Virtue's Reward (19 page)

Richard dropped into a chair and waited until his friend was also comfortable.

“France suffers an orgy of confusion,” he said. “King Louis overflows his throne, but doesn’t seem to realize that it shakes beneath him. Wellington is finding his post there as ambassador more and more difficult. If it weren’t that the great man refuses to leave whatever the danger, he would be safer in Vienna. There is a lot of discontent in France. If Napoleon were to reappear just now, I believe they would welcome him as a savior. Meanwhile, the once-dispossessed aristocracy has descended on Paris like vultures. No excess is exciting enough: wine, women, corruption. It’s as if they learned nothing at all from Madame Guillotine.”

Dagonet digested all this without surprise.

“And Madame Relet?” he asked quietly.

“Plies her trade, in spite of my best efforts. She has found new premises and started again. I am essentially a minor nuisance to be brushed aside.”

“I have come across nothing in London, Richard,” Dagonet said. “The girls aren’t coming from here.”

“No, they’re country wenches. From Somerset and Devon and Cornwall, mostly. Girls who believe they’re about to better their lot, become lady’s maids, or learn French millinery. If I could find the man behind this, I would strangle him.”

“And are you any closer to revealing his identity?”

Richard stood up and crossed to the fire. His back was to his friend as he warmed his hands.

“I have one clue,” he said.

“Which is?”

He turned and faced the handsome features that were watching him so narrowly.

“The word
Trethaerin
—not too common, is it?”

“
Cela viendra
.” Dagonet’s gaze had not moved from Richard’s. “It should be easy enough to trace.”

“There’s no need, as it happens,” Richard replied. “It’s already well known to me. Helena Trethaerin is the name of my wife.”

Dagonet was wise enough to say nothing as the other man returned to his chair and the servant came in with hot wine.

As soon as the man left, Richard leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Have you ever been in love, Charles?”

“My dear friend, I’m known as a notorious rake. But yes—so don’t think I don’t recognize the symptoms. You’re in love with your wife, but not sure what to do about it.”

“Edward Blake was Helena’s cousin. As he was dying, he told me her name. He was pleading with me, though he couldn’t articulate what he wanted. I thought he was begging me to protect her and I swore to do so. In fact, I married her within days of first meeting her.”

There was silence for a moment.

A log fell in the fireplace and Dagonet rearranged it with the tongs.

“But what,” Richard went on, “if I misunderstood him? What if Edward simply wanted to impart information, tell me that she was a person to be guarded against? Perhaps he was not trying to enlist my protection, but was warning me against her?”

“If that’s true, my friend, then you’re in rather a damnable situation.”

Richard leaped to his feet and began to stride back and forth.

“There is no reason, you see, for whoever is running the Paris business to harm me. This visit to France made that perfectly clear. With the law as it stands, the operation can’t be touched. There’s no difference in a thirteen-year-old girl gracing a Paris brothel or one in London, except that the children are being enticed there under false pretenses and are then alone and helpless in a foreign country.”

“And you think your wife has been entangled in this?” Dagonet asked incredulously.

“Not directly, no! I cannot believe that of her. Yet the attacks on me didn’t begin until after we were married. I found her living at her old home, Trethaerin House, under the protection of her cousin, Nigel Garthwood, an extremely unpleasant fellow, who is no doubt our mastermind. But if I die, Helena will come into possession of Acton Mead and a great deal of money. That’s a comfortable prize for anyone lacking in the finer scruples, wouldn’t you say?”

“Richard, I can hardly believe—”

“Someone has been after my life, Charles! What other reason could there be?”

“Then alter your will and let her know you have done so. Divorce isn’t easy, but you should be able to arrange it.”

Richard dropped back into his chair and wrung one hand over his eyes. God, he was tired! Yet he looked up at his friend and laughed.

“The trouble is, you see, that I’m not sure that I want to.”

Dagonet rose and poured him more wine, which he held out in silence. Richard took it and swallowed the entire glass in one draft.

“As you’ve no doubt ascertained by now, I’ve been damn fool enough to fall in love with her,” he said. “And my oath to Edward, however wrongheaded, still stands. I have sworn to provide for her. I would just rather it did not take my death to do so.”

“Then what do you intend to do?” Dagonet asked.

“Now that I know that you have discovered there is nothing more for me in London, I think I must go to see my brother Harry.”

“And your wife?”

“I can do nothing better than stay away from her for now, don’t you think? If I go to Acton Mead I shall take her to bed. And it would offend every tenet I have ever tried to live by, if I were to make love to a lady while entertaining suspicions—however unlikely—that she is trying to murder me.”

* * *

The snow lay over the parks and woods of Acton Mead like sugar as Coachman tooled the carriage up the drive. Helena and Mrs. Hood ran to the door and waited impatiently for Mr. Hood to open it. Outside they heard the horses snorting into the frosty air.

The sound was followed instantly by squealing and giggling.

The medieval princesses had arrived.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Hood, however, who threw their arms around the three girls as they entered.

Helena allowed the reunion to take place without interference and took a good look at Richard’s sisters.

Eleanor, the oldest, wasn’t much younger than she was herself, and Helena was surprised that she was still languishing at school. Her face was flushed with the frosty air, enhancing a perfect complexion, except that the tip of her nose was a bright pink.

Otherwise Eleanor seemed to have been bypassed when the family’s good looks were handed out. Her hair was neither golden like Richard’s, nor black like Harry’s. Instead, it was a very ordinary shade of chestnut. Nor had she managed to inherit her mother’s splendid eyes. The glance she gave Helena was candid and open, but it was a simple, friendly brown one.

It was Joanna, at fifteen, who was the beauty, with Richard’s eyes and Harry’s hair.

And little Matilda, whose coloring was entirely fair, was going to become, in a few years, a serious rival to her sister.

“I can hardly formally welcome you to Acton Mead,” Helena said as she exchanged curtsies with Eleanor and smiled at the other two, “for you must feel that it is more your home than mine. Richard told me you spent much of your childhood here with your grandmother.”

“Which was entirely different,” Joanna said. “We were little girls then. Why on earth did Mother insist we come here for Christmas? We never came here in the winter. I could have gone to Fenton Stacey with Lucinda Sail, instead.”

“Yes, but Milly had nowhere to go,” Eleanor said quickly, “and neither did I. Don’t you think it will be nice to all be together for the holidays?”

She sneezed and had to apologize.

“Will Richard and Harry be here, too?” asked Matilda, known to her family as Milly.

“No,” Helena replied. “But John arrives in a few days.”

“Oh, no!” Milly wailed. “John’s horrid! I’d rather have stayed at school with Eleanor.”

“Well, we’re here now,” Joanna said. “I for one expect an absolutely boring time. But it’s very kind of you to invite us, Lady Lenwood. I know how Mama can get her own way. We shan’t be any trouble. Eleanor will keep John under control, I expect, and I’ll just sketch around the house. If you let Milly go out to visit the stables, that’ll keep her occupied until we can get back to the academy. Mama must think it’ll be good for our characters, I suppose, to be forced to rusticate for two and a half weeks and attempt to put up with each other.”

“Well, you are welcome all the same and perhaps we can have a good time. And since you are here, I would much rather you call me Helena.”

She didn’t dare to tell Joanna that Christmas at Acton Mead had been her own idea. With a sinking heart, she wondered if it might turn out to be a complete disaster.

* * *

The next morning her worst fears were realized. Eleanor had caught a cold from the journey and was forced to stay in bed.

Helena allowed Mrs. Hood to minister to her and tried to cope by herself with Joanna and Milly. Yet all her suggestions for things they might do together met with a polite indifference.

As she had promised, Joanna wandered the house with a sketchbook and bent her beautiful head over its pages. It was snowing again and bitterly cold. When Helena was forced to forbid Milly a trip out to the stables, the blue eyes filled with angry tears and the child stamped her foot.

“You’re not the boss of me. I can do as I like.”

“I’m sorry, Milly, it’s far too cold to go out. Maybe tomorrow, if it warms up.”

“And only the family calls me Milly. My name to you is Lady Matilda.”

And Milly ran off.

All Helena’s attempts to find her hiding place were in vain. Of course, the girls would know the house better than she did herself. Had it been terribly arrogant of her to think she could make them a home here and a refuge from the neglect of their mother? At least John liked her. Perhaps it would be better when he arrived?

The sun came out the next day and sparkled on a white landscape from a fairy tale. Helena visited Eleanor in her room, but her poor sister-in-law could do very little except smile wanly and blow her already reddened nose into a large lawn handkerchief.

Milly had finally reappeared, but she was sulking and refused to respond to Helena’s overtures, and Joanna did not come down to breakfast but insisted on drinking hot chocolate alone in her room.

“Since we have the breakfast table to ourselves,” Helena said to Milly at last, “I think we might speak to each other. You may visit the horses today, if you like. The sun is quite warm and there’s no wind.”

“I shan’t go out with you,” Milly said.

“Did you know that Richard’s charger is here? Your brother rode him in the Peninsula with Wellington. His name is Bayard.”

“I bet Richard doesn’t let you near him, then.”

“Well, I’m not very good with horses and I’m not a very good rider. You are much better, I expect. But Bayard was hurt at the beginning of October and he has been very gracious about accepting apple slices and carrots from me. Coachman has nursed him and he’s quite better now, but I know he’s very lonely for his master. Perhaps he would like to see you?”

“Can I have some sugar from the kitchen?”

“Of course you can. Why don’t we go and ask Mrs. Hood now?”

Bayard nickered as he saw Helena and Matilda approach. His injuries had long healed and he was now allowed some well-blanketed turnout time, but he had spent long hours cooped up in his box stall over the past ten weeks.

Milly held out her sugar and the noble horse snuffled at her hand and took it gently. The little girl turned very seriously to Helena.

“He likes me, you see.”

“So he does. I knew he would. It took me a much longer time to make friends with him, but I found when I was lonely that he was a great comfort.”

“Are you lonely?” Matilda asked, squinting into the winter sunshine.

“Pretty often,” Helena said.

“Well, perhaps it mightn’t be so bad while we’re here. I’m not lonely—ever!”

“How can you be when you have a companion like Bayard?”

Helena did not feel that they were friends when they came in together after inspecting the carriage horses and farm nags, but relations were considerably less frosty.

Then Joanna met them in the hall.

“Where on earth are all the maids?” she said indignantly. “I can’t find anyone and no one answers the bells.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Helena said. “Did you need something? I’m afraid I gave the maids the day off to go out to gather greenery. Don’t you think we should decorate for Christmas?”

“Are they going to bring holly and stuff?” Milly asked.

“But why would anyone ever fill the house with all that pagan nonsense? Mama never does at King’s Acton.”

“Because she’s not there, I expect,” Helena said firmly. “But I always honor the season in my house, and I’m going to go out to help the girls. Won’t you come? You will, won’t you, Milly? Would you go and see if Mrs. Hood has some big scissors we can borrow?”

For a moment she thought she had pushed it too far, but Milly ran off toward the kitchens.

“It’s too childish!” Joanna exclaimed.

“Well, of course! But the maids love it, and a good mistress must keep a happy staff. I rather hoped you would come, too, because I don’t have any other lady to walk with.”

“Oh, very well,” the beautiful Joanna said. “I’ll get my pelisse.”

* * *

It was not possible to go out into the brilliant countryside and remain unmoved. The sunshine streamed out of a pale blue sky and leaped and sparkled from branch to branch across frosted field and hedgerow. As Helena and the girls walked up into the woods, they were soon surrounded by the gaggle of laughing maids who had been released from their household duties to pursue the age-old custom.

“Oh, my lady,” the understairs maid said with an infectious giggle. “The holly is so full of berries, and Peter from the stable has found some mistletoe. May we make a kissing bough?”

“Of course,” Helena said. “Though Mrs. Hood must oversee where it’s to be hung.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The girl curtsied and ran off laughing to join her friends.

“What’s a kissing bough?” Joanna asked.

“We’ll make one for the drawing room and you can find out. Though there’s no one here any of us would wish to kiss, I’m afraid.”

Joanna grinned suddenly. “Alas!”

Helena laughed. In spite of herself, Joanna had become interested. The walk in the brilliant air would make the blood race in anyone’s veins, and it would take a marionette not to be caught up in the merry scene in the woods. Yet her heart still went out to these princesses who had never celebrated a traditional English Christmas at home.