Chapter Three
Helena carefully unfastened the ivory buttons that lined the back of Charity’s very expensive gown and then pushed it forward. Her cousin all but tore it away, tossing it aside on the floor. With a sigh, Helena gathered it up, folding it carefully so Charity’s maid, Perdy, could retrieve it for the laundry.
“…everyone watching me,” Charity chattered. “I mean, the jealous looks from all the other women, Helena. You wouldn’t understand, of course, but it’s quite trying to know that all the men want you and all the women hate you for it.”
Helena smiled tightly at her cousin and said, “Quite trying, I’m sure. You certainly danced a lot. Were there any men you particularly liked?”
Charity shrugged. “They’re all alike, aren’t they? Rich, boring as plain toast.”
Helena held her tongue. She had no intention of talking to her cousin about the man she’d met on the terrace, not boring as toast at all. Quite the opposite.
“There were no dukes who filled my card, at any rate,” Charity continued. “And Papa is really set on that. He says I must try to land one of those before anyone else does this Season. But you were the only one close to a duke.”
Helena blinked. “A duke? Who?”
“The Duke of Sheffield, of course. You were on the terrace with the man—did you not see him? He’s tall, handsome, brown hair, brown eyes. Stern expression. He came back in to the party just as Papa went out to fetch you. You must have seen him.”
Helena’s lips parted. Charity was describing a man who sounded much like her charming stranger. “I may have seen someone like that, yes.”
Charity nodded. “Well, he is looking for a bride, it seems. An heiress, if Papa’s sources are right. He’s on my list of men to pursue. Did you talk to him? What did you think of him?”
Helena bent her head. So, he was a duke. An heiress-hunting one. That left her out of the equation. She was no heiress. She was a lady with a questionable past who was hardly better than a servant.
“I was outside taking air,” she said with a shrug. “I’m afraid your duke…well, he didn’t catch my eye.”
Charity pursed her lips. “Just like you to miss the most important man in the room. Lordy, Helena, you’re meant to be here to help me. If you aren’t going to do that, I don’t even know why we brought you.” She flounced away and took a seat at her dressing table.
“I’m sorry, Charity,” Helena said. She wasn’t really sorry, but she’d learned quickly that saying it was the best way to soothe her cousin’s spoiled side and avoid an argument.
“Well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Charity said, and the edge was gone from her voice. “Now come and brush my hair.”
Helena stood in her place for a moment. “Charity, could you not call Perdy for that? She’s going to help you into your night rail anyway, and I’m very tired, myself.”
Charity turned in her seat and speared her with a pointed glare. “Perdy isn’t any fun to talk to and you were there tonight, so you know what I’m referring to. Anyway, you are my companion, Helena. You’re supposed to do as I say, aren’t you?”
Helena took a deep breath. Despite her upbringing, or perhaps because of it, she had always tried to find the light in every situation. This one had so little, and her cheeks burned with humiliation as she crossed the room, took the brush from Charity’s table and began to stroke it through her cousin’s hair.
As she did so, Charity went back to prattling on about the ball. Helena blocked it out as best she could, losing herself in the rhythmic stroke of the brush in her hand. And trying to forget the twinge of disappointment that the handsome man who had brightened her night was one who was clearly out of her reach.
For a woman like her would never catch the eye of a duke. And that was a fact she simply had to accept.
“Are you ready for the tea, dear?”
Baldwin looked up from the latest troubling letter from his solicitor and found his mother standing in the doorway to his study. He blinked and recalled, at last, what she was talking about.
“Er, yes,” he said, folding the paper and returning it to its envelope. He glanced at his pocket watch. “When do we begin again?”
She pursed her lips. “In twenty minutes. And some of the more eager mamas may arrive even earlier. I just checked and Walker has the terrace done up beautifully. The weather is perfect and everything is in place.”
Baldwin stood and stretched his back as he searched for a smile he could force. “Thank you, Mama, for coming today and making sure all the arrangements have gone smoothly.”
She nodded. “Well, I have hopes that soon you will have a duchess of your own who will help you with these things,” she mused. “And I will happily retire into role of dowager.”
Baldwin stifled a sigh. “Certainly, I will do my best.”
She stepped in closer. “I-I know you will, dear. But I hope you’ll try to find some enthusiasm for the endeavor. I haven’t picked such ogres for you to consider, have I? Some of them are quite pretty. The American, for example.”
Baldwin froze. His mother meant the heiress, Charity. No one could deny she was, indeed, beautiful, but when the duchess said the American, he could only think of her flame-haired cousin. The witty one, the lovely one, the one who effortlessly made him smile in a genuine way that felt foreign. Helena.
“Yes,” he choked out. “The young lady is very fair.”
“Very fair,” his mother repeated. “Please do wax poetic.”
He shrugged. “I promise you, I shall do my best with all your prospects, Mama. I accept the path I am set upon. I have no intention of shirking.”
His mother’s brow knitted and it was clear she wished to address the subject more, but before she could, his butler, Walker, stepped into the hall behind her. “Pardon me, Your Graces, but your first guests have arrived.”
Baldwin nodded. “Ewan and Charlotte?” he inquired.
“No, sir. It is the Duke of Kingsacre and the Earl of Idlewood. I’ve shown them to the veranda.”
Baldwin sucked in a breath. “Kit and his father?”
The earl, Christopher, who everyone called Kit, had been one of Baldwin’s friends since they were boys. He was a member of the duke club, though he was the only one who had not yet inherited his ultimate title. Not that anyone mourned that fact. The current Duke of Kingsacre was a wonderful man.
“We’ll go to greet them, Walker,” Baldwin’s mother said with a smile. “Show the rest out as they come, will you?”
The butler bowed away and Baldwin sighed heavily. “Kingsacre’s health is declining. Kit has him in town to see a new round of doctors. I’m glad they could both come.”
She nodded. “Matthew’s mother and I were just discussing it. It is very sad to see such a vibrant man begin to fail. Come, let us go greet them before the rest arrive.”
They walked to the veranda together, and as they exited the house, Baldwin was shocked. Kit and his father stood at the wall together, but he would not have recognized the duke had he not known it was him. The once strapping, handsome man was now thin as a reed, he held a cane that he leaned heavily upon and his skin was sallow.
“Kit, Your Grace,” Baldwin managed to choke out. “So glad you could join us.”
The two men turned and began to call out their greetings. It was all friendly enough, but Baldwin recognized the strain in Kit’s eyes. He loved his father deeply, this slow loss of him was taking its toll, that was clear. Baldwin squeezed his hand a bit more firmly as they shook, and Kit gave him a look of appreciation.
“So fine to be in your home again,” Kingsacre said. “I always said you had the best garden in Town.”
Baldwin’s mother blushed to the roots of her hair and he couldn’t help but smile. She had always been very proud of their London garden and continued to oversee its tending even though she no longer lived in the ducal home in Town. At least for the time being. As things got worse, it was possible they’d have to sell her small townhouse.
Kit tilted his head as he looked at Baldwin, then shot his father a look. “Your Grace, would you mind helping me identify what that wonderful-smelling vine is over your trellis just there?” He held out an elbow to the duchess as he spoke.
She nodded and the two walked off, leaving Baldwin with the Duke of Kingsacre.
“Not very subtle, my Kit,” the duke laughed.
“I assume that means you wished to talk with me alone?” Baldwin replied, motioning to two chairs beside the wall overlooking the garden.
They sat, and Kingsacre took a deep breath before he spoke again. “My son is worried about you. He says you won’t talk to him, but I hoped you might talk to me.”
Baldwin shifted and shot a glance toward Kit. “He is wrong to be worried. I could not be more fine.”
Kingsacre arched a brow, and even in his fragile state, he did not look like a man one should lie to. Still, his voice was gentle as he said, “I used to see your father, you know. In the hells.”
Baldwin broke their stare, looking instead at the greenery below. “Well, many a man likes to game.”
“Is that all it was?” Kingsacre asked.
Baldwin swallowed. Once again, he wished he could just spill out the humiliating truth to someone, anyone, and have some support. But there was his pride, reminding him that it wasn’t only his father’s sins he would spill, but his own. He’d always liked this man—he didn’t want to be seen differently by him. Nor to have his tale spread amongst all his friends and become a charity case.
“It is nice to see you back in Town,” he said, glancing back to the duke with a meaningful look. “Will you stay the whole Season?”
Kingsacre nodded slowly, as if he understood. Then he said, “I shall try, for I believe it will be my last.”
Baldwin jolted. “Don’t say that.”
Kingsacre’s expression softened. “I’m an old man, my boy. And a sick one. I have no illusions of where my path is taking me. My son and his friends may not wish to face it, but I am ready to.”
Baldwin’s throat suddenly felt thick. He knew what it was to lose a father. To many of his friends, this man was as close as they had. To Kit, all that he had.
“And what of your daughter?” he asked softly.
Now Kingsacre’s face turned sad. “Juliet is just four. She has no understanding of what is coming. But her brother will care for her well, I know. She will want for nothing.”
“Is she in Town, as well?” Baldwin asked.
“I keep her as close as I can these days. When one has love, one should appreciate every moment of it.”
Baldwin shifted. Love. That seemed to be a topic in the air as of late. His friends were finding it, encouraging him to look for it. And here he was, on the outside looking in.
“Baldwin,” Kingsacre began, but before he could say more, the doors to the house opened and Walker appeared with several of their guests in tow.
Baldwin rose. “I must see to my guests, it seems.”
Kingsacre nodded, but his gaze held firmly on Baldwin’s. “You must, I know. But I hope we will talk again soon.”
Baldwin executed a swift bow before he turned back to fetch his mother and greet their guests. But as he walked away he felt an increasing sense of ill ease. A feeling he would have to extinguish if he intended on fulfilling the duty that was the only path left for him.
The carriage was too small. Actually, that wasn’t true. The carriage was massive, a display of ostentatious wealth that made color flood Helena’s cheeks whenever Uncle Peter bragged about it to appalled lords and ladies. But today, with her uncle and cousin sitting across from her, going over their plans and goals, it felt utterly close and hot and uncomfortable.
“Twenty-seventh in line for the crown,” Charity said, clasping her hands. “Just think, Helena, you could lady’s maid to the Queen someday.”
Helena shook off her thoughts and looked at her cousin. “If the King and twenty-six other people happen to all die at once.”
“It could happen,” Charity said with a glare at Helena’s comment. “What has you so cross anyway?”
“I’m not cross,” Helena said.
And it was true. She wasn’t cross. She was something else entirely. Nervous was probably the best description. She was going to the home of the Duke of Sheffield. The man she knew with almost complete certainty was the same one who had talked with her on the terrace.
The idea of seeing him again, well, it was both exciting and disappointing. She was so far beneath him. It would be obvious the moment he saw that she served her cousin. And yet, she would get to gaze upon that handsome face again. Maybe see one of those smiles that lit up the world.
“Are you woolgathering?” her uncle snapped.
She blinked and forced herself back to reality. “Yes. No. No.”
He glared. “Your duty is to remain close to your cousin, Helena. If there is any chance for her to get near this man or anyone else who is important, she’ll need a chaperone so she doesn’t look like a wanton. So you go with her.”
Helena swallowed hard before she nodded. “Of course.”
“Otherwise, stay out of the way as much as possible,” he continued. “And Charity, this man could be very important to your future. You could be a duchess or, as you said, even a queen. Wouldn’t that be a feather in the family cap?”
“What do you know of the man’s circumstances?” Charity asked.
He smiled. “Aside from his lofty title, he has four estates under his protection. Hundreds of workers. He must be worth a fortune.”
The carriage turned, and Charity pulled the curtain back to see where they were arriving. Helena peeked over her shoulder, and both women caught their breath at once.
“Oh, he must to have a house like this one!” Charity said with a laugh of delight.
Helena tended to agree. The estate was large and beautiful, with an exquisite view of the park across the way. There was no doubt this was the home of a very important and wealthy man. And once again, she was very aware of the disparity of their positions.
The carriage stopped, and her uncle and cousin stepped out. They left her behind to hustle after them up the stairs of the fine house. She flinched at the sharpness with which her uncle spoke to the duke’s butler, and then trailed through the hallways toward the veranda, where tea was being held.
Helena couldn’t help but look around her as they walked. The house was just as fine inside as out. The furniture was understated and beautiful, the walls done in muted colors. A few portraits graced those walls, and she gasped when she passed by one of the duke standing by a mantel, two large dogs at his side.
It was most definitely the man she had encountered on the terrace. Baldwin Undercross, 15th Duke of Sheffield, the little plaque read.
“Catch up, girl!” her uncle called as they entered a parlor.
She scurried to do so, even as her mind spun. Baldwin. The name fit him. It wasn’t at all common. Nor was he. Of course, she would never call him by that given name. Heavens, she likely wouldn’t talk to him at all. The moment on the terrace was one that never should have happened in the first place. Certainly he wasn’t thinking about it. She should forget it, too.
The butler opened the veranda door and stepped out. He announced her uncle’s and cousin’s names to the gathered crowd. “Mr. Peter Shephard and Miss Charity Shephard.”
Helena pressed her lips together as they stepped out, Charity looking over the crowd like she was already the queen she imagined she could be by marrying the poor man in that portrait.
The very idea made Helena’s stomach turn. She ignored it, shoved it aside and followed them onto the terrace—where she came face-to-face, once again, with the Duke of Sheffield.
To her surprise, he was not looking at Charity or her uncle as he crossed the veranda toward them, an older lady at his side.
He was looking at her.