Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Helen,” said her mother in tragic tones, “is not here.”


“What do you mean? Of course she’s here, somewhere at Kingstag.” Cleo was astonished. “When did you discover she wasn’t in her room? We must look for her—”

Millicent waved her handkerchief as if to dispel the words. “Don’t say that! Would you have us run up and down the corridors calling her name? What would people think?”

“They’ll notice if she doesn’t come to her own wedding.” Cleo tried to tame her thoughts into order. “Chances are she woke early from nerves and went for a walk. Have you checked the garden?”

“Of course we did!” snapped her father, pacing in front of the fireplace. “What kind of fool do you think I am? I went there first thing.”

“But she’s not there—her bed hasn’t been slept in—she never rang for her maid—she’s gone and run off and we’ll all be humiliated when His Grace discovers it!” Millicent burst into loud weeping. Cleo patted her mother’s shoulder numbly, not knowing what to think. Where could Helen be? Had she truly run off?

Her heart took a mad leap at the thought; perhaps her sister didn’t wish to marry Wessex after all. Perhaps there was a chance for Cleo to have him without hurting her sister and causing a scandal. She was a wicked woman for thinking it, but she did think it.

“We must tell His Grace,” she began, only to be cut off by her father.

“We most certainly must not! What will he think?”

“He’ll think Helen’s not here,” said Cleo, “which is true. Mama, we must tell him,” she insisted as her mother shook her head and burst into tears again. “We cannot conceal her absence! He’ll notice his bride is missing.”

Millicent clutched at her arms. “You must find her,” she begged. “Please look—you and she were always thick as thieves. We’ll be a laughingstock if she jilts the Duke of Wessex at the altar!”

Cleo ignored that. She rather thought the duke wouldn’t mind being jilted, but there might be another reason Helen had gone missing. “I’ll go look for Helen, but I have to tell the duke. He has a right to know,” she said, raising her voice as her mother began to moan softly. “Let me change my shoes and get a pelisse.”

“Yes! Yes, you must go.” Her mother retreated to the sofa. “Oh, where are my Smythson’s Smelling Salts?”

Cleo went back to her own room and kicked off her gray satin slippers. Her sister might have gone for a walk and fallen; she could be lying hurt somewhere on the vast estate. Walking boots in hand, Cleo sat down at the dressing table, not bothering to ring for her maid to change her dress. Until she knew Helen was at least safe, there was no time to lose. She laced up one boot, combing her memory for any place Helen might have wandered. Where could she be?

The answer stared her in the face when she reached for the second boot.

Cleo seized the note tucked partly under a box of face powder. It was folded small and bore her initials in Helen’s delicate writing. Unfolding it with shaking fingers, she read. Then she read again. She laughed a little madly, then stopped at once, glancing around the room in guilt. People would think she was mad, and Helen, too.

Oh, God. What a twist.

On shaking legs she went back to her mother’s room. Her parents were where she had left them, alone, thank God. She closed the room door behind her, and cleared her throat.

“What is it?” barked her father.

“I’ve found a note,” she said, “from Helen.”

That roused even Millicent. “What does it say?” Sir William strode across the room to snatch the paper from Cleo’s hand before she could read it. His eyes skimmed it, then his face blanched, and he thrust it back at her as if it burned him. “You!” he croaked. “You did this!”

“No!” she gasped. “No! I did nothing!”

“What?” cried Millicent, struggling off the sofa. “What has happened to poor Helen?”

“Poor Helen,” spat Sir William, “has disgraced us all! Disgraced and ruined us! And you—” He shook his finger at Cleo. “—you are responsible!”

“I most certainly am not!” Cleo’s temper finally snapped at his unjust accusation. She had held her tongue about her shop and endured his suspicion without a word, but now she had had enough. “You are, Papa, if anyone is. You and Mama both.”

He reared back. “How dare you!”

“Helen has been unhappy and anxious since we arrived, and neither of you paid any attention because you were so pleased she was marrying a duke. I knew she was unhappy, but she insisted it was just nerves—which you, Mama, made worse with your incessant talk of how glorious Kingstag is and what an honor it will be to preside over it.”

“But it’s a castle,” protested her mother. “Helen needs to know—”