“T
his time”—Greybrooke’s eyes held hers as his footman handed her down from the carriage to join him—“you are to stay by my side at all times. Do not attempt to do anything alone.”
Helena waited until the servant discreetly moved back to wait at the coach. She looked at the scarlet door of the brothel and shuddered. She was sick with guilt and fear over the newssheet story. But she must act as she normally would. “The first night, when the blackmailer grabbed me,
you
left me alone to chase him. Running after you had seemed the safest thing.”
“Touché. I made a mistake.” He took a deep breath, his voice ragged. “But I have to know you’re safe, Helena. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt. In any way.”
If he knew the truth he would not feel so protective.
“I do wish it hadn’t been . . . here.”
“What else did you expect? If there is a dangerous brothel in the equation, it’s the perfect place to lure people.”
With that, he walked inside and she followed. Through the scarlet door, the shadowy foyer, and into the dimly lit hall, Helena could smell the earthy scent of sex. Her head was filled with raucous laughter, explosive squeals, fierce moans.
Large men were claiming young girls to be their bed partners. A man stared at Helena with a question in his eyes. One scowling glare from Greybrooke and the man hurried away.
Apparently, one look was all it took to convince the man that Greybrooke was dangerous.
That was what frightened Helena. Ever since talking to Clarice, Greybrooke had been cool, in full control. The only moment that control had faltered was just now, when he’d said he couldn’t live with himself if she was hurt. What was seething inside him? What would he do? He must have read the newspaper story, and he must be filled with even more rage because of it.
Clarice had willingly told Greybrooke everything, and not because of his anger. The maid had gazed at him as if he were a Greek god, and once he gave her the extravagant amount of five pounds she was like clay in his hands. Clarice told them that Mary-Alice was instructed to go to a house on Curzon Street that had a scarlet door. There she would be given two thousand pounds. A fortune.
Of course the brothel where the blackmailer had threatened them had a scarlet door.
Greybrooke put his hand on the small of her back, a sign for other men to keep away. It startled her because he hadn’t touched her when they made love. But here, where she could be in danger, he was touching her to keep her safe.
She didn’t want to say anything about his touch in case he did move his hand. Feeling his palm against her back made her feel secure.
“How will we find Mary-Alice?” Helena asked softly. “With two thousand pounds she could have gone anywhere.”
“She will prove easy to find.” Greybrooke’s voice was grim.
His hand propelled her farther down the brothel’s hallway.
“What do you mean?”
“I think she was lured into danger. She has done her job—she gave false evidence against me. I expect Blackbriar has ensured she is now dead.”
Helena froze on the spot. “Oh, my God, no!” Sickening fear rose up. “But why?”
“Damnation, I’ve frightened you. No harm will come to you. I promise that.”
“But you’re innocent! What does he hope to gain?”
Greybrooke answered softly, “I believe he murdered Caroline. He wants to see my neck in a noose instead of his.”
“The man is mad.” Fury brewed in her, but she realized she had to keep under control. Just like Greybrooke. The fury and rage he was bottling inside must be incredible.
“Angel, I’ve known that since the first time he hit Caro. Even before that—when I saw a possessive, gloating look in the bastard’s eyes on the morning he married Caro. I’ve lived around madness my entire life. I damn well know how to recognize it.”
His voice was detached, but she heard the pain beneath it. Her heart ached for him.
“Come, Miss Winsome,” he said. “I have to find the madam.”
The madam was a bosomy woman wearing a wig of ringlets and a lot of rouge. She tucked Greybrooke’s bribe into her bodice. “A young lady of that description is upstairs, Your Grace. I received a note, with a generous payment, to secure her in a bedroom. But for the amount you have given me, I will let you see her. She is on the second floor—third bedroom on the right.”
With that, Greybrooke murmured to her, “Upstairs.” Helena was a few steps behind when he reached the door and threw it open. She caught up and peered around his back—
A young woman lay limply over the bed. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly above her. Red hair spilled around her face in a wild tangle. Freckles stood out against the gray-white pallor of her skin.
So did bruises. Purple, black, green bruises ringed her throat.
“You were right,” Helena gasped, though she seemed to have no breath in her lungs. “The poor thing was lured here . . . and then . . .” And then some monster had wrapped his powerful hands around Mary-Alice’s throat and had ruthlessly squeezed until the girl had died—
Helena’s legs lost substance beneath her, dissolving like sugar in water.
Powerful arms went around her. A broad chest pressed against her cheek, and she felt her body slump against warm, solid strength.
“I am all right now. It was just the shock.” She wanted to collapse against him completely. Horror made her dizzy and nauseated. But she couldn’t just fall on Greybrooke like a limp doll. She had to keep her wits about her—she had to help Will.
She had to help Greybrooke.
Governesses were supposed to have strength, and she was trying to dredge up every ounce she had. But it was only Greybrooke’s embrace that was making her strong again.
He didn’t release her. His hands stroked over her back. He was touching her to soothe her. Then he turned her, his arm around her waist, and he led her to the door. He shouted brusquely for the madam. The woman materialized out of a nearby bedroom. Obviously she had followed them up the stairs.
“The young lady has been killed.” Greybrooke gave commands to the madam, who went pure white. Helena realized the woman was in shock—surely she could not be such a good actress. The madam knew nothing about this.
“Go with her,” Greybrooke said to her.
“N-no. I want to stay with you.” She had to find courage to face this.
“Angel, I am going to question people. Runners will be here as soon as the madam gets the message to Bow Street. I want to learn what I can.”
He was so strong. She felt sick.
“The poor, foolish girl.” Tears broke then, soundless tears that ran down her cheeks.
Next thing she knew, Greybrooke was taking her out the front door. He installed her in the carriage. “Wait for me.”
She did. She felt too sick to try to do anything. Time inched by, then finally the door was thrown open and Greybrooke swung up into the carriage. He sat beside her. Rapped on the ceiling and commanded the coachman to take them to her home.
Once in the door, all he said was, “To bed.”
She wasn’t sure if she could bear being tied up. Not now.
When he was helping her take off her dress, Helena whispered, “Are you helping me get ready for bed just for sleep?” She knew he needed sex when he was tormented or haunted by horrible thoughts, but she couldn’t do it. What she really wanted was to be held.
“If that’s what you want.” He let her dress pool around her feet and unlaced her stays. “I won’t do anything you don’t desire. If you just want rest, you shall have it.”
She had no right to ask this, but the words tumbled out. “I know you don’t trust me, Greybrooke. I know I did a terrible thing by lying to you. But would you consider—for tonight—staying with me? Sleeping with me?”
He hesitated. Then shook his head. “I can’t, love.”
When she woke, Helena saw Greybrooke sitting in a wing chair by the fire, the chair turned so he could watch her. “You weren’t there all night, were you?”
“I returned to the brothel,” he said, “then went to Bow Street. I’ve only been back a few hours.” He groaned as he pushed out of it and got to his feet.
He had spent a few
hours
in a chair watching her? She had done that when children were sick. Not only because it was her job, but because she loved them.
Greybrooke did not love her. Even if a duke could fall in love with a governess—really, what mad fantasy was that?—Greybrooke would never allow his heart to open. He would never let himself be vulnerable by falling in love.
But what did it mean that he’d sat awake and uncomfortable, watching over her?
Then she felt a wave of sorrow over the maid, Mary-Alice. Helena slipped out of bed to dress. She was determined to do something. She didn’t quite know what. “Why would Lord Blackbriar have had the maid killed?” God, she hated to think of the poor girl—foolish, naïve, now dead. “Wouldn’t he want her alive to give her story?”
“He couldn’t trust her to stick to the lie. And since I found the girl dead, he probably thought I’d be blamed. I suspect he forced Clarice to give us the tale she did.”
“But how would he know for certain that we would find Clarice?”
“She probably reported to him immediately after you questioned her, Miss Winsome. Then he baited his trap.”
“But I can vouch for your innocence.”
“You look so sweetly indignant,” Greybrooke said with a wry smile. “But you’re my mistress. Not an impartial witness.”
Helena bit her lip. “But the doorman saw you arrive with me, and that was after Mary-Alice had been stabbed. Your coachman will say he took you to the brothel only the once that night. True, they are only servants, but there would have to be actual evidence to convict a duke of murder. And rather good evidence to wrongfully convict one!”
“Angel, only you could make me smile at a time like this,” he said. “Your determination and belief in me is adorable. All I care about is protecting you—and protecting my family.”
Did he not care about his own life? “I don’t want to be adorable, I want to help you,” Helena declared. “He won’t get you hanged. I won’t let him.”
As her maid O’Hara dressed her hair, Helena stared at her reflection in her mirror. She was surrounded by her beautiful house, but she didn’t care a fig about it. A pale, haggard face looked back at her. Greybrooke had left her to go once more to Bow Street. She was determined to help him get to the truth, but she feared he didn’t care whether he lived or died. He was pursuing the blackmailer for revenge and to protect others, not to protect himself.
She believed him. He didn’t care about his own life.
She remembered how she had vowed to change him. She didn’t want to
change
him. Not the man who did wicked things to her and made her soar in pleasure. She didn’t want to alter one thing about his noble, protective ways. Or muck in any way with the artistic soul inside him.
But she wanted him to be happy.
She wanted to be with him. That was the longing Helena couldn’t deny. She had always thought she was sensible, but she wasn’t.
She must find what had wounded his heart and soul, and she had to give him the strength to overcome his memories.
Her family’s newspaper had helped to hurt him. If she could help him, it would make some amends for that. She was still haunted by guilt over Margaret’s death. She would never forget losing her sister.
If only she could find out exactly what had happened to Greybrooke . . .
She wished she had been there with him when he was young. If she’d been his governess, she would have known what had happened. She would have—
His governess. Goodness, why had she not thought of that?
It took Helena most of the day to find out what she wanted. For her Lady X column, she had fostered relationships with servants in many of the great houses. Fortunately no one knew she had left her post to become the Duke of Greybrooke’s mistress. True to his word to his sister, Greybrooke had ensured discretion.
She had gone from one contact to another to learn what she needed to know: A woman named Miss Renshaw had been governess to the duke, Jacinta, and Maryanne. Miss Renshaw had remained with Maryanne until the death of the old duke, seven years ago. After that, Maryanne had gone to live with Jacinta, who had by that time married Winterhaven.
Miss Renshaw had been almost thirty when she had gone to the family, but that still meant she was only in her fifties. Certainly still alive.
Armed with a directory of London, Helena set about finding where the former governess lived. It took an hour, but she succeeded—she found the address.
Putting on her most modest gown, Helena summoned one of the carriages that had been a gift from Greybrooke. And she gave the direction to Miss Renshaw’s house.
Miss Renshaw poured the tea. Helena accepted the cup. The rooms were warm, welcoming, furnished with pretty things. “You have a lovely home,” she said to the former governess.
Tall, with curling gray hair and lively blue eyes, Miss Renshaw acknowledged the compliment. “It is all due to the Duke of Greybrooke. A year after he inherited the title from his father, he searched me out. The young duke granted me a very generous annuity.”
To keep her quiet? The terrible thought flitted through Helena’s head. But no, she could guess why. “Had you been left badly off?”
“I—” A flush touched the woman’s lined cheeks. “I was dismissed from my post by the duchess just after the old duke’s death. I spoke out about things that I . . . did not agree with. So I was turned out without money or a reference.”
And Greybrooke had come to the woman’s rescue.
Helena had no idea how to trick Miss Renshaw into talking. “I must be honest,” she said. “I have come to ask you questions. I am worried about the duke, and about his youngest sister Maryanne. I believe you can help me.”
She told Miss Renshaw all about Greybrooke. About how he claimed he would never fall in love. About how he was deeply wracked by guilt and tortured by pain.
“I want to help him,” Helena finished desperately.
There was a long silence. Very long. Then Miss Renshaw said, “Who are you to the duke?”