My Pleasure (19 page)

“Not I, ma’am,” Helena said.

“You, of all people, should eschew gambling,” Lady Tilpot said, ignoring Helena’s denial as she ignored everything she did not want to hear. That she rather enjoyed the idea of Helena sneaking out to lose what few pennies she had at the gaming tables, lost to an addiction she could not control, was unpleasantly obvious. “You have neither the disposition nor the know-how nor the cunning nor the…the…”

“Money?” Helena suggested.

“Well, of course, that,” Lady Tilpot said with a roll of her eyes. “But I was going to add that you do not have the understanding necessary to be a successful gambler.”

“I am sure you are correct, ma’am,” Helena answered.

“Of course I am correct. Now I,” she patted her hair, “I am well armed with necessary weapons to battle Dame Chance on the green baize field.”

At this improbable and highly poetic flight of fancy, Helena looked up. She knew Lady Tilpot enjoyed her weekly game of whist with her fellow misanthropes, but she thought it merely an excuse to trade venom. “Is that so, ma’am?”

“Indeed, yes. Why, just two evenings ago I won three hundred and forty-four pounds and ten shillings.”

“My felicitations, ma’am,” Helena said.

“It is a pittance of what I could win.”

“I have heard that in some of the great houses, fortunes trade hands between ladies,” Helena said carefully.

“And have you also heard the scandal that attends them?” Lady Tilpot asked sarcastically. “Oh, certain people are accepted in Society because their husbands are powerful. But a woman alone in the world, without some male to stand behind, a woman such as I, must be careful.”

“How provoking for you,” Helena murmured.

With a sharp rap, Lady Tilpot lopped the top off her hard-boiled egg. “Two things are sacrosanct in life, Miss Nash, both of which, once lost, are irreplaceable: standards and reputation. Have I not said this often to you, Flora?”

Flora, lost in her own musing, came to with a little start, and nodded vigorously. “Indeed, yes, Auntie.”

“But,” Lady Tilpot waved her knife instructively in Helena’s direction, “there is a point in life when one might reasonably expect that a sterling reputation might absorb some small tittle-tattle, and I am nearing that age. Yes, yes! I see your shocked expression, and I understand your amazement, but it is true. I am approaching my middle years—

“Here now! Drink some water! Good heavens, Miss Nash, what are you thinking to gobble your food so fast?”

Gratefully, Helena raised her glass to her lips. At sixty-six years of age, Lady Tilpot had been looking at the retreating backside of middle age for some time.

Helena cleared her throat. “Ma’am, I would be very grateful if you could spare me a few moments at your convenience.”

“It is convenient now,” Lady Tilpot mumbled around a mouthful of food. “What is it you want? More money? And for what, I should like to know?

“Living like a daughter of the house in one of the finest homes in London? Listening in on the conversations of London’s greatest intellectuals? Running a few simple errands? Reading a few pages for anothers’ weary eyes? Warming a glass of milk on an occasional night to ease an overly agile mind? Once in a while being asked to find a flower amongst the market stands that does not clash with one’s benefactress’s gown? Acting as an occasional courier between her and unpleasant trades-people? Looking for a lost—”

“I was not going to ask for money,” Helena broke in.

“Oh?”

“I was going to ask you for your advice.”

At this, Lady Tilpot’s eyes grew round with amazement and then narrowed with satisfaction. “’Twas only a matter of time.” She set down her knife and fork, picked up her napkin, dabbed delicately at her lips, and said, “Well, then. What is it?”

“It’s…it’s a most private matter.” Helena darted a quick look at Flora, who had, if possible, paled a shade. Could the poor chit be imagining that Helena was about to disclose her secret? “Concerning only myself.”

Flora relaxed.

“Pshaw. Flora is the soul of discretion, and the footmen do not hear anything. Do you, Johns?” The footmen stared mutely ahead.

“I would prefer privacy, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. You’ll hurt Flora’s feelings. What is it? I insist.”

Helena took a deep breath. “It is Lord DeMarc, ma’am.”

Lady Tilpot’s brows snapped together in consternation. “DeMarc? Forrester DeMarc? Can’t believe he’s tryin’ to get to Flora through you! Don’t tell me it is so!”

“Not precisely, ma’am,” Helena said, searching for the right words. “I am sorry—”

“Good!” Lady Tilpot exclaimed “Because I won’t believe it. Man has far too much a notion of where the line is kept to be sneakin’ about, using a paid companion to insinuate himself with my niece.

“Why, good heavens, Miss Nash! Lord Forrester DeMarc is one of the most formidable egg peelers in the ton! Top lofty, a bit too high in the instep, if truth be told, and worth a plum.”

“Yes, ma’am. But it is not Flora in whom he is interested.”

It seemed to Helena that everything in the room came to a dead halt. Not a soul breathed. Not Flora, not the footmen, not Lady Tilpot, certainly not Helena herself. Lady Tilpot simply stared at her, dribbling a little egg.

Finally her mouth started working, but the word she whispered was so faint, Helena did not catch it the first time. She leaned forward. “Ma’am?”

“Me?”

Dear Lord. Helena swallowed, marshalling her courage. “No, ma’am. I believe Lord DeMarc is…that is he…It is me, ma’am.”

“What?” Lady Tilpot fell back in her chair.

“He has intimated an interest in me.”

“But how wonderful!” Flora said, clapping her hands in delight. “How marvelous! And you are so well suited! Both so proper and handsome!”

Flora reached across the table for Helena’s hand, clasping it and squeezing lightly. “No wonder you have been so distracted. Well, Helena, I understand now. Indeed, I do!”

“Flora,” Helena turned to the beaming girl. “You have it wrong—”

“Indeed, yes!” Lady Tilpot snapped. “As do you!” She shook her head, but there was no anger in her expression, only exasperation. “I do not have to know what transpired between you and Lord DeMarc to know that it was, on his part, innocent of any objective.”

She fixed a baleful glare on Helena. “Pray, do not think that you shall enlist my aid in forcing the poor man into making an offer for a woman he could never consider his equal.

“Now”—she held up her hand, stopping Helena’s protest—“you are lucky, Miss Nash. Not only that you have been with me for three years, but that I am an excellent judge of character. I do not think that you purposefully connive at Lord DeMarc’s downfall. You are not a conniving sort of woman. I would not have you as my companion if you were.

“But you are mistaken. Oh, do not look like that, Miss Nash. I do not fault you overly much. You are a spinster, after all, and what spinster, however sensible she might think herself, is ever really that sensible when she looks about at all the young women she knows who are married with families and children and consequence, and she has none of these things?

“It is not unusual for someone in your station to embellish a smile, a kind word in passing, a little courtesy, into the sort of attention she must once have imagined she would receive from a beau, a suitor…a husband. But you really must not be deceived by these daydreams.”

“I was not deceived,” Helena said firmly. “He watches me. He is following me!” She knew her voice had grown shrill, but she could not help it. The sleepless nights, the anxiety, and DeMarc’s persistent pursuit had made her frantic.

The worst part of it was that standing up for herself did not provoke the rage that was Lady Tilpot’s usual response to any sign of backbone amongst her staff or family, but only a pitying shake of her head. “No, my dear, he is not. And yes, my dear, you are deceived, and you will see this soon enough. These things pass. Believe me, they pass.

“Now, the guests will be arriving in a few hours, and Lord DeMarc will be amongst them. I trust you will not make a cake of yourself.” Her face turned cold. “And you will not embarrass the viscount.”

She turned to her niece. “Flora, you would wear the jonquil dimity. Miss Nash will find the ribbons for your hair. You best go now. Now.”

They went.

“I am not interested in Lord DeMarc. He is repugnant to me.”

Flora sank down onto the cream-colored satin slipper chair in her rose-colored room. The bedchamber was adorned in a style as decorative and delicate as its inhabitant, cluttered with furniture in gilt and satin, dressed with silk draperies, festooned with ribbons, flowers, and bows in delicate watercolors. Living in it would be like residing in a milliner’s workbasket. “Then you must tell him, without offending him.”

“That is the problem, Flora. He is unbalanced. Do you recall what your aunt said about my building a fantasy around the viscount’s innocent attentions?”

“Yes. It was a terrible thing to say. I am so sorry—”

Helena shook her head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. What matters is that she is right—but about DeMarc. He thinks that I am—I don’t know! He thinks that in some way I belong to him, and he will do everything in his power to see that I don’t escape him.”

Flora stared at her, her eyes wide in her heart-shaped face. “But that is terrible. Someone must stop him!”

“Who?” Helena said, sinking down next to Flora. Always before she had been the strong one, the confidante and comforter. That their roles were reversed struck Helena as odd, and would have amused her in any other circumstances. “Anyone I tell will likely have the same response as your aunt. DeMarc is a peer. I am a paid companion.”

Flora did her the favor of not objecting. “You will have to stay away from him until his infatuation fades.”

Remain trapped by his obsession in this house? For how long? A few days? Weeks? Months? Until DeMarc decided otherwise? Helena’s lips tightened.

In her entire life, Helena had never allowed herself to be ruled by her fears. As a young girl she had wanted what she assumed every girl wanted: a home, a family, a part of a community in which she would prove an asset. But the young men who came to call had seemed unable to see beyond “the chance symmetrical arrangement of features” Lady Tilpot had so aptly described.

They had no notion of how to speak to her or what to say. They were only good at admiring those things over which she had no control and for which she could take no credit. They made her feel empty and afraid: afraid of the future, afraid she might in truth be no more than a decorative addition to some lord’s home, but most of all afraid that she would eventually marry one of them just to have the whole hollow courting ritual done with.

But she hadn’t given in to those fears. She had not, no matter how much she knew it disappointed her parents, accepted any of the offers that had been made.

But she was afraid now. She hated being afraid. And more, she resented being afraid. DeMarc had done what death and personal catastrophe had failed to do. She started to bury her face in her hands but made herself stop.

“I don’t know what I am going to do,” she said, touching Flora’s hand. “But thank you. And I am sorry, Flora. I fear I underestimated you. I have been so consumed by DeMarc and this…this situation that I didn’t feel I could bear your disappointment when I told you that I did not deliver your note to Mr. Goodwin.”

Because I ran away rather than watch Ram Munro kissing another woman, and later, because I was in an alley with Ram Munro, learning why a woman could risk everything for a man. Because I was not thinking of you, Flora.

She flushed guiltily. “I am sorry, Flora. I have been unconscionably selfish.”

“No, no,” Flora said hastily. But her eyes glistened suspiciously. “You have things other than Ossie and me to concern you. I understand.”

Flora took a deep, shaky breath. “But I must contact Ossie. I cannot wait. I must speak to him in the next week or two.” She swallowed bravely. “I suppose I shall go myself. If you will just tell me—”

“Flora!” Helena interjected harshly. She had thought the girl was finally maturing. “You cannot be thinking of risking your reputation—and, more importantly, your aunt’s wrath—by seeking out Oswald Goodwin in those places where he currently lingers. That’s ridiculous. You can wait until another means can be found to contact him.”

She disliked having to say the next. “Really, Flora. It is time to grow up.”

“I am grown-up, Helena. That is why I have to see Oswald,” Flora answered as a tear slipped down her dewy cheek. “I am going to have a baby.”

Flora was pregnant. With every hour Helena’s situation grew more formidable. She had to do something. She could not let Flora brave the streets. So, she must. And that meant braving DeMarc’s madness.

“May I sit next to you, Miss Nash?”

Helena, lost deep in her own thoughts, looked up to find Page Winebarger standing before her, the little cat Princess tucked into the crook of her arm. “Pardon me, ma’am. I was not attending.”

“It is quite all right. You are distracted. And I am imposing on your reverie.”

“Not at all,” she said. While she was accompanied, DeMarc would remain at bay. All afternoon DeMarc had been extremely careful to demonstrate his indifference. By neither glance nor remark had he singled her out for his attention.

Lady Tilpot had certainly noticed. She was triumphant. Twice she had cornered Helena to whisper, “He barely knows you are alive, my dear!” and “I fear I must lend you my dictionary, Miss Nash, for you have clearly mistaken the meaning of ‘oblivious’ for ‘infatuation.’ ”

But Helena was not deceived. The manner in which DeMarc always managed to be within a certain distance of her chilled her. She shivered now, and she could have sworn he smiled even though his gaze seemed firmly planted elsewhere.

She hated him suddenly with a vitriol that shook her, hated the prison his obsession had built around her, hated her fear of him and her inability to escape that fear. What right had he to intimidate and terrorize her? She had done nothing to deserve his vile fixation!