My Pleasure (7 page)

Once more Helena silently agreed: Ramsey Munro was not a gentleman. She’d known that, too. The letter Munro and his companions had brought with them to her mother’s house had stated that fact without compunction or apology, but simply by way of expressing their regret that whatever aid they could give her family would be neither financial nor social.

“He’s the Prince of White Friars, sure enough,” Jolly said with a little snort. “And his throne is at the end of his salle, and there he reigns supreme.”

“How do you know this?” Mrs. Winebarger asked.

“I’ve been there,” Jolly replied pertly.

“To the salle?” DeMarc’s expression was incredulous.

“Oh, it is all the thing!” Jolly spouted enthusiastically. “We all go down and watch on Saturdays. All the young ladies.”

By now, their group had attracted Lady Tilpot’s attention. Hating to be excluded from anything that promised gossip or unpleasantness, she heaved herself to her feet and, grabbing Reverend Tawster’s arm in a death grip, waddled forth with the apologetic-looking vicar in tow.

“That is indecent!” DeMarc declared as Lady Tilpot and the Reverend joined them. “Isn’t it, Vicar?”

“What?” the vicar asked. “Going to a sporting exhibition?”

“The salles are schools for young gentlemen, not exhibition halls,” DeMarc said. “Any woman who disports herself there can scarce be called a lady.”

“Truly, the world is too lax in what it allows, but perhaps more grievous errors than visiting a salle might occupy our prayers and our outrage?” Reverend Tawster suggested mildly.

Helena smiled encouragingly at the vicar and could have sworn he closed an eye in a wink.

“Not at all,” Lady Tilpot pronounced.

“Lady Tilpot, you disagree with your vicar?” Mrs. Winebarger asked.

“Completely. It is our young people who will inherit society one day, and as such we cannot hope for too much as regards their behavior. We must be constantly vigilant of any indications of vice or moral rot and be swift to excise them.”

“You are correct, of course,” the vicar demurred, “but I think it important to trust that our young people are proud of their heritage and thus would do nothing to diminish their noble names.”

“Unless they are the not so very well bred.” Lady Tilpot looked directly at Helena.

“Certainly you are not referring to Miss Nash?” Reverend Tawster declared, looking aghast. “Though I have known her but a short while, in that time she has never deported herself in any but the most exacting and nicest manner.”

“Certainly not,” declared Lady Tilpot coldly. “I would not tolerate anything less in my household.” She regarded Helena with a pursed smile. “But,” she continued sententiously, “as nice as her manners might be, blood will tell. Clearly, somewhere in Miss Nash’s background lurks an Unfortunate Connection.”

Helena felt her mouth stiffen. She must not rise to the provocation. She never rose to the provocation.

“That is out-and-out rubbish!” Mrs. Winebarger’s amusement had apparently evaporated. She met Lady Tilpot’s apoplectic glower with a cold stare. “Unless I am very much mistaken, her father was Colonel Roderick Nash.”

Mrs. Winebarger turned to Helena and her gaze softened. “Was he not? A man respected in life and honored in death.”

“Indeed, yes,” Helena answered softly, gratefully. Yet…why would the Prussian lady know that? True, her father had been a military man of some renown, but not to the degree that his name would be commonly known amongst the ton. “I am surprised you know of him.”

“My husband follows the wars very closely. He is a great admirer of your father and”—she glanced at DeMarc—“as my husband’s confidante, I have learned a great deal about the gentleman. For instance, I know that while on diplomatic duty in France, he volunteered to trade himself for three Scottish prisoners, young men whom the French suspected were spies and who were slated for execution.”

Her voice lowered, grew commiserative. “I also know that after the exchange”—her voice dropped sympathetically—“he was executed. He died a hero.”

Mrs. Winebarger’s words brought it all rushing back to Helena: her initial raw grief, exacerbated by Kate’s anger at her father for sacrificing his life for three strangers; the shock of discovering that their family could no longer reside at the entailed estate; the stunned realization that they must leave York. And into this quagmire of desperation and grief had come the very prisoners Colonel Nash had died rescuing, vowing that they would do whatever their savior’s family asked of them, no matter what that might be. What would these people say if they knew that one of those prisoners had been Ramsey Munro?

“Her father is certainly to be honored,” Lady Tilpot said after a moment, and then only grudgingly. “But her sisters are another matter. The widowed one has only lately made an infamous match, wedding a common Scottish soldier. Tell them it is true, Miss Nash.”

“Indeed it is,” Helena acknowledged with a sense of relief. At least here she needn’t feel guilty over her failure to defend her relatives. Kate and Christian did not need, nor would they want, her championship. They paid no attention to Society.

“That alone might be overlooked as a peculiarity. But the younger sister presents clear evidence that the Nash family tree is hiding Undesirable Elements.”

The little hairs on the nape of her neck began prickling. Kate could, and always had, taken care of herself, but Charlotte—impulsive, passionate, independent Charlotte—would go wherever her heart and fancy led.

Soon after their parents’ deaths, Helena and Kate had decided that as Charlotte would have little else to recommend her in life, she should at least have the advantages of a good education. They had done all they could to pay for her attendance at an exclusive school. But when her schooling had ended, Charlotte had flown from their care at the first opportunity, ingratiating herself with the family of a school chum, Baron Welton’s only child.

Helena was honest enough to admit that at first she had welcomed abdicating the difficult task of sheltering and guiding a headstrong teenager to an established society family. Later, when it had come to their attention that there was little sheltering and no guiding whatsoever going on in that family, her attempts to extricate Charlotte from the Welton household had been met with her sister’s blatant refusal to leave.

With an impish and unapologetic smile, Charlotte had informed her that she had no interest in living in poverty, that she liked her fashionable clothes and pretty room, and that she was of an age where neither Helena nor Kate could do a “bloody thing about it.” And then she had winked.

Lately, Helena had heard she was developing undesirable friendships. She had tried communicating with Charlotte on the subject on numerous occasions, but always unsuccessfully. When she went to the Welton household, Charlotte was always gone. The few lines she wrote in response to Helena’s alternately pleading and demanding letters had been brief, unconcerned, filled with the latest news regarding her wardrobe and the current on dits about her adopted family.

It had been exasperating. There were no other avenues by which to reach Charlotte. The fast crowd the Weltons ran with was hardly the type to be invited to Lady Tilpot’s house. Ultimately, Helena had had to admit the indisputable fact that Charlotte neither wanted to, nor would accept, Helena’s “interference” in her life, and as unhappy as it made her, Helena did not see what else she could do.

Consequently, the name of her younger sister on Lady Tilpot’s pursed lips brought every protective instinct rushing forth in Helena, and with them guilt. Indeed, Helena suspected she had transferred a great deal of her guilt over Charlotte, whom she could not help no matter how she tried and who did not want her help, to Flora, whom she could and who did.

“Well, Miss Nash? Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Lady Tilpot asked.

Helena bit down hard on her inner cheeks. If she was too pert, Lady Tilpot would discharge her on the spot, and Flora would be alone. She need only bear Lady Tilpot a few weeks more. A few weeks. She could do that. “Charlotte,” she finally said in a tight voice, “is quite well received.”

“Yes,” Lady Tilpot admitted, “but for how long?” And, having fired off this last shot, she turned with an air of finality to her vicar. “Reverend Tawster, would you be so kind as to give me your arm? I wish to sit.”

The vicar obliged, perhaps suddenly realizing on which side his bread was buttered. And judging by his soft-looking belly, he did like butter.

“Now, then,” Jolly turned back as soon as Lady Tilpot and the vicar were out of earshot, as if Lady Tilpot’s views on good breeding had been a burp, a little embarrassing and best ignored, “what I was saying about Ramsey Munro was how all the young ladies visit his salle on Saturday afternoons and—”

“Miss Nash, I fear the conversation grows tedious for you,” DeMarc’s cold voice cut across Jolly’s.

Helena regarded him with irritation. She’d wanted to hear what Jolly knew of Ramsey Munro.

“You can hardly know the people of whom Miss Jolly speaks, and I doubt your circle of acquaintances overlaps with Mrs. Winebarger’s.” He held out his hand. “I am sure you will like to show me Lady Tilpot’s collection of etchings, eh?”

Without being inexcusably rude, there was nothing she could do but rise and take his arm. He escorted her to the other side of the room, where Lady Tilpot had arranged a portfolio of etchings for her guests’ viewing.

He did not even pretend to look at them. “There. Now you have my complete attention. That ought to please you.”

Helena blinked, uncertain whether or not she had heard him correctly. “Sir?”

“I am sorry you were subjected to that woman.”

Once more Helena regarded him, startled. Was he going to champion Charlotte against Lady Tilpot? Perhaps she had misjudged—

“The Prussians are universally acknowledged to be coarse, and that Milar creature.” He shuddered delicately.

No. He would not be championing her.

She struggled to find a rejoinder, but it was impossible. She could hardly dispute him by saying the conversation was not low, and she could scarcely agree. So she said nothing. And she
hated
saying nothing. Just as she had hated being unable to defend Charlotte to Lady Tilpot. But she would do what was necessary, at least for now, in order to find a happy ending for the star-crossed lovers.

“You bear your state with laudable patience, Miss Nash,” he murmured fondly.

Apparently, the role of silent sufferer was one DeMarc found admirable. The man probably liked his dogs cringing, too. Helena lowered her eyes so he would not see her ire. “Sir.”

“You little minx. Look at me. No one is watching us. You’ve been discreet.” Her head snapped up. He smiled. “But not too discreet. I have noted your interest. Others have, too. I see how you look at me. I see your smile.”

Amazement turned to dismay.

“My only question now is, what to do about it?”

No. Oh, no. She couldn’t afford to hurt his feelings. A man like Forrester DeMarc would take any rejection poorly. But she could not encourage him, either, and not only because she had no desire whatsoever to do so. If Lady Tilpot suspected Helena of using her soirees for Flora to attract men for herself, she would dismiss Helena at once.

She couldn’t leave Flora. Not now. Not yet. She racked her brain looking for some suitable response.

“Too kind,” she finally murmured.

“Miss Nash!” Lady Tilpot’s peremptory call unfurled across the room like a lash, and for once Helena felt only gratitude for that petulant, demanding bark. “Stop monopolizing Lord DeMarc and come here.”

Without a backward glance, Helena obeyed.

PREPARATION:

a nonthreatening action intended to create the opening for the initial phase of an attack

THE AFTERNOON SHADOWS had lengthened into long mauve streaks when Helena placed the shillings in the Vauxhall Garden attendant’s hand. This time she did not keep her eyes lowered behind her black silk mask. Last week’s experience, rather than discouraging her, had given her confidence. The excitement of the other attendees was contagious, their faces smiling and their laughter spicing the air.

A ragamuffin girl standing just inside the gate pressed a violet nosegay into Helena’s hand and then, tilting her tough little face up, inspected her thoroughly before saying, “I don’t know rightly if yer a man or a woman, but either way that’ll be tuppence.”

“Give me the flowers for a penny, and I will reveal my secrets,” Helena said, teasing the child.

Without preamble, the girl snorted. “I ain’t
that
interested. Besides which, me ma told me as how if anyone ever says anytin’ about revealin’ anytin’ to me, I was to scream bloody murder. So, will it be tuppence then, or I’ll start screaming?”

Helena laughed and tossed her a groat before tucking the flowers under the lip of her soft hat and moving on, amused and fascinated that this little scrap of a girl would own such self-assurance and aplomb. She could not remember ever having been so summarily dismissed.

It was the mask, she realized. No one could see her countenance or hair. Always before, her looks had attracted conspicuous attention. It was novel for her to move anonymously through a crowd. Here, dressed thus, she could say whatever she wished and never pay the penalty for a chance indiscretion or pointed observation, for laughing too loudly or saying something inappropriate. That was the danger of masks, Helena realized, no doubt of it: the euphoria of freedom. And of such freedom she’d had scant experience.

Before this past month, she had never gone anywhere like Vauxhall Garden. In fact, she had never been anywhere at all without the escort of at least a maid or footman. This was heady stuff, indeed. She might—

“I could do anything I wanted to you. Right now. You’re mine,” a hoarse voice whispered close to her ear.

Helena spun about, but the crowd was thick, and the owner of the voice might have been any of a dozen people surrounding her: the fat man in the Tudor robes, the woman in kimono and plaster mask, the sailor or American Indian princess. She forced herself to calm down. The words probably hadn’t even been meant for her. The feeling of being followed that had dogged her all week had stimulated her imagination. She was simply reacting to her sudden freedom with the ingrained conviction that nothing came without a price.