Her Husband's Harlot (32 page)

Breathing
more rapidly than usual, Helena somehow navigated around the half-dozen or so chairs.
She exchanged pleasantries with Anna Fines and her matronly cronies as she
passed and stopped at the head of the table to chat with Percy. The birthday
girl looked remarkably pretty in a white muslin gown trimmed with coquelicot
ribbon. A matching hibiscus bloomed exotically in her blonde ringlets, which
bounced with merriment as her head moved to and fro between the gentlemen
admirers seated on either side of her.

Looking
up, Percy asked in a gay voice, "Where are you two off to?"

"I
thought I would show Lady Harteford the grounds near the Rotunda," Mr.
Reed answered.

"How
delightful!" Percy exclaimed. "May I come? I have heard there is to
be a rope dancer performing there this evening."

"Of
course," Helena said.

"We
would not want to interrupt your supper," Mr. Reed said at the same time.

There
was an awkward moment.

"I
am finished eating," Percy said, "so it would be no interruption at
all."

The young
bucks on either side of her rose as she did, each offering her his escort.
Percy bit her lip, looking indecisively between the two men.

"Well,
Percy, it seems you have a dilemma." This came from Paul Fines, seated a
few chairs down. "To save Sands and Bellinger from disappointment, you must
allow me to escort you. This way, you will show no favoritism, except toward
your favorite brother of course."

"You
are my only brother," Percy retorted.

"Then
the odds are clearly in my favor, are they not?" Getting languidly to his
feet, Paul bowed over the hand of the young miss seated next to him. Helena noticed the moonstruck expression on the girl's face. Percy had introduced her as
Miss Sparkler, a dear school chum from Miss Southbridge's Finishing School.
Mousy haired, slight, and with an unfortunate bout of spots, Miss Sparkler
appeared to have a rather serious case of infatuation with her best friend's
older brother. When Paul kissed her hand, the girl lit up like the famed
Vauxhall fireworks.

Paul came
over to his sister and offered his arm.

"I
am come to do my good deed for the day," he said.

"Do
not try to ingratiate your way into my favor," Percy said, though her eyes
glowed with good humor. "I have not yet forgiven you for the comment you
made about my skills at the pianoforte."

"It
is not you for whom I am being a Good Samaritan." Paul gave a subtle nod
toward the back of the supper alcove, where Nicholas stood glowering.

"Ah,"
Percy said.

Helena
flushed. Splendid. Apparently, their marital discord
was hung out like dirty laundry for all to see. Perhaps she ought not to have
come after all. Or more to the point, perhaps Nicholas should have thought to
invite his own wife.

Her
chin lifted. "I merely wished to see the sights, and Mr. Reed offered to
accompany me."

"Lady
Harteford must have the escort of a gentleman," Mr. Reed said gallantly
and rather pointedly. "Vauxhall is not a safe place for ladies of superior
breeding. The gardens are filled with all manner of riff raff, especially after
dark."

Given
that the Runners were likely hovering nearby, Helena did not have much concern.
At least the pair of investigators had gotten better at blending into the crowd
these days.

"It
is always a good idea to watch our step, Reed, no matter the company,"
Paul said. "But come, lead the way, and we shall endeavor to protect our
lovely helpless charges."

"Who
are you calling helpless?" Percy demanded.

Her
brother rolled his eyes and led her out of the colonnade.

The
four walked in pairs along the busy graveled walk. The gardens were brimming
this evening with people of all classes. Anyone who could afford the two
shilling entrance fee was permitted entrance into the magical playground. Thousands
of lights twinkled overhead in the giant elm trees, and the breeze carried music
and the scent of jasmine.

Pointing
out the sights with his walking stick, Mr. Reed played guide most graciously.
Helena willed herself to relax. She would not let the exchange with Nicholas
ruin her evening. She would show him that, though patient, his marchioness had
her limits; she would not spend the rest of her life waiting for him to make up
his blasted mind. Smiling at her companion, she took in the triumphal arches
along the South Walk and an excellent replica of Grecian ruins. She even
laughed when Percy insisted upon touching a vista in order to be convinced that
it truly was a painting and not the real thing.

They
arrived at the Rotunda, and like many in the crowd Helena could not help but
gawk at the grand two-story structure. Constructed of white marble and
decorated with Oriental motifs, the building glistened like a giant, exotic
cake in the middle of the dark clearing. Hundreds of globe lamps glowed from
the edges of the dome-shaped roof, illuminating the orchestra playing on the
second floor balcony. The light, lively tones floated onto the audience below.
Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen were entering the rotunda through a roped
entrance guarded by footmen; many more stood in line on the red carpet for the
privilege of entry. Beyond the line, guests of the middling sort and working
class milled, eager to catch glimpses of the noble patrons.

Impervious
to the jostling around her, Helena absorbed the magic of the night. Mr. Handel's
composition washed over her and buoyed her spirits over vibrant waves. She
found herself moving clockwise with the crowd and experienced its excitement
herself as other views of the Rotunda unfolded before her. It seemed balconies
sprung all around the structure, with different entertainments visible on each.
On the next platform, she saw a theatrical duo performing an act of
Shakespeare. Next there was a man juggling teacups whilst riding a one-wheeled
machine. She caught herself gasping at the following act, the rope dancer,
executing flawless jumps and pirouettes way up above the cheering crowd.

Helena
turned to exclaim something to Percy and realized
with a sudden shock that her companions were nowhere to be seen. A sea of
strange faces surrounded her. She felt herself being pushed forward, as more people
thronged to get a better view of the rope dancer. The volume of excited voices
swelled. A feeling of alarm rose simultaneously in her chest.

"Lady
Harteford, over here!"

She
saw Mr. Reed pressing toward her. He had lost his hat, and his face looked
slick with the effort to reach her. He was struggling against the tide of
movement, like a fish battling upstream. Stretching out his arm, he held his
walking stick toward her. She reached for it, her gloved fingers closing around
the polished mahogany.

"Follow
me this way!" His shouted words could barely be heard over the din.

She hung
onto the walking stick and squeezed herself through the tight path Mr. Reed
carved through the field of bodies. The fumes of liquor and unwashed flesh rose
all around her. The accents in her ear were harsh, unfamiliar. She felt a tug
on her reticule, and she clung fiercely to it, looking wildly about. No one
seemed to be looking at her, yet there was something menacing about the
facelessness of the crowd and the roaring laughter. A hand landed on her
posterior and squeezed. She screamed. At the same time, her grasp on the
walking stick slackened. She felt herself being sucked backward into the mob.

Raw
panic clawed her insides as she struggled desperately to get free. A sharp
pressure burned briefly at her wrist; she knew without looking that someone had
torn loose her bracelet. She felt fingers grasp at her coiffure, the charming
bumble bees now become dangerous attractions to avarice. She cared not; they
could have it all, if only she could get
out
. She felt the increasing
suffocation of the mob. The heated bodies and deafening voices depleted the air.
An arm wrapped around her waist. She could not draw breath enough to scream
again.

"I've
got you. Hold on."

She
felt herself being hauled against a strong form. Powerful arms lifted her from
the ground, and she was too weak with relief to protest at being hefted over
the shoulder like a sack of grain. The next moments passed in a blur as her
rescuer forged relentlessly through the crowd. There were shouts on either side
as he scythed a path with his fists and elbows, but apparently no one dared
retaliate. She lifted her head to see the sea of faces passing behind her, but
mostly she concentrated on holding on for dear life.

When
she saw the clearing disappearing into the distance, Helena mustered enough
courage to say, "You can put me down now."

"Not
on your life," came the growled reply.

"Milord!"
One of the Runners came huffing up. "Is Lady Harteford alright?"

"I'm
fine," Helena squeaked at the man's upside-down face.

"I
was a step behind her, my lord. I had to stop to pummel a brute to get back her
bracelet. My partner is just retrieving her reticule—"

"Keep
watch over the entrance to that alcove ahead. Let no one pass. I wish to speak
to my wife there privately."

"Yes,
milord."

Helena
gulped as she was carried onto a narrow path off the main walk. To judge from
the lack of lighting, this was one of the many secret lovers' niches that made
Vauxhall infamous. Not that her rescuer was acting remotely lover-like. He set
her—or, more accurately, he
dumped
her—onto a wooden bench surrounded by
dense hedges.

"Now,"
her husband said, looming over her, his eyes darker than the night, "you
have yourself some explaining to do."

Nicholas
waited for the beast to calm. At the sight of Helena helpless in the mob, the
animal inside him had bared its fangs and roared with fury. He had never felt
such primitive rage in his life. They were mauling
his woman
. He had
leapt in, intent upon blood. If anything happened to her  ... Swearing, he leaned
over her for closer inspection. By the faint glow of the moon, he saw she had
not escaped entirely unscathed. Shallow scratches marred the perfection of one
cheek. Her disordered curls tumbled around her shoulders. Her bodice was torn,
revealing a great deal of vulnerable flesh.

He
ripped off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders. He was breathing too
raggedly to speak. Anger and fear made him inarticulate.

"You
bloody idiot," he said at last. "What in hell do you think you were
doing?"

Helena
glowered up at him as she drew the velvet lapels closer
together.
She
actually had the temerity to glower at
him
. "What
everyone else was doing, my lord. Enjoying the sights. It was not my fault the
crowd erupted into madness."

"It
was
not
your fault? You, madam, go traipsing alone in the dark dressed
like ... like
that
"—here Nicholas closed in and waved a furious
hand up and down her person—"and you expect not to encounter trouble?"

For
some reason, this perfectly sound argument seemed to infuriate Helena. She pushed on his shoulders with both her hands. He did not budge.

"I
was
not
alone, for one," she said, her eyes spitting sparks at him.
"I was accompanied by three others. Not to mention the Runners. And even
you, sir, would be ill-pressed to explain how my perfectly fashionable attire
had anything to do with what transpired back there."

He
snarled at her logic. "Your dress is indecent. It invites indecent
behavior. That bounder Reed—who, incidentally, I am going to kill—was drooling
down your neckline."

"It
seems we have been down this road before, my lord," his wife said in a sweet
voice that instantly raised his hackles. "What I wear is no business of
yours. Nor is anyone I choose to consort with."

"
Consort
with
?" Nicholas felt momentarily dumbfounded by the rush of blood to
his head. He could barely hear himself over the roaring in his ears.

"In
a manner of speaking," Helena said, hastily now. "There is no need to
shout. It is just the two of us here."

"I
am not shouting, I am merely trying to get you to speak some sense!"

He
pushed himself away from the bench and began to pace in front of it.
Calm
,
he repeated to himself.
All is calm
.

"I
am speaking perfect sense," Helena said. "You have never cared whose
company I've kept. In fact, I doubt that you have ever noticed. How could you,
when you never deign to show your face at home?"

That
stopped him in his tracks. "I have been busy," he snapped. "I
told you that in the notes I sent you—every day, I might add!"

"Yes,
about those notes." She crossed her arms, and her damned chin tilted
upward. "I have been waiting to see you for days, Nicholas—and what do I
get instead? Three wretched sentences. Poor substitute for a husband, I should
say. Can you blame me for wanting a little distraction?"