Still shaken, Helen drew a ragged breath. If only dreams could come true.
In the inn yard, Martin stood and watched the carriage until it disappeared along the road to London. His impulse was to order his curricle and follow as fast as he was able. But she could not escape. He would find her in London, of that he was sure.
She was one goddess he had every intention of worshipping.
Chapter Five
Three weeks later, Helen was in her chamber, studying the contents of her wardrobe to determine what could, and could not, be used for the upcoming Little Season, when her maid, Janet, put her head around the door.
‘You’ve a visitor, m’lady.’
Before Helen could extricate herself from the silks and satins and ask who, Janet had gone.
‘Bother!’ Helen sat on her heels and wondered who it was. The familiar excitement that had simmered just below her surface ever since she had returned to town blossomed. But it could not be him, she reasoned, not at eleven in the morning. With a sigh, she stood and shook out her primrose morning gown, before seating herself before her dressing-table to straighten her curls.
Her reappearance in the capital had caused a minor sensation among her friends but, luckily, thanks to the discretion of her servants, her disappearance had not been broadcast throughout the ton. Hence, while she had had to sustain a somewhat strained interview with Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, who had read her a lecture on the ills likely to befall women of her class who kept scandalous secrets, and a much more rigorous cross-examination from Tony Fanshawe, the entire episode had passed off without major catastrophe. Throughout her explanations, she had managed to keep the names of her abductor—for she had no evidence that it had really been Hedley Swayne—and her rescuer—who was far too scandalous to be acknowledged—to herself. In this, she had been lucky. Circumstances, in the form of the birth of his son and heir, had kept her self-appointed guardian, Marc Henry, Marquis of Hazelmere, at home in Surrey. If she had had to face his sharp hazel eyes, she was sure she would have been forced to the truth—the whole truth. Thankfully, fate had spared her.
Descending the stairs, she was conscious of anticipation still pulsing her veins despite the sure knowledge that she would not meet a pair of stormy grey eyes in her small drawing-room. Those eyes, and their warmth, had haunted her; the memory of his lips on hers lay, a jewel enshrined in her memories. But if he looked for her, he would learn her name. And then he would know. Her silly dreams could never come true.
Startling eyes did indeed meet her when she entered her drawing-room, but they were emerald-green and belonged to Dorothea, Marchioness of Hazelmere.
‘Helen!’ Dorothea jumped to her feet, elegantly gowned as always, her face alight with a happiness so radiant that Helen’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Thea—what on earth are you doing here? I thought you’d be fixed at Hazelmere for months.’ Helen returned the younger woman’s warm embrace. They had become firm friends since Dorothea’s marriage to Hazelmere, just over a year ago. Helen’s connection with Hazelmere dated from her childhood; she was distantly connected with the Henrys and had spent many of her summers with Hazelmere’s younger sister in Surrey.
Helen held Dorothea at arm’s length, conscious of a pang of dismal jealousy that she would never experience the joy that shone from Dorothea’s face. ‘How’s my godson?’ she asked, smiling determinedly.
‘Darcy’s fine.’ Dorothea smiled back, linking her arm in Helen’s. Together, they strolled through the open French windows and into the small courtyard.
An ironwork seat with a padded cushion stood facing the bank of flowerbeds, the sun-warmed house wall at its back. As they sank on to the cushions, Dorothea explained, ‘I’ve installed him on the second floor of Hazelmere House. Mytton doesn’t know how to react. As for Murgatroyd— he’s torn between pride and handing in his notice.’
Helen grinned. Hazelmere’s butler and his valet were well-known to her. ‘But how did you convince Marc you were well enough to come to town? I was sure he would keep you in semi-permanent seclusion until Darcy was in leading strings, at the very least.’
‘Quite simple, really,’ explained Dorothea airily. ‘I merely pointed out that if I was well enough to share his bed I was certainly well enough to endure the rigours of the Season.’
Helen’s laughter pealed forth. ‘Oh, gracious!’ she gasped, once she was able. ‘What I would have given to have been able to see his face.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dorothea, emerald eyes twinkling. ‘It really was quite something.’ She turned to study Helen. ‘But enough of my managing husband. What’s this I hear of a disappearance?’
With practised ease, Helen told her tale. Dorothea did not press her for the details she omitted, merely remarking at the end of the story, ‘Hazelmere hasn’t heard and I don’t see any reason to tell him.’ With a quick smile, she continued, ‘What I came here to do was invite you to dinner on Thursday. Just the family, those who are in town. It’s too early yet for anything formal and we’ll have enough of that once the Season begins. You will come, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Helen. Then she grimaced. ‘Mind you, by then Hazelmere will have heard about my escapade. You may tell him from me that there’s no reason for him to concern himself over it and I won’t take kindly to being interrogated over the dinner-table.’
Dorothea laughed and squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll make sure he behaves.’
Reflecting that she had perfect confidence in her friend’s ability on that score, Helen smiled at the thought of the mighty Hazelmere being managed, on however small a scale, by his elegant wife.
Dorothea rose. ‘I have to hurry for I’ve yet to catch Cecily.’
Helen escorted her guest to the door.
‘Come early, if you can,’ Dorothea urged. ‘Darcy’s always so good with you.’ With an affectionate hug and a cheery wave, Dorothea went down the steps to the street and was
handed into the waiting coach by her footman.
Helen watched her depart, then, smiling, went back upstairs to see which of her gowns would do for Thursday.
Martin strolled down St James’s oblivious of the noise and bustle that surrounded him. He had yet to learn fair Juno’s name, an aberration he had every intention of rectifying with all possible speed. Returning to town in her wake, he had expected to be able to make enquiries the next day. Fate, however, had stepped in and engineered a crisis on his Leicestershire estate. His presence had been necessary; the ensuing wrangle had forced him to post down to London in search of documents, then back to the country to see his orders executed. When the dust had finally settled, three weeks had flown.