Chapter 17
Rule 17
Nobles can never be trusted.
Shortly after Helena fled Ye Olde Bookshop, Robert had continued on to Oxford Street for his appointment. The reports remained as grim as they’d been since his first meeting with the aged man-of-affairs a month prior. The man, Stonely, was so mired in the past that despite Robert’s arguments to the contrary, he believed selling off all those late-made advancements of his grandfather was the only solution for the Dennington family.
Hours later, with his head bent over the ledgers, Robert squinted at the damned numbers. Except no matter how long he looked, not a blasted thing changed.
With a black curse, he dug his fingers into his temples and sat back in his chair.
Given the dire appointment with old Stonely, Robert ought to be attending the ledgers before him with far greater care.
Instead, Helena fully laid siege to his every thought. With their every meeting, his well-ordered world was becoming more and more muddied.
By God in hell—
He liked Helena Banbury.
Nay. He’d always liked her. Desired her. Admired her.
This discovery, however, was vastly different.
Robert stared absently down at the neat columns of grim numbers. He cared for her—a lot. His mind shied away from anything further. After all, his heart was incapable of more. He absently drummed the back of his pen on the open page. Particularly given that it had been just a week since the hellion who’d interrupted a tryst with Baroness Danvers had crashed into his world. The same vixen who’d threatened to gut him with a knife, and called into question his honor and his intelligence.
His lips twitched. And not only once.
Yes, for all that—he cared for her.
Are you familiar with Argand’s work, my lord? . . . He is responsible for the geometrical interpretation of complex numbers . . .
She enjoyed mathematics and fashioned herself as something of a bluestocking. She didn’t give a jot that he would one day be a duke. And she placed the safety of a child’s life on the street before her own.
With a groan, he tossed his pen down. It landed on the desk with a soft thunk. In truth, how could one not like Helena Banbury? She was refreshingly honest amidst a sea of falsity, and more . . . she was a woman of strength who’d shown more courage defending a boy in the streets than the combined strength of an entire regiment in the King’s army. He pulled open his center desk drawer and withdrew a heavy dagger, crusted with rubies, turning it over in his hands.
It had been far easier when he didn’t like her, and simply felt a sense of obligation to right the wrong that he’d inadvertently done that drunken night at the Hell and Sin. He touched the tip of his finger to the sharp blade and a single drop of blood pebbled. Staring at the fleck of crimson, his mind raced.
He’d resolved to never be a fool again where a young woman was concerned. Lucy’s treachery had made him wary of the motives of all. Robert wiped the blood from his finger, then scrubbed his hands over his face. When he was with Helena Banbury, however, he didn’t think of Lucy and the bitterness of her betrayal . . . or his grandfather’s hand in that awakening. He simply thought—of her. Helena Banbury with her reddish-brown hair and blunt honesty.
How could he possibly forget twelve years of bitterness after knowing a lady but a week? Because she’d forced him to see aspects of who he was, and how other people lived, in ways that he’d selfishly failed to note. He’d spent years despising his grandfather and Lucy Whitman for the ugliness in their souls, but what about who Robert had been?
I’m not reckless . . . I wager no more than most gentlemen . . . I keep one mistress and I’m careful to never beget a bastard on those women . . .
Those words he’d tossed at his father now floated back, words he’d uttered as a statement of his character.
Filled with a restlessness, Robert tossed Helena’s dagger down and strode over to the sideboard. Grabbing the nearest decanter and snifter, he proceeded to pour himself a glass and then took a long, slow swallow, welcoming the warm trail it blazed.
He’d always known precisely what his responsibilities were as future duke—those realities never more clear with all his father had imparted. Though he was unwed still at three and thirty, he’d every intention of doing right by the line . . . just not to save the family from financial ruin. To do so would be bartering his own self-worth when he’d long condemned Lucy Whitman for that same ruthlessness.
I’m not worried about you being the same as other noblemen . . . I worry about you setting yourself apart from them . . .
Those words once tossed at him by his father were now sharpened with an acuity he’d previously lacked—because of Helena. He stared down into his drink. Years ago, he’d determined the exact manner of woman he would wed. She would be a lady of the ton, whose open desire of his title would be the only honesty he’d come to hope for.
Now there was Helena, a woman who, even if he wished to make her his future duchess, would sooner return to that notorious club than be married to him. He frowned into the contents of his drink. Not that he wished to wed her. He didn’t.
There were too many reasons not to. Her disdain for polite Society, a sentiment he could, on most days, easily share. But more importantly, there was the life she wished for. Robert swirled the contents of his drink in a circle.
What if you do offer her marriage . . . ?
His hand shook, and liquid splashed over the rim, hitting his fingers.
A knock sounded at the door, and he looked up quickly, grateful for the interruption. “Enter,” he boomed.
His butler, Fuller, opened the door. “My lord, the Duchess of Wilkinson has arrived to see you.”
The duchess? He shot his gaze to the long case clock and frowned. Twenty minutes past ten. What matter of urgency would have the always-proper duchess here, now? Nervousness pulled at the edge of his consciousness. “Show her in,” he said, and the greying man took his leave.
A short while later, Fuller was escorting the poised duchess in. “The Duchess of Wilkinson.”
Robert swiftly set his glass down and quickly came over to greet one of his family’s oldest friends. “Your Grace.”
“Lord Westfield,” she greeted, the corners of her mouth pinched, her eyes haggard. “I hope you can forgive my impoliteness in arriving so and at this unfashionable hour.” She paused. “There is a matter of some urgency I would speak with you on,” she said, fanning his apprehension.
Robert motioned her in. “Please.” He gestured to the leather button sofa, and with the regal elegance of a queen, she swept over to the chair with the possession of one who owned this very room. “Is the duke—?”
“He is well.” She sat, and then for the first time he could ever recall, the duchess wrung her hands. “I am not here about the duke.”
He took in that telling gesture that spoke volumes of a woman who’d chided her daughter for laughing too loudly as a child.
Following his gaze, the duchess stopped abruptly, and then primly folded her hands in her lap. “I am here about Miss Banbury.”
Her words held him momentarily immobile. “Miss Banbury?” he repeated slowly, and claimed the leather chair across from the duchess.
The older woman gave a brusque nod, and pulled off her gloves. “I hesitated in coming tonight, my lord. But given our families’ connections, I knew I could trust your discretion.” She laid the elegant pair of gloves on her lap.
He balled and unballed his hands to keep from shaking answers from her. “Of course,” he said quietly, while his disquiet grew.
“As you no doubt know, my husband was . . .” High color flooded her unwrinkled cheeks. “In love with his mistress.” Through that admission, Robert remained silent. What was there to say to a proud woman on the matter of her husband’s fidelity—or in this case, infidelity? “It is that love that has so blinded him to Miss Banbury’s true character. I have reason to believe she is stealing from His Grace.”
Robert stilled. The lady the Duchess of Wilkinson spoke of was incapable of treachery. Did you not believe that about another . . . ? How long had he truly known Helena to reject the duchess’s accusations?
As soon as the sliver of doubt entered, he quashed it. What need did Helena have to steal from the duke? The man had attached a ten-thousand-pound dowry to her, and would no doubt grab her the moon should she request it.
“I know it is no doubt difficult for you to hear this, given your budding affection for the lady,” she said. “And she . . .” The duchess cast a glance about, and then looked to him once more. “Her maid reports that she takes the duke’s carriage to unfashionable ends of London to meet someone with those stolen items. The young woman reported that Miss Banbury forces her to stay in the carriage while she conducts her activities.”
He stitched his brow into a line. Those actions were not consistent with a woman who’d throw herself before a child.
“I worry for my husband, Lord Westfield,” she said with a strident edge in her tone.
Robert sat back in his chair. “I do not—”
“Miss Banbury’s left for St Giles Street.”
The muscles of his stomach knotted. “Left?” he parroted like a bloody lackwit. Where would she go at this hour . . . and with whom? The doubt and indecision grew as his past merged with his present. What lady with honorable intentions would be found in the streets of Lambeth and St Giles . . . and at this hour, no less? “When?” he demanded tersely.
“This evening. Not even thirty minutes prior. I had a servant follow her hack.” Her lip peeled back. “To the Hell and Sin Club.”
The earth hung suspended and then resumed whirring at a too-fast rate. Helena was in the streets of St Giles at this hour. Terror consumed the fertile seeds of apprehension that had previously taken root. It mattered not that she was born to that world, and surely capable of handling herself amongst the seedy underbelly of London society. For her strength, she was not invincible against all manner of danger that existed for man, woman, or child in those streets.
Liar. Selfishly you’re more worried about her leaving your world, and never coming back . . .
“I ask that you just be aware.” The duchess interrupted his riotous thoughts. He fought down the urge to throw her out bodily so he could make for St Giles. “I ask that if you see anything suspicious with the young woman that you please speak to my husband.”
“Of course,” he said curtly. Bloody hell, be gone. Signaling an end to their meeting, Robert climbed to his feet.
Alas, she’d been bred to be a duchess.
Climbing to her feet with unhurried, graceful movements, the older woman firmed her mouth. “His Grace has a large heart, but flawed judgment where women are concerned.” With meticulous movements, she pulled on her gloves and abruptly turned the discourse. “I can expect to see you at the ball tomorrow evening, my lord?” Was she mad? That she could so casually move from talk of Helena paying a night visit to the Hell and Sin, and then speak to him of her bloody ball?
Robert offered a deep bow. “Of course, Your Grace.” He followed her to the door, and reached for the handle.
“Again, I thank you for your prudence with this matter. Given my relationship with your father and the late duchess, I would see you protected from Miss Banbury’s machinations.”
Smoothing her palms over her skirt, she gave a slight, dismissive, very duchess-like nod, and he drew the door open.
As she took her leave, he closed it, and stared at the wood panel. His mind spun with the charges and accusations leveled by the duchess. Charges and accusations that could never be true about Helena Banbury. Except . . . what was she doing at Lambeth this morn, alone . . . ? With a curse, he stalked to the front of the room and yanked the door open, bellowing for his carriage.
The duchess’s warnings harkened back to those issued by another. Warnings given twelve years ago by a hardened duke who’d seen the treachery in Lucy Whitman when Robert had been blinded.
Surely he’d not be a fool twice where young women were concerned?
He frowned as a wave of guilt assailed him at that willingness to believe ill of her. Helena did not even belong in the same category of a woman such as Lucy. Those two were nothing alike.
Except in his weakness for them.