Tempting the Bride

chapter 2



Work had become Helena’s refuge, solid stretches of time during which she could forget that she’d become a prisoner in her own life. A particular source of solace of late had been Tales from Old Toad Pond, a collection of children’s books, the rights to which she’d acquired earlier in the year.

The books depicted the escapades of a pair of ducklings and their friends around a seemingly placid pond that nevertheless offered all the adventures any young heart could desire—or handle, as foxes came sniffing in spring, crocodiles arrived to escape the heat of Egypt in summer, and silly little bunnies sometimes set their houses on fire while toasting carrots during the equinox celebrations.

Helena planned to publish one story a month for twelve months, beginning in September, and then a handsome boxed collection for the following Christmas, to be followed by a single volume containing all the previously published stories, plus a pair of new ones to make for a lucky fourteen in total.

She’d never met Miss Evangeline South, the author of the tales, but found the woman easy to work with. The tales hadn’t originally been intended to be a round-the-year series, and Helena had asked for a number of modifications. The changes completed thus far had been made quickly, and very much to Helena’s satisfaction.

She toyed with the idea of hiring a calligrapher to render the text of the books, which would increase her initial cost of production, but which—

A knock came at her door.

“Yes?”

Miss Boyle, her secretary, poked in her head. “Miss, Lord Hastings to see you.”

Helena’s chair scraped rather audibly.

Hastings occasionally came to fetch her at Fitz’s behest, but Fitz and Millie were not in London—they were on their way to the Lake District, in fact.

“You may show him in, but warn him I have only a few minutes to spare.”

“Yes, miss.”

Helena took a quick look at herself in the small mirror on the wall. She was in her usual white shirtwaist, an antique cameo brooch at her throat. Her sister, Venetia, two years older than she, was the Great Beauty of their generation. Helena was often grateful that she hadn’t been burdened with Venetia’s stunning looks, which made most men and quite a number of women incapable of seeing Venetia beyond her face.

Today, however, she wished she were as staggeringly beautiful as Venetia. She would have enjoyed flaunting all that gorgeousness before Hastings, and rendering him agape at what he could not have.

Hastings walked in with the smile of the Cheshire cat and the gait of a Siberian tiger, a big man who moved surely but lightly, always on the prowl.

Helena gritted her teeth—she could swear she’d never noticed his gait before the beginning of this year.

He sat down. “Miss Fitzhugh, how glad I am that you can spare five minutes to see me.”

“I’d offer you a seat, but I see you’ve already taken one,” she said by way of greeting.

“Shall I bring some tea?” Miss Boyle asked eagerly.

“Lord Hastings is busier than you and I combined, Miss Boyle. I’m sure he won’t stay long enough for water to boil.”

“Indeed, I shall stay only long enough for Miss Fitzhugh’s blood to boil.” Hastings smirked. “But thank you for the lovely offer, Miss Boyle.”

“Of course, my lord,” answered Miss Boyle, flushing with pleasure.

“Don’t do that,” Helena said sharply, once Miss Boyle had closed the door behind her.

“Do what?”

“Flirt with my secretary.”

“Why not? She enjoys it, as do I.”

“And what happens when she falls in love with you?”

He smiled. “My dear Miss Fitzhugh, you attribute such powers to me. I can only imagine you must find me difficult to resist.”

“And yet my resistance remains intact, after all these years.”

“A mere husk—the faintest gust will blow it away. But truly, you need not fear for Miss Boyle. She has a promising young man who works in the city and waits for her outside each afternoon to walk her to her lodging. They have even met twice on Sundays to picnic in the country.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“And why should she mention such distractions to her employer? Do you speak to her of your love affairs?”

“Then why should she tell you?”

“I take an interest. She does find my attention flattering, but she is quite sensible, that young lady, and not about to let my lovely plumage turn her head.”

Lovely plumage. “You flatter yourself a great deal.”

“I learned the trick from Lord Vere. It makes my listener’s blood boil faster.”

He had a good voice—his words emerged like notes on an arpeggio. Had she never noticed it before?

She was beginning to be thoroughly annoyed with herself. Leaning back in her chair, she made her voice cold and impatient. “Why are you here?”

“Because I am a good and loyal friend and I am worried about you.”

She snickered. “I am touched, Hastings. Tell me, is the way I’m not filling out my bodice bothering you again? And are my Amazonian footprints cracking London’s streets?”

“It’s about Mr. Martin.”

“I’ve already heard a number of warnings from you on that front, Hastings,” she said dismissively.

“But you have not heeded any of them.”

“Which is no one’s fault but your own.”

He looked down a moment before raising his eyes again—had he always had eyes that particular depth of blue? “Would you take me more seriously if I promise never to try for another kiss from you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your promise not to kiss me will translate into attempts to grope me instead, from what I know of the caliber of your promises.”

“What if I promise never again to come within three feet of you?”

Something in the timbre of his voice gave her pause. Was this what sincerity on Hastings’s part sounded like? She dismissed the thought out of hand. “Then no doubt you will demand that I disrobe and tie myself to a bedpost—as you’ve described in your smutty novel—while you watch from three feet away and do whatever disgusting things men do in such situations.”

“You do put such ideas in my head,” he murmured.

Now, this mocking tone was far more familiar. Not that she fared much better against it—inside her stockings, her toes clenched again. “You manufacture such ideas by the gross without any help from me.”

He sighed exaggeratedly. “I see it is futile for me to offer any promises.”

“Utterly pointless.”

He rose. “Sometimes you must disregard the messenger and consider only the message—or have you forgotten that I was exactly right about Billy Carstairs? Mrs. Monteth is on the loose, and you will be foolish to ignore the lengths to which she is willing to go to unmask what she considers wrongdoing.”

Mrs. Monteth was Andrew’s wife’s sister, a guardian of virtue in her own eyes. Her idea of virtue consisted largely—one might say entirely—of chastity. She lived to expose maids who had granted too much liberty to their fellows, or young ladies who might have been indiscreet with someone who was not an approved suitor.

“I am perfectly capable of disregarding the messenger when the message is worth my time.” But his reminder about Billy Carstairs did give her pause. She’d disregarded everything Hastings had said about that erstwhile favorite cousin, but time had proved her good opinion of Billy sadly deluded. “Go to my window and have a look.”

“Fleet Street? I know what it looks like.”

“Humor me. Look across the street to your right, second lamppost.”

He crossed to the window. “There is a man reading a newspaper,” said Hastings.

“He is there to make sure I do not climb down the exterior wall—before the crowd on the street, mind you—and escape to indulge in unsuitable shenanigans. And you know very well that my maid sits out by the other exit of this room to prevent me from walking off. On days I walk to work, she follows two steps behind. On days I take the carriage, the coachmen are instructed to never let me off anywhere except directly at work, where she is already waiting. And when I am dragged about various parlors and ballrooms, either my sister or my sister-in-law stands within three feet, even for my trips to the water closet.”

Contrary to what she’d expected, her enumeration of the close watch under which she’d been placed failed to make an impression on him. “Is that all?”

“Is that all? How will Mrs. Monteth catch me at any scandalous action when I can’t even sneeze without it being duly reported?”

“I have more faith in you, Miss Fitzhugh. You haven’t broken free of this surveillance yet, but it’s only a matter of time before you spot an opportunity.” He paused and gazed at her for a moment. She was disconcerted by something that flickered in his eyes—something suspiciously close to true concern. “When that time comes, and an opportunity presents itself, I beg you to exercise wisdom and restraint and remember that not all opportunities are created equal. Some are nothing but steps leading down toward catastrophe.”

And with that, he bowed and took his leave.

Helena tried to reimmerse herself in Tales from Old Toad Pond. Miss Evangeline South was an accomplished illustrator with a deft, yet whimsical touch. The pond was a perfect shade of springlike green, the cottages laden with ivy and blooming window boxes, the large log that was the summer boat of the turtles—seasonal visitors from warmer climates—charmingly festooned with enormous bouquets of bulrush.

But whereas earlier the drawings had made her smile, now she frowned at them. Surely…surely she could not possibly think that there were any similarities to be found between the cheerful innocence of Miss South’s illustrations and the blatant obscenity of Hastings’s.

She took out Hastings’s manuscript again, flipping the pages, each pornographic image reassuring her that indeed, her mind had been playing tricks on her: There was not the slightest likeness between the artwork of Old Toad Pond and the filthy scribbles in The Bride of Larkspear.

A few pages from the end of the manuscript, however, she came across an illustration that could not be termed indecent. This time the bride of Larkspear was clothed—properly clothed, in a dress that buttoned to her chin. She lay in a field of grass, the brim of her hat covering most of her face. Only her mouth showed, curved in a teasing—or perhaps mocking—smile.

Without the distraction and discomfiture of the woman’s nakedness, the likeness in the artists’ styles leaped off the page and punched Helena in the lungs. She had not been imagining things after all: There was a marked resemblance in the use of color, the curvature of the lines, the weight and solidity of the shapes.

Before she could quite take her thoughts to their logical conclusion, a knock came at her door. She hastily locked the manuscript away. “Come in.”

Miss Boyle entered. “Another cable for you, miss.”

“Thank you, Miss Boyle.”

Fitz had sent a cable not long ago. Did he remember something else to tell her?

But this telegram did not have the name or the address of the sender. The text was short and impersonal. Next Monday. The Savoy Hotel. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Ask for the Quaids’ room.

Her breath suspended. Andrew. At long last. She pressed the cable against her heart, her mind running away with the imagined pleasure of this longed-for reunion. A few minutes passed before she let go of her elation and began contemplating the realities of arranging for such a rendezvous on her part, with all the surveillance that had been placed upon her.

Well, if the Count of Monte Cristo could escape the Château d’If, it ought not be impossible for her to shake free of her watchdogs.

Hastings’s words unexpectedly came to mind, echoing with an ominous, almost prophetic ring in her head. I beg you to exercise wisdom and restraint and remember that not all opportunities are created equal. Some are nothing but steps leading down toward catastrophe.

She wavered for several minutes before she realized what she was doing.

No one would stop her from seeing Andrew, least of all Hastings.