternoon, then whatever had Lucy all in a dither must be there.

  He considered leaving it. Looking at the other post first, assuming that it was most likely the usual collection of social invitations. Even staying in Hull had generated more than a handful. The city boasted something of a society, with the reading club and a certain collection of musicians that made the long winters passable for the more refined inhabitants.

  But even the first of these generated a certain trepidation for it was indeed just such an invitation to a concert. Had he not just talked to Lady Barrington about taking her to just such an engagement?

  The door opened. Lucy entered, this time with two servitors behind her, each carrying platters of hot food, more than one casting resentful glances at his old governess that they probably thought he didn’t notice. None of them had taken joy in having to procure this second breakfast on her say so.

  He murmured his thanks as they set it before him, and very pointedly ignored the letter that inevitably came from Lady Barrington while he ate. Lucy hovered near the door, hands clenched in her apron while she waited, but this time at least she was wise enough to hold her tongue and wait upon him.

  Maybe she recognizes that I am the duke here, not herself, after all, he thought with a certain exasperation, thinking not for the first time that she did seem to manage the household with the authority of a duchess, even if such efforts were not met with joy and gladness exactly by its denizens.

  She waited until he had finished the last morsel of bread before coming to stand near to him. “You will read it now, then?” she asked quietly, her eyes troubled.

  He had half a mind not to answer her at all. She was invading his privacy, undermining his authority, and had managed to waste a perfectly good breakfast. On the other hand, he loved her, and so he let her get away with these things, with a certain equanimity having been restored by hot food on a very cold day.

  “I will read it now,” he said and so opened the letter.

  As he suspected, this one was from Lady Barrington, a fact that should have been apparent by the gentle hand with which she’d addressed the missive. The seal did not so much break as fall off the paper, meaning it
had been restored in haste and he shot a look at Lucy as it fell to the table with a clatter.

  She at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “I would expect that if you are going to go to the trouble of opening my mail, you can likewise go to the trouble of answering the letters for me. Though I could have sworn I had someone who already did that, in regards to these blasted invitations,” he said waving a hand at the rest of the mail, pausing over the invitation to the concert.

  Lady Barrington would like that, he thought and almost smiled. Being free from the brooch meant he was free to court whomever he chose in whatever way he chose to do so. Perhaps her letter was of thanks, for returning the jewelry. Maybe having the pin back would ease her troubled mind.

  Only Lucy would not be so worried were it that innocuous, would she?

  With that thought in mind, he unfolded the paper with certain trepidation.