“HELEN, ARE YOU CERTAIN there’s nothing wrong?” Cassandra asked, after they had descended from the family carriage. “You’ve been so quiet, and your eyes are glazed.”
“My head aches a little, that’s all.”
“Oh I’m sorry. Should we go to the museum another day?”
“No, I won’t feel any better for being at home. Perhaps some walking will set me to rights.”
They linked arms and proceeded together, while far ahead of them, Pandora hurried toward the imposing stone portico of the British Museum.
Lady Berwick puffed impatiently as she hastened after the girl. “Pandora, do not gallop like a chaise-horse!”
The British Museum, a Grecian-styled quadrangle with a two-acre courtyard, was so large that despite a half-dozen visits in the past, they still had seen only a third of its exhibits. Last night, when Lady Berwick had casually suggested a jaunt to the museum, the twins had been overjoyed. Helen, knowing the real reason for the visit, had been far more subdued.
After purchasing tickets and collecting printed maps in the Hall, the group proceeded toward the principal staircase that led to the upper floors. A trio of towering giraffes had been artfully arranged at the top of the staircase, at the entrance of the Zoological Galleries. The front legs of the largest animal were even taller than Lady Berwick. A little wooden railing had been erected in front of the giraffes to keep the public at bay.
The women paused to regard the taxidermied creatures with awe.
Predictably, Pandora went forward with her hand outstretched.
“Pandora,” Lady Berwick snapped, “if you molest the exhibits, we will not be returning to the museum.”
Turning, Pandora gave her a pleading glance. “A giraffe is right there—it once roamed the African savannah—don’t you want to know how it feels?”
“Indeed not.”
“There’s no sign that says we can’t.”
“The railing implies it.”
“But the giraffe is so close,” Pandora said woefully. “If you would look the other way for five seconds, I could reach out and touch it so easily . . . and then I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.”
Sighing and scowling, Lady Berwick glanced at their surroundings to make certain they were unobserved. “Be quick about it,” she said tersely.
Pandora darted forward, reached over the railing to feel the creature’s limb and furrowed knee, and scurried back to the group. “It’s like a horse’s coat,” she reported with satisfaction. “The hairs are no longer than a half-inch. Cassandra, do you want to feel it?”
“No, thank you.”
Pandora took her twin’s hand. “Come on, then—shall we go to the hoofed beasts, or the ones with claws?”
“Claws.”
Lady Berwick began to follow the girls, but she paused to take another glance at the giraffe. In a few hasty strides, she went to the exhibit, furtively touched its leg, and glanced guiltily at Helen.
Biting back a smile, Helen looked down at her map, pretending not to have seen.
After the countess joined the twins in the southern gallery, Helen headed to the northern one, consisting of five vast rooms filled with exhibits contained in enormous glass cases. Finding the second room, she walked past displays of reptiles. She paused at the sight of a lizard with a large frill around its neck, which reminded her of Queen Elizabeth’s ruff. According to the placard beside it, the lizard could expand the frill to make itself look threatening.
Before Helen proceeded to the next case, containing a variety of serpents, a man came to stand beside her. Knowing that he was Mr. Vance, she closed her eyes briefly, her muscles tensing with instant antagonism.
He studied a pair of African chameleons. Eventually he murmured, “Your scent . . . it’s the same one your mother wore. Calanthe orchids and vanilla . . . I’ve never forgotten it.”
It caught her off guard, the notion that he had been so familiar with her mother’s scent. No one had ever noticed that Helen wore the same fragrance. “I found the recipe in one of her journals.”
“It suits you.”
Helen looked up to find his evaluating gaze on her.
Albion Vance was riveting at this close distance, his high-cheeked face fashioned with sharply androgynous delicacy. His eyes were the color of a November sky.
“You’re a pretty girl, though not as beautiful as she was,” he commented. “You favor me. Did she resent you?”
“I would prefer not to discuss my mother with you.”
“I want you to understand that she meant something to me.”
Helen returned her attention to the case of lizards. Mr. Vance seemed to expect a reply, but she couldn’t think of one.
Her lack of response seemed to annoy him.
“I, of course, am the heartless seducer,” Mr. Vance said in an arid tone, “who abandoned his lover and newborn daughter. But Jane had no intention of leaving the earl, nor did I want her to. As for you . . . I was in no position to do anything for you, nor you for me.”
“But now that I’m engaged to a wealthy man,” Helen said coolly, “you’ve finally taken an interest. Let’s not waste time, Mr. Vance. Do you have a shopping list of demands, or would you rather name a simple financial figure?”
His fine dark brows lifted. “I had hoped we could come to an arrangement without being crass.”
Helen was silent, waiting with forced patience, staring at him in a way that seemed to make him uncomfortable.
“A little icicle, aren’t you?” he asked. “There’s something vestal about you. No spirit. That is why you lack your mother’s beauty.”
She refused to rise to the bait. “What do you want, Mr. Vance?”
“Among Lady Berwick’s many philanthropic concerns,” he finally said, “is a charity that administers pensions to blind paupers. I want you to persuade Winterborne to donate twenty thousand pounds to the charity’s board of trustees. You will explain that his generous gift will be used to purchase freehold ground rents at West Hackney, which will produce annual dividends for the benefit of the blind pensioners.”
“But instead,” Helen said slowly, “you’ve worked out a way to benefit yourself.”
“The donation must be made right away. I have immediate need of capital.”
“You want me to ask this of Mr. Winterborne before he and I are even married?” Helen asked incredulously. “I don’t think I could convince him to do it.”
“Women have their ways. You’ll manage.”
Helen shook her head. “He won’t hand over money without having the charity investigated. He’ll find out.”
“There will be no documents for him to uncover,” Mr. Vance replied smugly. “I can’t be attached either to the charity or the property at West Hackney, the arrangements are verbal.”
“What will happen to the blind pensioners?”
“Some of the money will filter down to them, of course, to make everything appear aboveboard.”
“Just so I understand the situation clearly,” Helen said, “you’re blackmailing your daughter to enable you to steal from blind paupers.”
“No one is stealing from the paupers; the money isn’t theirs to begin with. And this is not blackmail. A daughter has a natural obligation to help her father when he is in need of assistance.”
“Why am I obligated to you?” Helen asked, bewildered. “What have you ever done for me?”
“I gave you the gift of life.”
Seeing that he was perfectly serious, Helen gave him a disbelieving glance. An irrepressible, half-hysterical burst of giggles rose from her chest. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to hold the laughter back, but that only made it worse. It didn’t help to see Mr. Vance’s offended expression.
“You find that amusing?” he asked.
“P-pardon me,” Helen sputtered, struggling to be quiet. “But it didn’t take much effort on your part, did it? Other than a . . . a timely spasm of the loins.”
Mr. Vance glared at her with frosty dignity. “Don’t demean the relationship I had with your mother.”
“Oh yes. She ‘meant something’ to you.” The wild, mirthless giggles faded, and Helen took an unsteady breath. “I suppose Peggy Crewe did as well.”
His cold gaze fixed on hers. “So Winterborne told you about that. I thought he might.”
Becoming aware of a woman and three children coming to view the lizard display, Helen was forestalled from replying. She affected interest in a glass case of turtles and tortoises, and wandered to it slowly, while Mr. Vance accompanied her.
“There’s no reason for Winterborne to harbor everlasting hatred toward me,” Vance said, “for doing something that most men have done. I’m not the first to sleep with a married woman, nor will I be the last.”
“Because of you,” Helen pointed out, “Mrs. Crewe died in her childbed, and her husband—a man whom Mr. Winterborne loved like a brother—ended up dead as well.”
“Is it my fault that the husband was so weak-minded as to commit suicide? Is it my fault if a woman hasn’t the constitution for childbirth? The entire situation could have been avoided had Peggy chosen not to spread her legs in the first place. I only took what was eagerly offered.”
His callousness stole Helen’s breath away. He seemed to have no more conscience than a shark. What had made him this way? She stared at him, searching for any hint of humanity, any flicker of guilt, regret, or sadness. There was nothing.
“What did you do with the baby?” she asked.
The question seemed to surprise him. “I found a woman to look after her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I’ve never seen her. Nor do I intend to.” Mr. Vance looked impatient. “That has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”
“You have no interest in her welfare?”
“Why should I, when her mother’s family doesn’t? No one wants the misbegotten bastard.”
No doubt he had thought the same thing about her. Helen felt a nagging, anxious, rapidly increasing concern for the little girl, her half-sister. Was the child being nurtured and educated? Neglected? Abused?
“What is the name of the woman who takes care of her?” she asked. “Where does she live?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Apparently it’s none of yours,” Helen shot back, “but I would like to know.”
Mr. Vance smirked. “So you can use her against me in some way? Attempt to embarrass me?”
“Why would I try to embarrass you? It’s in my interest to avoid scandal just as much as it is yours.”
“Then I advise you to forget the child.”
“Shame on you,” Helen said quietly. “Not only have you rejected responsibility for your own child, you’re also trying to prevent someone else from helping her.”
“I’ve paid for her upkeep these past four years—what else would you have me do? Personally spoon-feed the brat?”
Helen tried to think above a rush of inchoate rage. She wouldn’t be able to find out about her half sister’s welfare unless she could pry the information from Mr. Vance. Racking her brains, she recalled what Rhys had once told her about business negotiations.
“You’ve demanded a large sum of money and will expect more in the future,” she said, “but all you’ve offered in return is to let me keep something I already have. I won’t agree to a bargain without a concession from you. A small one: It will cost you nothing to tell me who has your daughter.”
A long silence passed before Mr. Vance replied. “Ada Tapley. She’s a charwoman for my solicitor’s relations in Welling.”
“Where—”
“It’s a village on the main road from London to Kent.”
“What is the child’s name?”
“I have no idea.”
Of course you don’t, Helen thought, writhing inwardly with fury.
“We agree on the bargain, then?” Mr. Vance asked. “You’ll convince Winterborne to make the charity donation as soon as possible.”
“If I intend to marry him,” Helen said woodenly, “I have no choice.”
Something in his face eased. In a moment, he grinned. “I find it delicious, that he thinks he’s bought a Ravenel to breed, and instead he’ll be furthering my lineage. Welsh Vances, God help us all.”
For a few minutes after he left her, Helen stared into the case of artfully preserved and arranged creatures. Their sightless glass eyes were permanently wide with surprise, as if they couldn’t fathom how they’d come to be there.
The full awareness of her own ruin sank in, and with it, a new feeling. Self-loathing.
She would never ask Rhys for the so-called charity donation. Nor could she marry him. Not now. She would never inflict Albion Vance—or herself—on him.
Telling Rhys the truth would be a nightmare, more hideous than she could imagine. She didn’t know how she would find the courage to do it, but there was no choice.
A shadow of grief hovered around her, but she couldn’t give in to it yet. There would be time to grieve later.
Years, in fact.
MUCH LATER IN the day, after they had returned from the museum, Helen sat alone at the upstairs parlor writing desk, and dipped a pen into a well of India ink.
Dear Mrs. Tapley,
Recently I learned about a female child who was given into your care as a newborn infant, some four years ago. I would like to inquire if she is still residing with you, and if so, I would appreciate any information you could give about her . . .