But, a treacherous little voice inside her warned, Major Lord Brett Stanford knew how to please every woman—little wonder that he knew how to please her. He had even known how to make her feel appreciated when he had thought her a simple serving girl. Naturally, now that he had become acquainted with her, it would take no effort at all on his part to select a gift that would appeal especially to her. Why, he was even successful in catering to her mothers’ sophisticated tastes and the jaded ones of the Princess Bagration, so it must have presented him with no challenge at all to win the heart of an unsophisticated young woman from the country.
At the moment, however, Helena did not want to think of it that way, the way her mind told her it truly was. She preferred to follow her heart’s interpretation, that he too had felt the special bond between them and had sought out the very present that would best express that bond. And so, in order to keep that interpretation alive just a little while longer, Helena declined her mother’s invitation to accompany her to Count Razumovsky’s in favor of remaining at home, where, it was true, she would not have the pleasure of waltzing with Brett, but neither would she have to watch him waltz with her mother, the Princess Bagration, the Duchess of Sagan, or all the other beautiful, sophisticated women who haunted the ballrooms of Vienna.
She ordered a simple supper in the library and tried to focus her mind on her work, but it kept drifting back to a pair of bright blue eyes in a tanned face smiling into hers, and strong arms whirling her around the floor until she finally gave up and gave in to her daydreams as she slowly dozed off in her favorite bergère chair.
Helena woke hours later to the clanging of church bells. Not fully awake and still half in and half out of her dreamworld, she struggled a moment to figure out where she was. It was still dark as night, and the candles were guttering in their sockets, but the sky off in the east was tinged by a faint orange glow. Was it dawn already? Had she spent the entire night in the library?
Then she heard shouting and the sounds of running feet. Hastily she opened the window. “Fire! Fire!” people in the street below called out as they hurried past, some carrying buckets of water as they ran.
She hurried downstairs where servants were clustered in the doorway watching the crowds surge past.
“Oh, Fraulein, it is an enormous fire somewhere in one of the suburbs,” her maid Hannechen gasped.
“They say it is at Count Razumovsky’s new palace,” Potten added.
“Count Razumovsky’s palace? Are you sure?”
The butler nodded. “That is what they are saying, miss.”
“Mama! Has she returned home?”
They all shook their heads.
“I must go to her.” Helena turned and raced back upstairs to her bedchamber to pull on a stout pair of half boots and grab her serviceable wool cloak.
“No, Fraulein, you cannot go out in this,” Hannechen pleaded with her mistress as Helena returned to the little group in the doorway.
“But Mama was attending the soiree there. I must go and find her.”
“You cannot go by yourself, miss. We must send someone with you.” Potten glanced at the assembled group, but no one seemed particularly anxious to venture forth into the frosty night and the certain danger of a blazing building.
“It is best if I go alone. In all this crowd, we are only likely to be separated anyway.”
“If you insist, miss.”
It was a halfhearted protest, and Helena’s decisive
I
do
raised a collective sigh of relief from the onlookers. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, she started to head off in the direction of the glow.
“Miss, at least let me call you a carriage,” Potten begged
“What, at this hour, in this crowd? No thank you. I shall be far swifter and far more efficient on my own two feet.” And Helena hurried off into the darkness before anyone else could voice any more objections or, worse yet, screw up their courage and come with her. The last thing she needed was to worry about someone else’s welfare.
But as she reached the Graben, doubts began to assail her. The crowd was growing. She knew that everyone who was anyone would have been at the count’s. How was she to find her mother among the hordes of people, and what was she to do if she did not find her? What could she, a gently brought-up young female, no matter how independent, self-sufficient, or intelligent, do to help in a fire?
Before her mind could even frame the answer to that question, she found herself turning toward the British delegation. She might not be able to do anything herself, but she knew a man who had spent the better part of his life dealing with dangerous situations. Brett would know what to do.
As she hurried along she berated herself for giving in to weakness, and scolded herself for the way the vision of that determined jaw, angular face, and observant eyes flashed into her mind unbidden, but it was no use. She hated herself for turning to him with a problem she could not solve, and she truly hated herself for wondering unhappily if perhaps he was enjoying himself with her mother at this very moment. If he were, she comforted herself, then her mother was undoubtedly safe. But it was small consolation, for if they were together, it would mean that the closeness she herself had begun to feel with Brett was just a figment of her imagination and nothing more.
Had her mother mentioned him lately? Helena had begun to think that his name had come up less and less often in her mother’s conversations, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on her part.
And why did she care? Thoroughly annoyed with herself, Helena strode faster along the cobbled streets toward the British delegation. All that mattered at the moment was her mother’s safety. The rest was nothing but pointless speculation.
She had been so intent on finding help, on seeking the reassurance of someone she instinctively felt would know just what to do that Helena was surprised to discover herself so quickly in front of the massive door of the Liechtenstein Palace, where the British delegation was housed.
Now what?
She asked herself ironically.
Do you just march up to the porter and say, “I am in desperate need of a brave man to help me, so could I please speak to Major Lord Brett Stanford”?
Chapter Nineteen
In the end, that was precisely what she did do. After a few minutes spent pacing helplessly back and forth before the impressive statues standing guard on either side of the door and fighting the last remnants of her pride, Helena gave in and banged forcefully on the door until at last the porter appeared.
“I have an urgent message for Major Lord Brett Stanford,” she informed the goggling servant in a tone that sounded far more authoritative than she felt. “It demands his immediate attention!” As the man nodded and disappeared, she willed him to hurry in search of Brett before someone else could appear to ask uncomfortable questions.
When the servant had vanished into the gloom of the cavernous stairwell, she asked herself again if she had gone completely mad, and more uncomfortably yet, if she wanted to find Brett at home alone or if she wanted him to be at the Razumovsky palace, where possibly he would be watching out for her mother’s safety.
It seemed ages before she heard footsteps echoing on the stones of the stairway, and even longer before Brett appeared, still shrugging himself into his coat, his dark hair tousled. “Helena! Miss Devereux, Whatever is amiss?”
“It is Mama.” She rushed up to him like a helpless ninny, cursing herself for feeling so reassured as he took her hands in a warm comforting clasp.
“What about her? What has happened? I saw her not long ago at the Razumovsky palace talking with Metternich, and she looked as merry as a cricket.”
Helena loathed herself for the wave of relief that washed over her at these words. So he had not been her mother’s escort after all. He must have been at Count Razumovsky’s alone then. Had he been looking for her there? Had he missed her? Helena shook her head angrily. How could she even wonder such things at a time like this? “That is just it. She has not returned from the count’s, and now they say that the palace is ablaze.” She pointed off to the east, where the orange glow had become a vivid red and sparks could be seen shooting into the sky.
Then, without warning, she was engulfed in tears. She had been so intent on assuring herself of her mother’s whereabouts that she had not paused to consider the implications of it all until now. But now, knowing that she had someone who could truly help her, feeling his strength in her hands, trusting implicitly in his courage and resourcefulness, she could relax enough for the worries to overwhelm her. The sympathy and concern she read in his eyes was the final straw. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
“Helena, my poor girl.” Strong arms pulled her to him, and she laid her head on his chest overcome with it all—the anxiety, the relief of having someone to share it with, and a host of other emotions that had been bottled up inside her since the day Major Lord Brett Stanford had walked into their lives. “Hush, now. Do not fret so. I shall find her.”
At last Helena was able to establish some modicum of control over herself. She gulped and swiped angrily at her wet eyes with one gloved hand. “No.
We
will find her.”
She straightened up and looked Brett squarely in the eye. “I may be a watering pot. Major, but I am not a coward.”
A hint of a grin tugged at one comer of his mouth. “Very well, then. I shall just saddle Rex and . . .”
“But the fire, is it not better to walk? Horses . . .”
“Rex has seen far worse than fires, believe me. The question is, will you be able to sit in front of me on him?”
She nodded and then began to pace restlessly while he went to get his horse.
In no time at all he was back and, tossing her into the saddle, he settled himself behind her as best he could.
Without a word they rode through the narrow streets, picking their way among the growing numbers of people pouring out of doorways and heading toward the Razumovsky palace. In fact the only words spoken at all were the quiet commands Brett gave to his horse as they slowly but inexorably forged a path through the crowds mulling around them.
At last they reached the palace, where citizens of every description, from servants to monarchs, were gathered in silent fascination as the flames devoured the enormous structure. In the flickering firelight, Helena was able to make out the pale thin features of the emperor, still in his nightshirt and a sable cloak tossed over his shoulders. A little farther on, the sparks gleaming on his gold-embroidered tunic, stood the tsar watching the horrible spectacle in silent awe.
A sudden clanging of a bell behind them roused their attention, and a team of horses pulling water pumps and hoses galloped up to join the groups of civilians passing buckets of water from hand to hand while a corps of engineers cut down the rare shrubbery gracing the main entrance to provide the firefighters better access to the vast park surrounding the palace.
Mounted police were slowly pushing the horde of onlookers back away from the flames, but Helena and Brett, moving steadily through the confusion, were able to get close enough to see that servants inside were hastily tossing valuables of every description from the windows in a fruitless attempt to save the count’s priceless collections. From the second story dozens of the count’s coats, vests, and trousers rained down, while other windows gave up all manner of things—chandeliers, books, alabaster vases, silverware—all hurled to the ground below, which was rapidly turning into a dirty, sodden mess.
At last they reached the edge of the crowd gathered around the blazing palace. Before them was a sea of mud, soaked by snow and the water that was being sprayed in futile attempts to quell the blaze. Beyond that stood the palace, its copper roof glowing red as flames and smoke poured from most of its windows.
“Wait here.” Brett dismounted and turned to help her down.
Helena opened her mouth to protest.
“I need someone to hold Rex and keep him calm while I search for your mother. I cannot be worrying about him and you while I look for her.” He seized a spare saddle blanket he had had the forethought to bring along, grabbed a discarded bucket that was still half full of water and, dowsing the blanket as best he could, threw it over his shoulders and headed off.
What he had said made a great deal of sense. In fact, it was the only thing to do, but having asked his help, Helena now found it very difficult to accept it. Always, since she had been a little girl, she had been the sensible one, the competent one, the one who knew just what to do in every situation. Reassuring as it now was to be with someone who truly did know what to do, it was difficult to accept that fact and allow Brett to handle the situation. Helena had never had the beauty or charm that drew people to her the way they were drawn to other women, such as her mother, for instance. What she had had to offer instead was intelligence and good sense, and these had in some way made up for her lack of the rest. She had taken a good deal of comfort and satisfaction in being unique in possessing these qualities, and now she was having to acknowledge someone else’s superiority in areas that heretofore had been solely her own. She was having to cede her authority to someone who had even more competence and more experience to offer in this situation than she did. And while it pleased her immensely to have her confidence in Brett borne out by his easy mastery of the situation, it still required a certain amount of adjustment on her part to acknowledge it.
“Do be careful.” Her voice could not compete with the roar of the fire, the clanging of the bells, and the shouts of the people. “Oh, do be careful,” she whispered softly. “For my sake as well as for Mama’s.”
Helena gripped
Rex’s bridle even more tightly and, squinting against the glare of the flames shooting from what seemed to be every possible opening, stood on tiptoe trying to keep her eyes on the tall, blanketed figure making its way purposefully toward the inferno. How could anyone possibly remain alive in there now? Objects were no longer being tossed from the windows and the dark shapes of servants no longer appeared silhouetted against the flames. Anyone in there would surely have perished by now. Had she sent Brett to his death then for no purpose?