Her Husband's Harlot (43 page)

'Twas
just a dream. You see, Nicholas is home now. All is well.

"She's
my gel, I tell you. I don't need an appointment!"

The
door to the drawing room veered on its hinges, coming to a thunderous stop
against the wall. The paintings trembled in their gilt frames. Startled, Helena found herself confronted by her sire's bristling countenance.

"Papa!
Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Kindly
inform your servant that the Earl of Northgate need not be announced to his own
daughter!"

Helena
gave a slight and apologetic nod to Crikstaff, who stood guard in the doorway.
The butler departed, but not without a suspicious glance backward.

"You
need to keep your servants in better hand," Northgate muttered as Helena came to kiss him. "Nobody knows their place these days. The damned frogs caused
this mess. Hell of a nuisance, this revolutionary business. Now the tenants are
clamoring for this and that, calling it their
right
. Next thing you
know, they'll be demanding we heat their homes and school their brats."

Wisely,
Helena held her tongue.

"Come,
Papa," she said instead. "Let me pour some tea while you share the
purpose of your visit ..." A sudden realization struck her. Sweet heavens,
he hadn't come to fetch her, had he? "Papa, you did receive my second
letter, telling you I was no longer planning to come to Hampshire—"

"Course
I got it." Snorting, the earl plopped down on the settee, straining the
buttons on his crimson and maize checked waistcoat as he did so. "Damn
good thing too. Your request came at a deuced inconvenient time, gel. In the middle
of a hunting party, wasn't I?"

"Yes,
well, I am glad it all worked out—"

"Not
sure it has, my girl, and that's the truth." Northgate gulped his tea and
winced. "Haven't you anything stronger?"

"Of
course, Papa." Helena went to fetch a glass of whiskey. She sat beside her
father, who downed the spirits immediately. He smacked his lips in
appreciation.

"The
whoreson keeps a good cellar, I'll give him that," he said.

"Please
do not refer to Nicholas in that manner," Helena said, frowning.

"Why
not? His mother was little more than a pretty piece. You are too good for him
by far. I received the short end of the bargain, Helena, and don't think I
haven't my regrets."

Helena
felt the fraying edge of temper. "Papa, please, I cannot allow you to
insult my husband in his own home. Nicholas is the kindest, most generous of
husbands, and he is your son-in-law. Cannot you find it in your heart to like
him? If nothing else, then for my sake?"

"Generous,
bah!" Northgate slammed his glass down on the rosewood coffee table. His
face turned an apoplectic red, and his whiskers quivered with rage. "That
bastard is as miserly as they come. Probably counting his gold as we speak, and
me left out in the cold. Well, I won't have it, I tell you. No one cuts off the
Earl of Northgate, no one!"

"Papa,
what are you talking about? Are ... are you in some sort of trouble ...?"

"Dammit,
gel, what kind of question is that? Deuced impudent, if you ask me." Scowling,
Northgate reached for the biscuit box. The silver lid squeaked on its hinges as
the earl rummaged through the contents and fished out the largest biscuit. "Should
have never let you marry beneath you—his inferior breeding has tainted you
already."

Helena
closed her eyes and counted backward from ten.

"Papa,"
she said in a firm voice, "is this visit about money?"

"By
Jove, Helena, where's your delicacy? Your mother would expire on the spot to
hear you speak in so common a manner." As he spoke, crumbs scattered on
his beard. His fingers drummed on his knee. Her father was not, Helena noticed, wearing his favorite signet ring. Nor did a jeweled stick pin reside in his
cravat. Nor did the usual assorted jangle of gold fobs decorate his person.

Familiar
tell-tale signs, all of them. Had she not been so taken aback by his sudden
appearance, she would have noticed sooner.

"I
should not bring this topic up myself, you understand, but since you have
mentioned it ..."

"Yes,
Papa?" But already she knew the answer.

"I
have been short of the ready lately. Just a temporary set-back, of course,"
her father added quickly. "The tenants have been deuced slow on paying the
rents. And I've had a bit of a bad run on investments—speculations didn't come
up as I expected. Nothing to do about it, of course."

"I
see."

"Wouldn't
want to have to cut back on the household expenses—keep your mother in her
accustomed manner and all that."

"How
much?" Helena asked quietly.

"Just
a few hundred pounds—some blunt to float me over until the next ship comes in."
Her father laughed, an awkward, braying sound. "Metaphorically speaking.
Wouldn't have anything to do with trade myself, of course."

"A
few hundred pounds?" Helena said, aghast. "Papa, I do not have such
funds."

"Didn't
I just hear you call Harteford the kindest, most
generous
of husbands?
Ask him for it. The man's got more gold than Croesus."

"I
expect Nicholas to be home at any moment. Perhaps we might discuss this
situation together, the three of us," Helena said, even as her stomach
flipped at the notion.

"Are
you mad, gel? Haven't you been listening?" Northgate roared. "Your
blasted husband is the cause of this whole mess. I can't ask him for the money!"

"What
do you mean
Nicholas
is the cause ...?"

"The
skinflint cut off my allowance! Not a shilling he said, if he caught me at the
cards, and damned if the bastard didn't hold true to his word." Her father
was breathing heavily now, so much so that despite her rising frustration, Helena placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook her off. "Now he's got word around that
my vowels aren't worth ashes—no one will put me up, not even for a single
bloody round."

"Papa,
Nicholas is trying to help you," Helena said.

"Help
me? The bastard has ruined me!"

"You
have ruined yourself." The truth, when spoken, lifted a weight from her
chest. "You cannot blame Nicholas for your own wrong doing."

"
Wrong
doing
? How dare you!" Her father rose above her, his fist raised. For
a moment, she thought he meant to strike her. He had not done so in the past,
but never before had she the courage to oppose him.

She
sat up very straight, her eyes holding his. "Nicholas has the right of it.
I will not interfere with my husband's wishes."

Her
father's fist came slapping down into his palm. Hazel eyes, so like her own,
blazed at her. "By God, what kind of daughter are you? Thomas would have never
allowed me to be treated this way. If your brother was alive, he would call out
your bastard merchant and give you a beating for good measure. Thomas would—"

"Thomas
is dead and has been these years past," Helena said. "There is no
changing that, or the fact that you are a degenerate gambler."

"Why
you
insolent
—"

"What
is more, I am glad Thomas did not live to see what his father has become."
A tear escaped, but Helena held her voice firm. "You need help, Papa, and
I am glad to give it, but not in the form of money. Neither I, nor my husband,
will give you so much as a farthing if it is to buy your passage to perdition."

Her
father stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

Perhaps
he never had.

"You
are dead to me, do you hear?
Dead
!"

When
he slammed the door, the walls vibrated with the finality of his words.

Helena
remained sitting for a long time.

So
deep in thought was she that she was startled by Crikstaff's voice. "Is
everything alright, my lady? Anything I can bring you—warmed milk, perhaps?"

"No,
thank you." She wiped away the last of her tears. "Have we heard from
Lord Harteford?"

"No,
my lady."

Disquiet
flooded her. Something was not right. Nicholas ought to have been home almost
two hours ago, and he always sent word when he was to arrive late. "Have
the carriage readied," she said. "I wish to leave immediately."

"Of
course. Shall I inform the groom of your destination?"

"I
wish to go to the docks. To Lord Harteford's office."

"Now?
At this hour? By my lady—"

"See
that it is done, Crikstaff. That is all."

Gathering
her things, she prayed her intuition was wrong.

*****

As
the carriage came to a stop, Helena pushed back the curtain. In the darkness,
she could make out the outline of the warehouse. The building was plain-faced,
with no ornament whatsoever. The door bordered the street and looked of solid
wood, with no decoration save a slot for looking out. The rectangular structure
stood three stories high, a slumbering beast resting on a street dotted with
similar creatures marked for function rather than fashion.

The
door to the carriage opened to reveal the groom's tense face.

"We're
here, milady, and I can't but say again as 'ow I 'ave a bad feelin' about this.
'Is lordship's like as not to flay me alive for bringin' you 'ere."

"Never
you mind, Will. It's my orders that are to be obeyed in this instance; I will
take full responsibility for the outcome."

"Master'll
still 'ave my 'ide," the groom predicted with dour certainty. "Dangerous
place, the docks at night. Full o' cutthroats an' thieves. And it's too quiet by
far—gives me the chills."

All
the talk of criminals fed into her unease and resurrected the anxiety of her
dream.

"You
are, ahem, prepared, Will, for any eventuality?"

"'Course
I am. What do you take me fer?" The groom patted the pocket of his caped
greatcoat, before letting down the steps. "I'm always prepared."

"Excellent.
Though I am sure there will be no need for it."

But
just in case, it occurred to Helena that it might be wise to secure her own
instrument of protection. If only she had thought of it sooner. On impulse, she
flipped up the cushions on the seat opposite, where her husband had once shown
her a hidden compartment. She lifted the wooden door, hoping for a pistol or a blade.
Nothing. With a sigh, she rearranged the cushions. As she did so, her fingers
encountered a sharp edge.

The
Wollstonecraft volume. She had meant to return it to Miss Lavinia at the salon
this week, but had forgotten it in the carriage. Nicholas' words suddenly
floated into her head.
A bludger ... you take a piece of cloth ... wrap it
around whatever can do a man injury
. She hefted the book in her hands—it
was a solid weight. Stuffing it into her reticule, she alighted and followed
the groom to the front door.

"Probably's
locked," Will said. "There's no light about the place."

He
twisted the knob.

The
door swung open.

"Can't
say as 'ow I like this," the groom said again, this time in a whisper. "Best
be following close behind, milady."

Helena
did as the groom instructed, staying behind him as he scouted the seemingly
infinite darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she began to discern mountainous shapes,
like behemoths from a mystical land. Her pulse raced.

No
need for a fit of vapors. 'Tis just the inventory. 'Tis just crates full of the
tea and coffee you drink every day. Imagine it in the pretty yellow pot, the
one with the cornflowers around the rim
—

Was
it her imagination, or was there movement in the shadows?

She
felt Will's hand on her arm, urging her down toward the ground. She crouched
beside him, her back against a wall of boxes.

"I
think I see the stairs, milady, up to the first floor. Probably where we'll
find the master, if 'e's 'ere." She could not see the expression on Will's
face, but the grimness was evident in his hushed tones. "I would feel a sight
better if you was to wait fer me 'ere. Master might be needin' help, and I can't
be o' use with you hangin' on me coattails, beggin' your pardon."

At
the thought of Nicholas in danger, her heart clenched.

"Yes,
go. I will stay here," she whispered back.

"Don't
move from this 'ere spot, milady, 'til I tells you it's safe to come out."

Helena
watched as the groom crept stealthily forward, melting into the darkness.
Alone, she huddled against the crates. Time passed in sluggish beats, minutes
or hours she could not be certain. The stillness became deafening. Every
rustle, every creak increased her vigilance until she feared bursting out of
her very skin. Her eyes flicked everywhere, her muscles trembled with
anticipation. Something scurried over her skirts, and she jumped, stuffing her
fist in her mouth to stifle the scream.