My Pleasure (6 page)

Helena’s fingertips drifted uneasily to her mouth. Her lips still felt slightly swollen, still held the memory of his. Odd. She barely remembered feeling any fear of Figgy. All the danger she recalled came from one source, a tall, handsome Scotsman with loose black curls and the eyes of a defrocked priest.

“Whether you approve of Ossie or not, Helena, you must go back! I would not ask you if I had any alternative,” Flora said with the gravity of those who believe they are speaking the truth. “Ossie must have gotten the dates turned around, or he was delayed, or he saw someone and dared not approach you. Please try again. Please.”

Blast the girl. Hysterics Helena could withstand, but an honest, heartfelt appeal? She had been caught in a design of her own manufacturing, and until she figured out what was to be done—and despite her most profound prayers, she had no doubt that she, and not Mr. Goodwin or Flora, would have to be the one to figure something out—there she would stay.

Right now the only other option, terrible though it be, was to throw themselves on Lady Tilpot’s mercy. The fact that Helena was even willing to consider the preposterous notion that Lady Tilpothad any mercy was an indication of her growing desperation.

“All right, Flora.”

The girl’s smile appeared like the sun after a spring storm.

“But only once more.” She returned Flora’s brilliant smile wanly. “And you must promise to refrain from sobbing on my floors anymore. The carpet bleeds.”

MANIPULATORS:

the thumb and index finger of the sword hand

ONE WEEK LATER, Helena devoted herself to the crowd in Lady Tilpot’s salon. It was primarily a young fashionable male group, and as such preferred to stand rather than try to sit in their skintight trousers. Coupled with Lady Tilpot’s interior design—one that relied heavily on displaying as many ornate family heirlooms as the salon could hold, this made it difficult to navigate through the stuffy, overheated room. Still, Helena did her best, juggling duties that included seeing that the refreshments remained plentiful, conversing with chaperones and grandfathers, and making certain that Flora showed herself to the best possible advantage. The only problem with this last being that it was impossible to act the foil to someone who was not there.

Earlier, Flora had pleaded a headache, which Helena could not help feeling grateful about. Without Flora in attendance to view—and be viewed by—the current crop of bachelors being offered on the Marriage Mart, the guests were bound to depart early. Afterward, Lady Tilpot would leave for her Thursday night whist game, affording Helena an opportunity to attempt once more to contact Oswald Goodwin at Vauxhall Garden.

“No, no, Mrs. Winebarger,” Lady Alfreda Tilpot called out to a Prussian lady who had just dropped her fan. “Do not trouble yourself with dislodging The Creature.”

Lady Tilpot, flat-faced, flat-chested, and round-rumped, rested her flounder-eyed glare tellingly on the little calico cat perched on Mrs. Winebarger’s knee. Lady Tilpot abhorred “livestock” in the house. “Let Miss Nash retrieve your fan. She must do something for her salary. Miss Nash! Fetch Mrs. Winebarger’s fan!”

Helena rose at once. She understood the underlying reason for the summons: Lady Tilpot had decided she needed to be reminded of her station. And everyone else in the room, too. She needn’t have worried.

In her debut season, Helena had realized that she was being judged like a mare at Tattersall’s, and had courteously but adamantly refused to partake in the sales. She wasn’t any more likely to elope with one of this current flock of stable builders—or dynasty builders as the case may be—than she had been then.

Her trouble, she knew, was that while everyone else seemed content for her to be pretty, she wanted more. She wanted some man to look at her and wonder what she was thinking, what strengths of character she owned and what weaknesses. She wanted someone to take the time to know her, to discover her, to
see
her.

She excused herself and went to see to Mrs. Winebarger, curious because the Prussian lady was not one of Lady Tilpot’s usual guests. For one, she was far too lovely, being small with a voluptuous figure, large blue-green eyes and autumn-colored hair. For another, she was somewhat notorious, and Lady Tilpot was as moralistic as only a secret sinner can be.

The tittle-tattle Helena had overheard amongst Lady Tilpot’s cronies was that the Prussian woman had once, in order to win a bet, disguised herself as a lad to gain employment in a prince’s household, a position she had held for an entire week before being discovered, thus winning, along with the bet, the sobriquet Page. Indeed, it had been Mrs. Winebarger who had been the inspiration for Helena’s own costume.

“Regardless of The Tilpot’s instruction,” Mrs. Winebarger said softly as Helena bent to retrieve the fan, “I would have picked up my own fan had I not wanted to speak with you.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have watched you. You are as out of place here as I,” she said. “My husband and I were invited only because Robert is one of those favored to win the International Dueling Tournament. But then at the last minute, he was unable to accompany me, and The Tilpot found it impossible to uninvite me.”

That explained much, thought Helena. Though bigoted, no one could accuse Lady Tilpot of stupidity. She had recognized that all the young men she wished to attract to Flora’s hand were engrossed in the current mania for fencing. As this tournament grew near, fencing experts from any number of countries were arriving daily. Lady Tilpot was using the top celebrities to lure eligible young gentlemen to her soirees.

“I see you understand,” Mrs. Winebarger said, “I allow myself to be used for her purposes because it amuses me. But you…” She patted the cushion invitingly. “Come, sit here beside Princess and me.”

“Princess?” Helena asked, seating herself. The little charcoal, butterscotch, and white cat did not look like royalty. Her mismatched ears were tatter-edged, her pink nose scarred.

Mrs. Winebarger nodded. “But of course. She is a great princess in disguise.” Gently, she fingered the raggedy ear tabs. A deep, throaty sound rumbled out of the small animal. “Happily, I see her for what she is, not what the world has made her. Now, tell me about the assembled company.”

Helena began with the well-known earl listening uncomfortably to Lady Tilpot, his head bobbing in time to her red-faced tirade. “I suspect the earl is tendering his regrets for his son’s—and only heir’s—absence, a sore disappointment to Lady Tilpot.”

“And who is the bald fellow joining them?”

A stooped man approached Lady Tilpot obliquely, his expression deferential. He had the sort of face whose age was impossible to gauge, being as smooth and unlined as the dome of his head. He had, Helena thought, rather well-composed features, with eyes that were at times old and saddened and at others bright with unexpected humor. Unfortunately, his physique was not nearly as appealing and in no manner improved by his ill-fitting clothing, his coat bunching across the shoulders, his breeches hanging too loose at the knees and stretching too tightly about a little pot belly.

“That is Reverend Tawster.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Winebarger said, “Lady Tilpot’s pet vicar. I heard that the last one decamped.”

Helena bit back a smile. “Reverend Tawster is not so bad as his predecessor. He occasionally even questions Lady Tilpot.”

At Mrs. Winebarger’s disbelieving glance, Helena dimpled. “Admittedly, only very occasionally.” Truthfully, she rather liked Reverend Tawster. She felt a little sorry for him. He so obviously wanted to lead a good life, a goal at odds with his just as obvious enjoyment of good living.

She turned Mrs. Winebarger’s attention to a cluster of gentlemen near the fireplace and in short order named an Irish earl’s son, two viscounts, and a baronet.

“And that handsome man standing by himself?” Mrs. Winebarger asked.

“Lord Forrester DeMarc,Viscount DeMarc,” Helena answered, her voice cooling. The viscount looked the very picture of a London Pink of the Ton in his buff trousers, midnight blue coat, and yellow waistcoat, clothing that accentuated his tall, athletic figure.

An occasional smile, thought Helena, would recommend him more than the superior expression he currently sported. But then she doubted anything could recommend the viscount to her. Last week DeMarc had manufactured some excuse that found them alone in Lady Tilpot’s morning room. He had stared at her, smiling in a disagreeably knowing manner the whole time, yet had not said a single word.

Helena had long ago discovered that simply ignoring a gentleman often dampened his attentions—particularly as she had no money or connections that would make the effort of a dalliance worthwhile. But DeMarc did not take the hint.

There was a possessiveness in the way he watched her that she found presumptuous, especially since his consequence refused to allow him to spend more than a few moments in polite conversation with her before he moved on to more distinguished persons.

“I have heard of him.”

“Have you?” Helena asked lightly before discreetly pointing at the only other young lady in the room, a bubbling composition of titian curls, green eyes, and effusive bosom. “That is Miss Jolene Milar.”

“Jolly” Milar had not gained her nickname because of a cheery disposition, but because of a certain laxity in her morals. Luckily, Lady Tilpot did not know this. If she had, not even the fact that Jolly’s brother was one of the ton’s richest bachelors would have gotten the girl through the front door. A married woman’s early peccadilloes might be overlooked if the incentive was great enough, but in an unmarried girl they were completely unacceptable. “Her brother is a Great Catch.”

Mrs. Winebarger leaned forward. “Which leads back to my original question, why are you here? It cannot be out of affection…ah!” Her lovely eyes widened. “But I am mistaken! It is affection. But not for The Tilpot, certainly? A young man?”

Helena felt the heat rising in her face.

“Miss Nash?”

Helena swiveled to face Lord DeMarc, all too aware of her flaming cheeks. “Sir.”

“You are flushed,” he remarked stiffly. “I trust that the conversation”—his gaze moved accusingly to Mrs. Winebarger—“has not proved too heated?”

At his implicit censure, Mrs. Winebarger laughed, her voice tinkling like bells in the stuffy room. “Ah—Viscount DeMarc, am I correct?”

DeMarc inclined his head. “Madame.”

“My husband speaks of you.” DeMarc’s gaze sharpened. “He says you are rumored to be formidable with a smallsword.”

“I do not recall meeting the gentleman,” DeMarc said with grudging interest.

Mrs. Winebarger shrugged. “He goes to many of the best salles. He watches. He speaks with the masters about who is to be counted a worthy opponent and who can be safely disregarded. Perhaps he has spoken with your master?”

“And what master would that be?”

Mrs. Winebarger cocked her head. “Why, Mr. Ramsey Munro, is it not?”

Helena’s hand checked in Princess’s silky fur, Ramsey’s image exploding in her mind’s eye, a fallen angel, a holy sinner. She could taste his kiss again, the flavor of his breath, the texture of his tongue against hers, acute and immediate, as if during the entire past week the memory had been lurking, waiting for an opportunity to ambush her senses and upend her world.

“I have studied in many salles, under many instructors,” she heard DeMarc say, “but I would not count any of them my master. Certainly not Ramsey Munro, as proficient a sparring partner as he is.”

Across the room, Jolly Milar’s head snapped around like a fox scenting a fowl, and she started toward them.

“No? Perhaps this is just as well,” Mrs. Winebarger replied. “It would be unseemly for a master to fight his pupil, and I hear Mr. Munro is determined to enter the contest himself.”

“Not that Munro would know or care what was or was not seemly—he’s notoriously lax in all matters of protocol. But may I ask where you heard this rumor?” DeMarc asked.

“Once again, my husband informs me,” Mrs. Winebarger returned.

“How singular,” DeMarc said with poorly hidden distaste, “that your husband has chosen you to be his confidante.”

“Why so?” Mrs. Winebarger asked, completely unimpressed with his disapproval.

“Here in England, we protect and exclude our wives and children from those matters in which they are not involved. Social as well as political.”

“It is the same in my country. But my husband”—Mrs. Winebarger’s eyes grew soft—“is a unique man. For instance, this rumor regarding Mr. Munro’s purported desire to enter the tournament oversets him nearly as much as it delights him.”

“Why is that, ma’am?” Jolly Milar asked, joining them.

“A true swordsman cannot help but want to test himself against the best, and Ramsey Munro is the best,” Mrs. Winebarger said.

Yes, Helena thought,of course Ramsey Munro must be the best. He wouldn’t be anything less. Elegance and deadliness unleashed in a hiss of steel, a whisper of movement, or a heated kiss.

“
One
of the best,” DeMarc corrected. “But that being so, I sincerely doubt Ramsey Munro has the ready to post the entry fee. Five thousand pounds is a great deal of money to a man like Munro.”

But he had handed that boy a hundred pounds…

“And what sort of man would that be, Lord DeMarc?” Mrs. Winebarger asked.

“A man with an undeniable and extraordinary talent with a sword. But a common man, nonetheless.”

“There’s nothing common about Ramsey Munro,” Jolly Milar declared and burst into girlish giggles. “Why ’tis rumored all of London is littered with his past lovers.”

Past lovers. Well, of course. She’d known. Rumors about his conquests were legion, and if lately they were not quite as widespread, perhaps he had learned discretion. How could one doubt his success with women, looking as he did, having the address he did, having the mouth and hands? Helena swallowed, smiling politely. DeMarc’s aquiline nose pinched, and even Mrs. Winebarger looked sharply at the girl. “You know the gentleman?”

“He is not a gentleman,” DeMarc said coldly.