Helena did not take a great deal of time in despair. She simply could not spend her life weeping because things were not going her way. She had learned that lesson the hard way, many years ago.

Wiping at her wet cheeks with her hands, she went to the washbowl to splash water on her face and to consider her options. She had been childish and silly to return to her room. In fact, did she not owe James an explanation face to face? The more she thought about it, the more she realized it was indeed the proper thing to do.

With that in mind, she glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face looked as ill as it usually did, adding to the blemishes with the blotchiness of crying. She sighed. Her face would likely do the job for her. He would only be too grateful to take the brooch and go.

Helena shook her head. Regardless, she would do the right thing.

She smoothed her dress and checked her hair. She would make the best of herself as much as she was able. This was a small vanity perhaps, but one to be allowed. Especially if this were to be the last time that she ever talked to him.

Her fingers hesitated, staying too long at the hairpin she’d been fussing at. She stared wide-eyed at her reflection as this thought sank in. What if this really were the last time she ever talked to James…the Duke of Durham…apart from whatever pleasantries would be required of her, should her father continue to do business with him?

Helena’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She had been fighting this realization for a while now, and the thought that she might be forced to see him, to interact with him when quite clearly, he would have to belong to another was horrifying in the extreme. What if she not only had to act as hostess to the Duke again but to whatever wife he someday chose, as well?

The thought seemed absurd at first until she took the time to think about it. Her father had many business associates to dinner, men of commerce and title who came for a pleasant evening in the company of their wives. Some such dinners she’d managed to eschew, using the excuse that she was unwell. But on occasion, her father had insisted upon her attendance.

Surely, he would not do that to me. Surely Father would understand.

But there again, such actions on her part would mean that she was back to hiding. Had she not just decided that she would be brave and do what was right? Apparently going downstairs and fighting her own battles as it were, meant she would be doomed to fight this same battle again and again. A hundred times over if necessary.

Could she manage one brave act, knowing it would have to lead to several more?

I am stronger than this. I must do what is right.

She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Resolute. In control. She had decided it once, she would decide it again, and as many times as was necessary. From now on she would quit asking her aunt to fight her battles for her.

Calm now, Helena threw open her door only to find Bridget hovering on the other side, her hand upraised as if to knock.

“Bridget?”

The older woman grimaced and gestured for Helena to step back into the room, following and closing the door behind them. “I felt the need to check on you, My Lady. Your aunt is downstairs, and I rather mislike the look in her eyes.”

Helena smiled. Bridget was ever protective of her, a thing she had much taken for granted of late. “It is all right, Bridget. I sent her…”

Bridget grimaced. “Not in the way that you think. She is doing you no favors in taking your place.”

Helena had to laugh at that. “Ever so suspicious. Then it should ease your heart that I am going myself downstairs just now to talk to the Duke myself. I felt I was rather acting the coward, not to go myself. Though if Aunt Phoebe is waiting, then I had best hurry, or she will have told him before I can get there.”

Bridget frowned. “It would not be fitting for you to talk to him alone.”

“Then come with me. You will see my intentions are honorable,” Helena argued, pointing toward the door.

“The back stairs then, it will be faster. We can enter the room from the other side. Carefully, for I think you will hear what you do not expect to,” Bridget said, with a shake of her head, opening the door and looking cautiously before motioning for Helena to follow.

The subterfuge seemed ridiculous, as did creeping down the hallway to the back stairs which were generally used by the servants. Helena could not remember the last time she had snuck down these stairs to the kitchen and regretted that now. The kitchen had always been such a warm and welcoming place.

There was a certain excitement to this expedition though. While her slippered feet were silent on the well-polished stairs, the rustle of her skirts seemed loud. These stairs were somewhat dimly lit, unlike the main staircase, making the entire journey seem mysterious and exciting.

Helena was breathing a little quicker than usual, feeling the warmth steal into her cheeks from the unaccustomed exercise of moving so quickly to reach the drawing room next to the parlor. This room was deserted, as expected, and very cold as no one had planned to use it until much later in the evening. Bridget led the way, holding a long taper in her hand, the flame flickering bravely in the gloom.

Snow, falling in hard pellets, hit the glass of the tall windows, the dry rattling sound startling her. Outside it was nearing dark, though when she looked, the street below seemed almost bright in the glare of the new-fallen snow.

Bridget hovered at the great doors that could be slid back to make the two rooms one. These were not used often and kept closed when not entertaining a large number of people. She set the candle on a table nearby and put her hand on the handle to pull it back, and was arrested by the sound of a voice, sharp and high.

“What are you doing here?”