Marrying Winterborne (22 page)

The door opened with a smooth
click
, swung out a few inches, and closed again.
Click
. It opened and closed once more.

Helen bit back a grin as she realized that the twins
were playing with the newfangled outer handle, which opened by slightly pressing the handle down, instead of turning it partway around in the ordinary manner.

“Girls!” Lady Berwick exclaimed in annoyance, the next time the door opened. “Come inside at once.”

Looking abashed, Pandora and Cassandra entered the carriage and sat beside Helen.

The countess stared at them icily. “We do not play with door handles.”

“Mr. Winterborne said we could,” Pandora mumbled.

“I daresay he knows little about the proper deportment of young ladies.”

As Rhys settled into the seat next to the countess, he replied in a sober manner, but the outer corners of his eyes had creased slightly. “Forgive me, my lady. When I saw their interest, I thought to show them how the mechanism worked.”

Mollified, the countess said in a quieter tone, “One must exert restraint on active young minds. Too much thinking will excite the sparks of vice.”

Helen pressed her elbow against Pandora's side, warning her to stay silent.

“My parents were of the same opinion,” Rhys said easily. “An overactive mind, my father said, would make me insolent and unsatisfied. ‘Know your place,' he told me, ‘and keep to it.'”

“Did you heed him?” Lady Berwick asked.

He laughed softly. “If I had, my lady, I would be keeping shop on High Street at this moment—not sitting in a carriage with a countess.”

T
O
H
ELEN
'
S DISAPPOINTMENT, THERE
was little opportunity to see Rhys during their first week in London. After the days he had been absent from his office, work had accumulated and there were many matters that required his attention. When he paid a call to Ravenel House one afternoon, his interaction with Helen was limited to small talk, with the countess and the twins seated nearby. Lady Berwick's rules about visiting were explicit and unyielding: Calls must be paid during specified hours, and the visitor should stay no longer than fifteen minutes. After a quarter of an hour had passed, the countess glanced meaningfully at the clock.

Rhys's gaze met Helen's in a moment of shared impatience and yearning, and the corners of his lips twitched as he stood. “I believe I've stayed long enough.”

“We've quite enjoyed your visit, Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said, rising to her feet also. “You are welcome to dine with us the evening after next, if your schedule can accommodate it.”

“Friday?” Rhys frowned in regret. “I would love nothing better, my lady, but I've already committed to attending a private dinner with the prime minister.”

“Mr. Disraeli?” Helen asked, her eyes widening. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance. He wants my support for a labor law reform bill, to allow workers the legal right to go on strike.”

“I didn't realize it was illegal,” Helen said.

Rhys smiled at her interest. “Only a handful of craft societies—carpenters, bricklayers, iron founders—are legally allowed. But many other union members do it nevertheless, and are jailed as a result.”

“Do you want them to have the right to strike?” Helen asked. “Even though you're a business owner?”

“Aye, the working class should enjoy the same rights as everyone else in society.”

“It is not for women to concern ourselves with such matters,” Lady Berwick said, waving away the matter. “I shall endeavor to find a mutually acceptable date for dinner, Mr. Winterborne.”

“I will see him out, ma'am,” Helen said, striving to tamp down her frustration at not having even a second alone with him.

Lady Berwick shook her head decisively. “My dear, it is improper to accompany a gentleman all the way to the door.”

Helen sent her sisters a pleading glance.

Instantly Pandora nudged her chair with the back of her leg, toppling it over. “
Blast
,” she exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

The countess turned to face her. “Pandora, that word!”

“What should I say when I knock something over?”

There was a brief silence as Lady Berwick considered the question. “You may say ‘alas.'”

“‘Alas?' Pandora echoed in distaste. “But that's such a flabby word.”

“What does it even mean?” Cassandra asked.

While the twins kept Lady Berwick occupied, Helen slipped out into the hallway with Rhys.

Without a word, he slid a hand to the nape of her neck and brought her mouth to his, devouring her with heat and pure male hunger. She inhaled sharply as he pulled her hard against him, his breath striking her cheek in scorching rushes.

“Helen?” The countess's voice came from the front parlor.

Rhys let go of her instantly. He stared at her, his hands opening and closing as if they itched for the feel of her.

Dazed, Helen tried to steady her wobbly knees. “You should probably leave,” she whispered. With an attempt at humor, she added lamely, “Alas.”

Rhys gave her a sardonic glance before going to fetch his hat and gloves from a demilune table. “I can't call again during visiting hours,
cariad
. For the past fifteen minutes, I've suffered like a starving man outside a bakery window.”

“When will I see you next?”

He settled the hat on his head and tugged on his gloves. “I'll make certain she brings you to the store on Monday evening.”

“Will we have any privacy there?” Helen asked doubtfully, following him to the door.

Pausing to look down at her, Rhys stroked her cheek with his forefinger, and she shivered at the caress of smooth black leather. Gently he gripped her jaw and stared at her mouth. “The store is my territory,” he said. “What do you think?”

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY,
the parlor was filled with no less than a dozen women whom Lady Berwick had in
vited for a special visit. These were the matrons who supervised the most important events of the season. It was their responsibility to shape the next generation of wives and mothers, and the fates of all marriageable young women depended on their good favor.

“Say as little as possible,” Lady Berwick told the girls severely. “Remember that silence is golden.” Glancing at Pandora, she added, “In your case, it's platinum.”

The three sisters occupied a corner of the parlor, quiet and wide-eyed as the group of matrons chatted and drank tea to the health of the Queen. A genial discussion of the weather led to a consensus that it had been unusually cold, and spring would certainly be late that year.

Helen paid close attention as Lady Berwick sought the general opinion on the dressmaker at Winterborne's, and was reassured from all sides that the lady in question, Mrs. Allenby, produced fashions of exceptional quality. Now that Mrs. Allenby had become an official court dressmaker, one could not secure an appointment without first being placed on a waiting list.

“One assumes, however,” a dowager remarked with a smile, “that Lady Helen will be able to obtain an appointment without having to wait.”

Helen kept her gaze modestly down.

“Indeed she will,” Lady Berwick answered for her. “Mr. Winterborne has been most accommodating.”

“You've made his acquaintance?” one of the ladies asked.

A multitude of chairs creaked in unison as the group leaned forward, ears twitching to catch the countess's reply.

“He escorted us to London on the train.”

As excited murmurs fluttered among the group, Lady Berwick cast Helen a meaningful glance.

Helen instantly took the cue. “If your ladyship has no objection,” she said demurely, “my sisters and I will withdraw to study our history lessons.”

“Very good, my dear, attend to your education.”

Helen and the twins curtsied to the group, and left the room. As they crossed the threshold, a barrage of questions about Mr. Winterborne filled the parlor.

“Let's go upstairs,” Helen told the twins uncomfortably as they paused to listen. “Eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.”

“Yes,” Pandora conceded, “but they hear
fascinating
things about other people.”

“Hush,” Cassandra urged in a whisper, straining to listen.

“. . . his features are pleasing, although not as delicate as one might wish,” Lady Berwick was saying. She paused, her voice lowering marginally. “He has an abundant crop of hair—jet black—a virile development of beard, a strapping build, and a robust physique.”

“And his temperament?” someone asked.

“As high-spirited as a Barbary stallion,” Lady Berwick replied with relish. “Obviously he is well-adapted for the duties of paternity.”

An excited volley of comments and questions followed.

“I wonder if they ever actually talk about charity events at their meetings,” Cassandra whispered drolly, while Helen tugged her away.

H
AVING MANAGED TO
survive the ladies' gathering without committing social suicide, Pandora, Cassan
dra, and Helen were all excused from the obligation of receiving callers during visiting hours the next day. Pandora cajoled Cassandra into helping with the artwork for her board game, while Helen sat alone with a book in the upstairs parlor.

For several minutes, she stared at the words without reading them, while her mind spun in a weary carousel. Chilled despite the warmth of the room, she set the book aside and wrapped her arms around herself.

“My lady.” The footman, Peter, had come to the threshold of the parlor. “Lady Berwick wishes for you to join her in the receiving room.”

Straightening in her chair, Helen gave him a perplexed glance. “Did she explain why?”

“To help entertain a visitor.”

Helen stood uneasily. “Did she send for the twins as well?”

“No, my lady, only you.”

“Please tell her that I'll be down directly.”

After smoothing her hair and straightening her skirts, Helen descended the stairs and went to the receiving room. She blinked, her steps slowing, as she saw that Lady Berwick was waiting for her at the threshold.

“Ma'am,” she said with a questioning frown.

The countess kept her back turned to the visitor in the receiving room. Her posture was upright and elegant as always, but something about her reminded Helen of a starling she'd once seen perched on the hand of an itinerant bird seller. The bird's wings had been pinned to its sides with fetters and a length of packthread . . . but its eyes had been wild and bright with the longing for freedom.

“Unexpectedly,” Lady Berwick said in a soft undertone, “my husband's heir has come to meet you. You need say very little to him. Straighten your spine.”

With no more preparation than that, Helen found herself pulled into the receiving room.

“Lady Helen,” the countess said evenly, “this is my nephew, Mr. Vance.”

H
ELEN FELT AN ALL-OVER
sting, as if she'd been dropped into a flash-fire. Then she couldn't feel anything at all except the brutal pounding of her heart, like a fist beating against a closed door. She curtsied without lifting her gaze.

“How do you do?” she heard him murmur. A pleasant voice, dry and smooth, not too deep.

Some outside force seemed to be guiding Helen's actions. She entered the room and went to a chair near the settee, arranging her skirts by force of habit. After Vance had occupied the settee, she brought herself to look at him.

Albion Vance was singularly handsome in a way that made her skin crawl. She had never seen anyone who looked like him, his complexion white and incongruously youthful, his eyes pale gray-blue, his cropped hair snow-colored and gleaming like the inside of an oyster shell. His honed features reminded her of the thin-nosed wax heads in barbershop windows, set out to display the latest hairdressing styles. He was an average-sized man, lean and compactly built, his legs crossed with feline grace.

With an unpleasant shock of recognition, Helen saw that his brows and lashes were dark, just as hers were. Oh, how peculiar this was—she was grateful for
the unearthly calm that had settled over her, muffling every sensation.

Vance regarded her with a detached stare. There was something corrupt and magnetic about him, the sense of an icy flame animating a self-interested spirit.

“You remind me of your mother,” he observed. “Although you are more delicate.”

Perfectly aware that she had instantly been assessed and found lacking, Helen asked, “Were you acquainted with her, Mr. Vance? I don't recall having seen you at Eversby Priory.”

“From time to time I saw her at social events, when she was at town.” He smiled, revealing a perfect row of small white teeth. “A captivating beauty. Childlike in her impetuosity. She loved to dance and couldn't keep her feet still when music was playing. One time I told her that she reminded me of that charming tale, the one with the red shoes.”

Helen had always hated that story, in which a little girl who had dared to wear red shoes to her confirmation had been doomed to dance in them until she died. “You're referring to the one by Hans Christian Andersen? It's a morality tale about the wages of sin, is it not?”

His smile faded, and his gaze returned to hers, now appraising rather than dismissive. “I confess, I don't recall the moral of the story.”

“No doubt it's been a long time since you've read it.” Helen made her face into the inscrutable mask that had always annoyed the twins and provoked them to call her a sphinx. “The red shoes become instruments of death, after a girl yields to temptation.”

Vance regarded her suspiciously, clearly wondering if that had been a deliberate dig. “I was sorry to learn
of your mother's passing, and more recently, of your father and brother. These have been tragic times for the Ravenels.”

“We hope for better days ahead,” Helen said in a neutral tone.

Vance turned to Lady Berwick with an unsettling, foxlike grin. “The Ravenels seem to be recovering nicely. Our clever Kathleen has certainly wasted no time in snapping up the next Earl of Trenear.”

The countess couldn't entirely conceal her annoyance at the implication that Kathleen had married Devon out of calculation and opportunism. “It is a love match,” she said shortly.

“So was her first marriage. How convenient for Kathleen that she loves so easily.”

Helen loathed him. There was something polluted about him, something unappeasably cruel. She was appalled that his blood ran through her veins. She remembered what Rhys had said a few nights earlier:
Any child of his is demon spawn, and would come to no good.
Now having met Vance, she had to agree. How could her mother have fallen under the spell of a man like this? How could Peggy Crewe?

It must be that evil had its own attractions, just as goodness did.

Vance turned back to her. “Lady Helen, I have heard that you are engaged to marry Mr. Winterborne. A pity that you must take a husband outside your appropriate sphere. But still, my congratulations to you both.”

The comment rankled far more than when Lady Berwick had said the same thing in Hampshire. Only the awareness that Vance was goading her deliberately kept Helen from losing her composure. But she was sorely tempted to reply that if he were so con
cerned about people staying within their “appropriate spheres,” he should have refrained from having affairs with married women.

“I do hope someone has cautioned you,” Vance continued, “that your children may turn out to be a coarse, rebellious lot, no matter how gently they're reared. It's in the blood. One might tame a wolf, but its offspring will always be born wild. The Welsh are volatile and dishonest by nature. They lie easily and often, even when the truth would serve just as well. They love nothing more than to spite their betters, and they will do or say anything to avoid honest work.”

Helen thought of Rhys, who had worked ceaselessly for his entire life, and had done nothing to deserve the contempt of a man born to a life of privilege. Feeling her hands begin to ball into tight fists, she forced them to remain folded in her lap. “How have you come to be so informed on the subject?” she asked.

Lady Berwick tried to intercede. “Mr. Vance, I think—”

“Much of it is common knowledge,” he told Helen. “But I also toured throughout Wales to gather information for a pamphlet I was writing. I felt it my obligation to establish the necessity of banishing the Welsh language from their schools. It's a poor medium of instruction, and yet they stubbornly insist on clinging to it.”

“Imagine,” Helen said softly.

“Oh yes,” Vance said, either missing the edge of sarcasm, or choosing to ignore it. “Something must be done to awaken their intelligence, and it begins with forcing English on them, whether they like it or not.” As he continued, Helen saw that he was no longer posturing or trying to provoke her, but rather speaking with sincere conviction. “The Welsh must be saved
from their own sloth and brutality. As things stand now, they don't even make fit servants.”

Lady Berwick glanced quickly at Helen's stiff face, and sought to ease the tension. “You must have found it a relief to return to England from your tour,” she said to Vance.

His reply was emphatic. “I would rather be thrown in the fiery pit of hell than return to Wales.”

Unable to tolerate him for another second, Helen stood and said coolly, “I'm sure that can be arranged, Mr. Vance.”

Caught off guard, Vance rose slowly to his feet. “Why, you—”

“Do excuse me,” Helen said. “I have correspondence to attend to.” And she left the room without another word, fighting every instinct to keep from breaking into a run.

H
ELEN HAD NO
idea how many minutes passed as she lay curled on her bed, using one hand to press a folded handkerchief against her streaming eyes. She tried to breathe around the sharp repeated pains in her throat.

Having no father at all would have been infinitely better than this. Albion Vance was more hateful than she could ever have imagined, warped in all directions. And she had come from him. His blood ran in her veins like venom.

The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.
Everyone knew that Biblical principle. Somewhere in her nature, something vile must have been passed down from him.

There came a brief tap at her door, and Lady Berwick entered, carrying two glasses of amber liquid. “You handled yourself very well,” she remarked, pausing at the foot of the bed.

“By insulting your guest?” Helen asked in a waterlogged voice.

“He was not my guest,” the countess said tersely. “He's a despicable parasite. A worm who would feast on the cankered sores of Job. I had no idea that Vance would appear today without a word of warning.”

Peeling the damp handkerchief from her eyes, Helen blew her nose. “Mr. Winterborne will be angry,” she said. “He made it clear that I wasn't to associate with Mr. Vance in any way.”

“Then I shouldn't tell him, if I were you.”

Helen's fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. “You're advising me to keep a secret from him?”

“I believe you and I are both aware of why it is very much in your interest
not
to tell Mr. Winterborne.”

Helen stared at her dumbly. Oh, God, she knew,
she knew
.

Coming around to the side of the bed, Lady Berwick gave her one of the glasses. “Brandy,” she said.

Lifting the drink to her lips, Helen took a cautious sip, and another. It burned her lips, and the taste was very sharp. “I thought ladies weren't supposed to drink brandy,” she said huskily.

“Not in public. However, one may take it in private when a stimulant is required.”

As Helen sipped the brandy, the countess spoke to her without superiority, but rather unsparing honesty tempered with a surprising touch of kindness. “Last year, when I informed Vance that Kathleen was to marry into your family, he confided in me about his affair with your mother. He claimed you were his child. The first time I saw you, I had no doubt of it. Your hair is the color his once was, and your brows and eyes are the same.”

“Does Kathleen know?”

“No, she has no idea. I wasn't certain if you yourself knew, until I saw your face just before you entered the parlor. But you composed yourself quickly. Your self-possession was admirable, Helen.”

“Did Mr. Vance intend to reveal the news to me today?”

“Yes. However, you foiled his plans for a dramatic scene.” The countess paused to sip her brandy, and said darkly, “Before he left, he asked me to make it perfectly clear to you that he's your father.”

“That word doesn't apply to him.”

“I agree. A man is not entitled to be called a father merely because he once had a well-timed spasm of the loins.”

Helen smiled faintly despite the fog of gloom. It sounded like something Kathleen might have said. Propping herself higher on the bed, she rubbed the sore corners of her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “He'll want money,” she said flatly.

“Obviously. You will soon become a conduit to one of the greatest fortunes in England. I have no doubt that in the future, he will also ask you to influence your husband's business decisions.”

“I wouldn't do that to Mr. Winterborne. Besides . . . I couldn't live with Mr. Vance's threats hanging over my head.”

“I have for decades, my girl. Since the day I married Lord Berwick, I knew that until I produced male issue, I would have to kowtow to Vance. Now you must as well. If you don't comply with his demands, he will ruin your marriage. Possibly before it even begins.”

“He won't have the chance,” Helen said dully. “I'm going to tell Mr. Winterborne myself.”

Lady Berwick's eyes enlarged until the whites were fully visible. “You're not so foolish as to believe that he would still want you if he knew.”

“No, he won't want me. But I owe him the truth.”

After swallowing the rest of her brandy in an impatient gulp, the countess set the glass aside and spoke with irritated conviction. “Good heavens, child, I want you to mind every word I'm about to say.” She waited until Helen's tormented gaze had met hers. “The world is unkind to women. Our futures are founded on sand. I am a
countess
, Helen, and yet in the winter of life I am likely to become a poor widow, a mere nullity. You must do whatever is necessary to marry Mr. Winterborne, because there is one thing a woman needs above all else: security. Even if you should lose your husband's affections, the smallest splinter of his fortune will guarantee that you will never suffer degradation or poverty. Better still if you should bear a son—
there
is the source of a woman's true power and influence.”

“Mr. Winterborne won't want a child who is descended from Albion Vance.”

“There's nothing he can do about it after it happens, is there?”

Helen's eyes widened. “I couldn't deceive him that way.”

“My dear,” Lady Berwick said crisply, “you are naïve. Do you think there aren't parts of his life, past and present, which he keeps secret from you? Husbands and wives are never completely honest with each other—no marriage could survive it.”

Becoming aware of a throbbing at her temples, and a gathering nausea in her stomach, Helen wondered desperately if a migraine were coming on. “I feel ill,” she whispered.

“Finish your brandy.” The countess went to the window and pushed a fold of the curtain aside to take in the outside view. “Vance wants to meet with you tomorrow. If you refuse, he'll go to Mr. Winterborne before the day is out.”

“I won't refuse,” Helen said, thinking grimly that she would tell Rhys the truth at a time she chose, on her own terms.

“I'll send word for him to meet us on neutral territory. It won't do to have him call at Ravenel House again.”

Helen thought for a moment. “The British Museum,” she suggested. “The twins have been asking to see the Zoological Galleries. He and I could exchange a few words there without anyone noticing.”

“Yes, I think that would do. What should I suggest as a meeting-place?”

Helen paused in the act of lifting the glass to her lips. “The poisonous serpents exhibit,” she said, and took another sip.

Lady Berwick smiled slightly, and then looked grim. “I already know the way Vance will present the situation to you, as I am all too familiar with the way his mind works. He won't like the word blackmail; he'll frame it as something like an annual tax, in return for allowing you to find happiness with Mr. Winterborne.”

“There's no such thing as a tax on happiness,” Helen said, rubbing her forehead.