Marrying Winterborne (23 page)

The countess regarded her with rueful sympathy. “My poor girl . . . it certainly can't be had for free.”

“H
ELEN, ARE YOU CERTAIN
there's nothing wrong?” Cassandra asked, after they had descended from the family carriage. “You've been so quiet, and your eyes are glazed.”

“My head aches a little, that's all.”

“Oh I'm sorry. Should we go to the museum another day?”

“No, I won't feel any better for being at home. Perhaps some walking will set me to rights.”

They linked arms and proceeded together, while far ahead of them, Pandora hurried toward the imposing stone portico of the British Museum.

Lady Berwick puffed impatiently as she hastened after the girl. “Pandora, do not gallop like a chaise-horse!”

The British Museum, a Grecian-styled quadrangle with a two-acre courtyard, was so large that despite a half-dozen visits in the past, they still had seen only a third of its exhibits. Last night, when Lady Berwick had casually suggested a jaunt to the museum, the twins had been overjoyed. Helen, knowing the real reason for the visit, had been far more subdued.

After purchasing tickets and collecting printed maps in the Hall, the group proceeded toward the principal staircase that led to the upper floors. A trio of towering
giraffes had been artfully arranged at the top of the staircase, at the entrance of the Zoological Galleries. The front legs of the largest animal were even taller than Lady Berwick. A little wooden railing had been erected in front of the giraffes to keep the public at bay.

The women paused to regard the taxidermied creatures with awe.

Predictably, Pandora went forward with her hand outstretched.

“Pandora,” Lady Berwick snapped, “if you molest the exhibits, we will not be returning to the museum.”

Turning, Pandora gave her a pleading glance. “A giraffe is
right there
—it once roamed the African savannah—don't you want to know how it feels?”

“Indeed not.”

“There's no sign that says we can't.”

“The railing implies it.”

“But the giraffe is
so
close,” Pandora said woefully. “If you would look the other way for five seconds, I could reach out and touch it so easily . . . and then I wouldn't have to wonder anymore.”

Sighing and scowling, Lady Berwick glanced at their surroundings to make certain they were unobserved. “Be quick about it,” she said tersely.

Pandora darted forward, reached over the railing to feel the creature's limb and furrowed knee, and scurried back to the group. “It's like a horse's coat,” she reported with satisfaction. “The hairs are no longer than a half-inch. Cassandra, do you want to feel it?”

“No, thank you.”

Pandora took her twin's hand. “Come on, then—shall we go to the hoofed beasts, or the ones with claws?”

“Claws.”

Lady Berwick began to follow the girls, but she paused to take another glance at the giraffe. In a few hasty strides, she went to the exhibit, furtively touched its leg, and glanced guiltily at Helen.

Biting back a smile, Helen looked down at her map, pretending not to have seen.

After the countess joined the twins in the southern gallery, Helen headed to the northern one, consisting of five vast rooms filled with exhibits contained in enormous glass cases. Finding the second room, she walked past displays of reptiles. She paused at the sight of a lizard with a large frill around its neck, which reminded her of Queen Elizabeth's ruff. According to the placard beside it, the lizard could expand the frill to make itself look threatening.

Before Helen proceeded to the next case, containing a variety of serpents, a man came to stand beside her. Knowing that he was Mr. Vance, she closed her eyes briefly, her muscles tensing with instant antagonism.

He studied a pair of African chameleons. Eventually he murmured, “Your scent . . . it's the same one your mother wore.
Calanthe
orchids and vanilla . . . I've never forgotten it.”

It caught her off guard, the notion that he had been so familiar with her mother's scent. No one had ever noticed that Helen wore the same fragrance. “I found the recipe in one of her journals.”

“It suits you.”

Helen looked up to find his evaluating gaze on her.

Albion Vance was riveting at this close distance, his high-cheeked face fashioned with sharply androgynous delicacy. His eyes were the color of a November sky.

“You're a pretty girl, though not as beautiful as she
was,” he commented. “You favor me. Did she resent you?”

“I would prefer not to discuss my mother with you.”

“I want you to understand that she meant something to me.”

Helen returned her attention to the case of lizards. Mr. Vance seemed to expect a reply, but she couldn't think of one.

Her lack of response seemed to annoy him.

“I, of course, am the heartless seducer,” Mr. Vance said in an arid tone, “who abandoned his lover and newborn daughter. But Jane had no intention of leaving the earl, nor did I want her to. As for you . . . I was in no position to do anything for you, nor you for me.”

“But now that I'm engaged to a wealthy man,” Helen said coolly, “you've finally taken an interest. Let's not waste time, Mr. Vance. Do you have a shopping list of demands, or would you rather name a simple financial figure?”

His fine dark brows lifted. “I had hoped we could come to an arrangement without being crass.”

Helen was silent, waiting with forced patience, staring at him in a way that seemed to make him uncomfortable.

“A little icicle, aren't you?” he asked. “There's something vestal about you. No spirit. That is why you lack your mother's beauty.”

She refused to rise to the bait. “What do you want, Mr. Vance?”

“Among Lady Berwick's many philanthropic concerns,” he finally said, “is a charity that administers pensions to blind paupers. I want you to persuade Winterborne to donate twenty thousand pounds to the charity's board of trustees. You will explain that his
generous gift will be used to purchase freehold ground rents at West Hackney, which will produce annual dividends for the benefit of the blind pensioners.”

“But instead,” Helen said slowly, “you've worked out a way to benefit yourself.”

“The donation must be made right away. I have immediate need of capital.”

“You want me to ask this of Mr. Winterborne before he and I are even married?” Helen asked incredulously. “I don't think I could convince him to do it.”

“Women have their ways. You'll manage.”

Helen shook her head. “He won't hand over money without having the charity investigated. He'll find out.”

“There will be no documents for him to uncover,” Mr. Vance replied smugly. “I can't be attached either to the charity or the property at West Hackney, the arrangements are verbal.”

“What will happen to the blind pensioners?”

“Some of the money will filter down to them, of course, to make everything appear aboveboard.”

“Just so I understand the situation clearly,” Helen said, “you're blackmailing your daughter to enable you to steal from blind paupers.”

“No one is stealing from the paupers; the money isn't theirs to begin with. And this is not blackmail. A daughter has a natural obligation to help her father when he is in need of assistance.”

“Why am I obligated to you?” Helen asked, bewildered. “What have you ever done for me?”

“I gave you the gift of life.”

Seeing that he was perfectly serious, Helen gave him a disbelieving glance. An irrepressible, half-hysterical burst of giggles rose from her chest. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to hold the laughter back, but
that only made it worse. It didn't help to see Mr. Vance's offended expression.

“You find that amusing?” he asked.

“P-pardon me,” Helen sputtered, struggling to be quiet. “But it didn't take much effort on your part, did it? Other than a . . . a timely spasm of the loins.”

Mr. Vance glared at her with frosty dignity. “Don't demean the relationship I had with your mother.”

“Oh yes. She ‘meant something' to you.” The wild, mirthless giggles faded, and Helen took an unsteady breath. “I suppose Peggy Crewe did as well.”

His cold gaze fixed on hers. “So Winterborne told you about that. I thought he might.”

Becoming aware of a woman and three children coming to view the lizard display, Helen was forestalled from replying. She affected interest in a glass case of turtles and tortoises, and wandered to it slowly, while Mr. Vance accompanied her.

“There's no reason for Winterborne to harbor everlasting hatred toward me,” Vance said, “for doing something that most men have done. I'm not the first to sleep with a married woman, nor will I be the last.”

“Because of you,” Helen pointed out, “Mrs. Crewe died in her childbed, and her husband—a man whom Mr. Winterborne loved like a brother—ended up dead as well.”

“Is it my fault that the husband was so weak-minded as to commit suicide? Is it my fault if a woman hasn't the constitution for childbirth? The entire situation could have been avoided had Peggy chosen not to spread her legs in the first place. I only took what was eagerly offered.”

His callousness stole Helen's breath away. He seemed to have no more conscience than a shark. What
had made him this way? She stared at him, searching for any hint of humanity, any flicker of guilt, regret, or sadness. There was nothing.

“What did you do with the baby?” she asked.

The question seemed to surprise him. “I found a woman to look after her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I've never seen her. Nor do I intend to.” Mr. Vance looked impatient. “That has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“You have no interest in her welfare?”

“Why should I, when her mother's family doesn't? No one wants the misbegotten bastard.”

No doubt he had thought the same thing about her. Helen felt a nagging, anxious, rapidly increasing concern for the little girl, her half-sister. Was the child being nurtured and educated? Neglected? Abused?

“What is the name of the woman who takes care of her?” she asked. “Where does she live?”

“It's none of your concern.”

“Apparently it's none of
yours
,” Helen shot back, “but I would like to know.”

Mr. Vance smirked. “So you can use her against me in some way? Attempt to embarrass me?”

“Why would I try to embarrass you? It's in my interest to avoid scandal just as much as it is yours.”

“Then I advise you to forget the child.”

“Shame on you,” Helen said quietly. “Not only have you rejected responsibility for your own child, you're also trying to prevent someone else from helping her.”

“I've paid for her upkeep these past four years—what else would you have me do? Personally spoon-feed the brat?”

Helen tried to think above a rush of inchoate rage.
She wouldn't be able to find out about her half sister's welfare unless she could pry the information from Mr. Vance. Racking her brains, she recalled what Rhys had once told her about business negotiations.

“You've demanded a large sum of money and will expect more in the future,” she said, “but all you've offered in return is to let me keep something I already have. I won't agree to a bargain without a concession from you. A small one: It will cost you nothing to tell me who has your daughter.”

A long silence passed before Mr. Vance replied. “Ada Tapley. She's a charwoman for my solicitor's relations in Welling.”

“Where—”

“It's a village on the main road from London to Kent.”

“What is the child's name?”

“I have no idea.”

Of course you don't
, Helen thought, writhing inwardly with fury.

“We agree on the bargain, then?” Mr. Vance asked. “You'll convince Winterborne to make the charity donation as soon as possible.”

“If I intend to marry him,” Helen said woodenly, “I have no choice.”

Something in his face eased. In a moment, he grinned. “I find it delicious, that he thinks he's bought a Ravenel to breed, and instead he'll be furthering
my
lineage. Welsh Vances, God help us all.”

For a few minutes after he left her, Helen stared into the case of artfully preserved and arranged creatures. Their sightless glass eyes were permanently wide with surprise, as if they couldn't fathom how they'd come to be there.

The full awareness of her own ruin sank in, and with it, a new feeling. Self-loathing.

She would never ask Rhys for the so-called charity donation. Nor could she marry him. Not now. She would never inflict Albion Vance—or herself—on him.

Telling Rhys the truth would be a nightmare, more hideous than she could imagine. She didn't know how she would find the courage to do it, but there was no choice.

A shadow of grief hovered around her, but she couldn't give in to it yet. There would be time to grieve later.

Years, in fact.

M
UCH LATER IN
the day, after they had returned from the museum, Helen sat alone at the upstairs parlor writing desk, and dipped a pen into a well of India ink.

Dear Mrs. Tapley,

Recently I learned about a female child who was given into your care as a newborn infant, some four years ago. I would like to inquire if she is still residing with you, and if so, I would appreciate any information you could give about her . . .

“T
HIS ALL SEEMS RATHER
untoward,” Lady Berwick said, frowning as the Ravenel carriage approached the mews behind the enormous department store building. “Shopping at six o'clock in the evening, and at such a place. But Mr. Winterborne was most insistent.”

“It's
private
shopping,” Pandora reminded her. “Which, when one thinks of it, is really much more discreet than shopping along a promenade at midday.”

The countess didn't seem pacified by the idea. “The sales clerks won't know my preferences. They might be impertinent.”

“I promise your ladyship,” Helen said, “they will be very helpful.” She would have continued, but the throbbing, pulsing pain in her was worsening. Her anxiety over seeing Rhys tonight had set off a migraine. She didn't know how she could behave as though nothing were wrong. How could she talk and smile and behave affectionately to him when she knew they were never going to marry? The ache spread behind her forehead and eyes like a stain.

“I only want to see the gloves,” Lady Berwick said primly. “After that I will occupy a chair and wait during your appointment with the dressmaker.”

“I don't expect it will last long,” Helen murmured,
keeping her eyes closed. “I may have to return home soon.”

“Does your head hurt?” Cassandra asked in concern.

“I'm afraid so.”

Cassandra touched her arm gently. “Poor you.”

Pandora, however, was not quite as sympathetic. “Helen,
please
try to rise above it. Think of something soothing—imagine your head is a sky filled with peaceful white clouds.”

“It feels like a drawer full of knives,” Helen murmured ruefully, rubbing her temples. “I promise to hold out for as long as I'm able, dear. I know you want time to shop.”

“We'll take you to the furniture department and you can lie on a chaise,” Pandora said helpfully.

“Ladies do not recline in public,” Lady Berwick said.

The footman assisted them from the vehicle and guided them to one of the back entrances, where a uniformed doorman awaited them.

Occupied with the stabbing pain in her head, Helen followed blindly as they were shown into the store. She heard Lady Berwick's murmurs of astonishment upon being led through opulent spaces with arched openings and lofty ceilings, with brilliant chandeliers showering light down to the polished wood floors. Tables and counters were heaped with treasure, and glass cases featured row upon row of luxurious merchandise. Instead of small, closed-in rooms, the departments were airy, open halls, encouraging customers to wander freely. The air smelled like wood polish and perfume and newness, an expensive smell.

As they reached the six-story central rotunda, with scrollwork balconies at every floor and a massive
stained-glass dome ceiling, Lady Berwick couldn't conceal her amazement.

Following the countess's gaze upward, Pandora said reverently, “It's the church of shopping.”

The countess was too bemused to reprimand her for the blasphemy.

Rhys approached them, relaxed and handsome in a dark suit of clothes. Even Helen's oncoming migraine couldn't inhibit a glow of pleasure at the sight of him, so powerful and self-assured in this world he had created. His gaze connected with hers for a brief, hot instant, then switched to Lady Berwick. He bowed over the older woman's hand and smiled as he straightened.

“Welcome to Winterborne's, my lady.”

“This is extraordinary.” Lady Berwick sounded bewildered, almost plaintive. She looked on either side of her, at the halls that seemed to go on and on, as if a pair of mirrors had been set up to reflect each other infinitely. “There must be two acres of floor space.”

“Five acres, including the upper floors,” Rhys said in a matter-of-fact manner.

“How could anyone ever find anything in all this excess?”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “It's all well organized, and there are a half-dozen sales clerks to attend you.” He gestured to a row of attendants, all impeccably clad in black, cream, and the store's signature deep blue. At his nod, Mrs. Fernsby approached. She wore a stylish black dress with a collar and cuffs of cream lace.

“Lady Berwick,” Rhys said, “this is my private secretary, Mrs. Fernsby. She's here to assist with anything you require.”

Within five minutes, Lady's Berwick's apprehensions
had melted into bemused pleasure as Mrs. Fernsby and the sales assistants devoted themselves to gratifying her every wish. While Lady Berwick was shepherded to the glove counter, Pandora and Cassandra roamed among the first-floor displays.

Rhys came to Helen's side. “What's the matter?” he asked quietly.

The bright lighting seemed to pierce into her brain. She tried to smile, but the effort was excruciating. “My head is aching,” she confessed.

With a sympathetic murmur, he turned her toward him. His big hand shaped to her forehead and the side of her face as if testing her temperature. “Have you taken medicine for it?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Come with me.” Rhys drew her arm through his. “We'll find something at the apothecary counter to make you feel better.”

Helen doubted that anything would help, now that the migraine had sunk its claws and fangs into her. “Lady Berwick will want me to stay within her sight.”

“She won't notice anything. They're going to keep her busy for at least two hours.”

Helen was in too much distress to argue as Rhys pulled her away with him. Mercifully, he didn't ask questions or try to make conversation.

They reached the apothecary hall, where the flooring changed to polished black-and-white tile. It was much dimmer here, as most of the lighting had been turned down at closing. Both sides of the hall were lined with cabinets, shelves, and tables, with a countertop peninsula extending from one of the walls. Every shelf was crowded with jars of powders, pills, liniments, and creams, as well as bottles and vials of
tinctures, syrups, and tonics. Assorted medicated confectionaries had been arranged on tables; herbal cough drops, cayenne lozenges, maple sugar, and gum Arabic. Ordinarily Helen wouldn't have minded the blend of astringent and earthy scents in the air, but in her current misery, it was nauseating.

Someone was at the peninsula, sorting through drawers and pausing to make notes. As they drew closer, Helen saw that it was a woman not much older than herself, her slim form dressed in a dark burgundy walking suit, her brown hair topped with a sensible hat.

Glancing up, the woman smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mr. Winterborne.”

“Still working?” he asked.

“No, I'm about to leave for a local orphanage, to visit the infirmary. I'm low on supplies, and Dr. Havelock told me to take them from the store apothecary. Naturally I'll pay for them tomorrow.”

“The store will assume the expense,” Rhys said without hesitation. “It's a worthy cause. Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lady Helen,” Rhys said, “this is Dr. Garrett Gibson, one of our two staff physicians.”

“Good evening,” Helen murmured with a strained smile, pressing her fingers against her right temple as a searing knot throbbed inside her skull.

“An honor,” the other woman said automatically, but she regarded Helen with concern. “My lady, you appear to be in discomfort. Is there something I can do?”

“She needs a headache powder,” Rhys said.

Dr. Gibson looked at Helen across the counter, her vivid green eyes assessing. “Is the pain all through your head, or is it focused in one area?”

“My temples.” Helen paused, taking inventory of the various searing pains in her head, as if burning coals had been randomly inserted. “Also behind my right eye.”

“A migraine, then,” Dr. Gibson said. “How long ago did it start?”

“Only a few minutes ago, but it's rushing at me like a locomotive.”

“I'd recommend a neuralgic powder—it's far more effective for migraines, as it includes caffeine citrate. Let me fetch a box—I know exactly where they are.”

“I'm sorry to be a bother,” Helen said weakly, bracing against the counter.

Rhys settled a reassuring hand low on her back.

“Migraines are torture,” Dr. Gibson said, striding to a nearby cabinet and rummaging through boxes and tins. “My father is afflicted with them. He's as tough as hippopotamus hide, but he takes to his bed as soon as they begin.” Pulling out a green-painted tin with a nod of satisfaction, she brought it to the counter. “You may feel a trifle lightheaded after taking one, but I daresay that's better than splitting pain.”

Helen liked her manner immensely, capable and friendly, not at all dispassionate as one might expect of a doctor.

While Dr. Gibson pried off the lid of the tin, Rhys took hold of a sliding wood section of the counter, pushed it back, and reached down to extract a wire stand holding four chilled soda water bottles. “A counter refrigerator,” he said, noticing Helen's interest. “Like the ones in grocers' shops.”

“I've never been in a grocer's shop,” Helen admitted, watching as Rhys took one of the bottles from the
stand. The bottles were all egg-shaped with perfectly round bases that couldn't stay upright on their own.

Dr. Gibson took a paper packet from the tin of neuralgic powders, and unfolded it to form a vee-shaped channel. “The taste is dreadful,” she said, handing it to Helen. “I suggest pouring it as far back on your tongue as possible.”

Rhys untwisted the tiny wire cage that affixed the cork to the bottle top, and handed the vessel to Helen. He grinned as she gave it an uncertain glance. “You've never drunk directly from a bottle before, have you?” His gaze was caressing as he stroked the edge of her jaw with a single knuckle. “Just don't tip it up too fast.”

Helen held the paper up to her mouth, tilted her head back, and let the bitter powder slide to her throat. Cautiously she brought the bottle to her lips, poured a splash into her mouth, and swallowed the cold, effervescent liquid. The tart lime-flavored soda helped to mask the bitter medicine.

“Have a little more,
cariad
.” Rhys used his thumb to wipe at a tiny stray drop at the corner of her mouth. “This time, seal your lips around the edge.”

She took another swallow or two, chasing away the taste of the powder, and gave the bottle back to him. Leaving it uncorked, he set it back on the stand.

Dr. Gibson spoke quietly, her sympathetic gaze on Helen. “It will begin to take effect in five minutes or so.”

Helen closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to her temples again, trying to ease the sensation of needles being driven into her skull. She was aware of Rhys's large form beside her, his presence somehow comforting and distressing at the same time. She thought
of what she needed to talk to him about, and how he would react, and her shoulders slumped.

“Some people find that an ice bag or a mustard plaster helps,” she heard Dr. Gibson say quietly. “Or a massage of the neck muscles.”

Helen twitched with agitation as she felt Rhys's hands settle on her exposed nape. “Oh not here—”

“Shhh.” His fingertips found places of excruciating soreness and began to knead gently. “Rest your forearms on the counter.”

“If someone should see—”

“They won't. Relax.”

Although the circumstances were hardly what Helen would have considered relaxing, she obeyed weakly.

Rhys used his thumbs on the back of Helen's neck, while his fingers pressed into the knotted tightness at the base of her skull. She lowered her head, as her muscles were coaxed and inexorably coerced into releasing their tension. His strong hands worked down her neck to her shoulders with sensitive variations of pressure, finding every tight place. She found herself taking deeper breaths, surrendering to the pleasure of his touch.

As Rhys continued to knead and probe, he spoke over her head to Dr. Gibson. “This orphan asylum you're going to—have you been there before?”

“Yes, I try to go weekly. I visit a workhouse as well. Neither place can afford a doctor's services, and the infirmaries are always full.”

“Where are they located?

“The workhouse is in Clerkenwell. The orphan asylum is a bit farther out, at Bishopsgate.”

“Those places aren't safe for you to go unescorted.”

“I'm quite familiar with London, sir. I don't take chances with my safety, and I carry a walking stick for self-defense.”

“What good is a walking stick?” Rhys asked skeptically.

“In my hands,” Dr. Gibson assured him, “it's a dangerous weapon.”

“Is it weighted?”

“No, I can deliver three times as many blows with a lighter cane than with a heavier stick. At my fencing-master's suggestion, I've carved notches at strategic points along the shaft to improve grip strength. He has taught me some effective techniques to fell an opponent with a cane.”

“You fence?” Helen asked, her head still down.

“I do, my lady. Fencing is an excellent sport for ladies—it develops strength, posture, and proper breathing.”

Helen liked the woman more and more. “I think you're fascinating.”

Dr. Gibson responded with a surprised little laugh. “How nice you are. I'm afraid you've disappointed my expectations: I thought you would be snobbish, and instead you're perfectly lovely.”

“Aye, she is,” Rhys said softly, his thumbs making circles on Helen's neck.

To Helen's amazement, the burning coals in her head were fading to blessed coolness: She could feel the searing agony retreating by the second. After another minute or two, she flattened her palms on the counter and pushed herself up, blinking.

“The pain is almost gone,” she said in wondering relief.

Carefully Rhys turned her to face him, his gaze traveling over her. He stroked back a blond tendril that dangled over her right eye. “Your color is better.”