A Lady Out of Time

Chapter 10

  Helen went back to the Duke’s residence, the brass knocker making a deep, slightly doomed sound. She couldn’t help but bounce up and down on her feet, her body filled with nervous energy. The same butler opened the door, wincing when he saw Helen on the stoop. She’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Her dress was very elegant, the color a lovely green which went well with her darker skin and made her eyes bright. Even if Helen was quite a bit darker than the other women she’d seen. A lifetime of wearing hats versus a lifetime of training outdoors.

  “I’m here to see the Duke…Please.”

  He opened the door, making a stunted little gesture that could have meant ‛come in’ or might have meant, ‛stay away thing of evil’. She stepped inside the house, the smell of lemon and baking bread making her mouth water.

  “I’ll inquire,” he said gravely. Even though he didn’t say it, it was clear he disapproved of her. Showing up without an invitation in an unmarried gentleman’s family home was bad manners, to say the least. But it wasn’t like she had a calling card, and she was persona non grata no matter what time she arrived.

  He shut the front door and strode away, leaving her alone in the entryway. Helen heard light footsteps and turned to the stairwell. A young woman stood there, and Helen was pretty sure it was the same girl she’d seen dash away when she’d first shown up two days ago. She came down the stairs slowly, studying Helen thoroughly. It wasn’t exactly mean, but it was curious. Her hair was light brown, her complexion white as porcelain. “Is that my cloak?” the girl asked in a surprisingly sweet voice.

  “Oh!” Helen felt herself blushing. “Yes. And thank you. I had need of it….but, you can have it back. So, here,” she said, fumbling with the clasp. Should she give it back? Amelia was watching her with a small, fascinated smile.

  “You can keep it if you need it. I have another.”

  Helen got the clasp undone and handed her the cloak, noting Amelia’s perfect hands. They were pale and milky-white, the nails on each finger smooth ovals. Never in her life had she used those hands for anything more dangerous than sewing. Weird. “No, I can get one. Thank you.”

  Amelia took the cloak and absently threw it on a chair a few steps away. She probably didn’t pick anything up herself, but had a servant do everything for her. “Are you from London?” she asked, her tone and expression making it clear that she was burning with curiosity.

  “No. I’m from America.”

  “The Colonies! And where exactly do you live?”

  The colonies, how droll, Helen thought peevishly. America had been independent for over a century. “California.”

  Her eyes became saucers. Helen thought about how arduous the journey would have been in 1850. Maybe it did require a look of wide-eyed incredulity.

  “Did it take an awfully long time?” She took a step closer, as though she’d get more information by osmosis.

  “It felt like a hundred years. Longer,” Helen said, slightly amused by her feeble joke.

  “Amelia,” the Duke said from behind her, his dark voice preceding him.

  Amelia took a step back, gave Helen an apologetic smile and turned towards her brother. She stopped beside him and leaned close, “Edward,” she said gravely, in the same reproachful tone of voice he had used on her. It was playful, as if she were giving him a bad time for being so gruff. “Do be careful or your face will freeze that way,” she said, playfully. But he ignored her. The full weight of his attention on Helen. As if he didn’t dare take his eyes off her, even to look at his sister.

  His expression was murderous. He was standing up straight, his clothes impeccable and tailored to his muscular form so that it highlighted every prominent muscle. His trousers were charcoal gray and expensive wool, his vest a deep sapphire blue, fairly muted compared to some of the eye-watering patterns she’d seen men on the streets wearing and in the shops she had passed. He was clean-shaven, dark and handsome, the carefully checked anger sending a ripple of awareness down her body.

  He made a sharp gesture towards his study as if she were a naughty dog who’d peed on the rug. She followed behind him, throwing Amelia a tiny goodbye smile, before disappearing back into the Duke’s office with him. Helen repressed the desire to cross her arms over her chest defensively. He waited next to the door so Helen had to pass by him, nothing more than a few inches separating them. Her muscles locked as she passed him, gripped by a strange expectant tension. She wouldn’t have turned her head to look at him if her life had depended upon it. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and Helen took a shuddering breath.

  “This must be the quickest return visit a blackmailer has ever made. What did you do, lose it all on the way home?” His voice was low, almost gravelly.

  She turned around, pleased to see he’d given her some distance after all. Her stomach flipped over. “No. The money is safe, thank you. I don’t need more money.” She moved away from him, to the middle of the room, wanting to put more space between them. He didn’t appear to be relieved at the news that she didn’t want more money, but stayed stiff and coiled, like a rattlesnake waiting to strike.

  Helen cleared her throat. This was a crappy idea. Is this really the only option? “I’m afraid I’ll require a bit more from you, though.” He made a huffing noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

  “Not money!” she said, when he took a step towards her. “Um. First of all, who is this?” She opened her reticule and withdrew the cartoon she’d stolen from the shop. Helen smoothed it out and held it out towards him.

  His dark eyes lowered to the paper, and he took it from her with a sigh, giving the impression that he had never been so bored, yet infuriated in his entire life. It was an odd but surprisingly intriguing display. Helen wondered if it was an affectation. He was a calm presence before her, and while the quietness of his movements supported that façade, the look in his eyes or the way he held himself…something Helen couldn’t identify made her think that every cool look and calm gesture was a lie. That the man underneath the polish and severity was someone quite different. Nah.

  Helen watched his face as he looked at the picture for several long seconds. He was two years older than her, the faintest hint of lines near his eyes giving him a slightly weathered look which was terribly attractive. There was the slightest twitch near his right cheekbone as a muscle jumped. He looked up from the picture, his gaze collided with hers, and she blushed, sure he’d caught her staring at him.

  Helen rushed in with questions. “Do you know who she is? Who are the men behind her? What is the purpose of the symbols on her dress?”

  “Surely you did not come all this way for gossip.”

  “Who is she?” Helen repeated.

  He seemed to reach some internal conclusion, and after a few tense moments, he answered her. “Her name is Felicity Wells and she’s Baron Colchester’s mistress.”

  And there was that name again. Baron Colchester. The same man who was interested in Black’s design. “Mistress? Why is she in the broadsheets with these men?”

  “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Ms. Wells…is an entrepreneur.”

  For the life of her Helen couldn’t decode what he was saying. “What kind of business does she have?”

  “This is not for delicate sensibilities. A lady wouldn’t pursue it,” he said repressively.

  “I don’t have delicate sensibilities.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really,” he said blandly.

  “Just pretend I’m one of the guys. A dude just like you—”

  “A duke. Why on earth would I pretend you were a duke?”

  Helen almost laughed. Guess they didn’t use the word dude in Victorian England. “What I meant was, treat me like a man. Tell me what you’d tell another…duke. You keep saying things, and for the life of me, I can’t riddle them out. I know we’re speaking the same language, but it somehow is getting lost in translation.” As she spoke, his expression became stonier. As if sh
e were insulting him. She tried another approach. “How about this? The sooner you speak in words I understand, the sooner I will leave.”

  He blinked, a long slow blink, and she thought even his eyelashes were quivering in irritation. “Speak coarsely and pretend you are a man,” he muttered. He exhaled slowly. “She is a demi-rep who runs a brothel as well as a gaming establishment.”

  “Oh!” Helen smiled, pleased to have it make sense. A hint of red appeared on his cheeks as though he was mortified on her behalf. “And why does she have the symbol?”

  “As to why the woman is wearing that symbol, it’s probably because of a new…group that is quite popular at the moment.”

  “What group?”

  “I don’t know much about it. Several lords have started an occult group based upon ancient runes and cult-like practices.”

  “Like the druids?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a member?” she asked bluntly.

  He looked at her long and hard for a moment, as though trying to read her mind. “No, I am not. I’ve been invited, obviously. But I haven’t attended any of their meetings.”

  “Why not? And why do you say you were ‛obviously’ invited?”

  “There are rumors that the club is quite…debauched. And I say ‛obviously,’ because I’m invited everywhere. The joining fee is quite steep.” He walked away from her, hands clasped behind his back as he went to his desk and sat down behind it. As if he needed distance between them.

  “Can you find out what they do there?”

  A hint of anger crept into his words. “I don’t want to find out.” He leaned forward. “I don’t care to have anything to do with them.” This time Helen was positive there was a growl at the end of that sentence. “Being rich and titled brings a lot of privileges as well as opportunities to behave in a reprehensible manner and get away with it. This group’s members are some of the vilest men in London.”

  Helen sat down in a chair opposite him. “So this Baron Colchester must be pretty shady then. With his Madam mistress and wanting to buy…stuff,” she said, stopping abruptly. She’d almost said too much.

  Helen supposed it was probably time to get on with things. She leaned forward. “As for the other reason I’m here. I require an introduction.”

  Long moments passed, and she had the distinct impression that he was swearing at her and calling her vile names in his head. “To whom and why?” he finally said.

  “I can’t tell you why. But who is easy. Roland Black.”

  His brow furrowed and he shook his head in surprise. “I do not know the name.”

  “He’s a gun maker from America. He used to work for Samuel Colt. Colt fired him for wanting to improve his gun design. He’s come to England hoping to sell off his designs and the weapons he invented while he worked for Colt.”

  “I don’t know him,” the Duke said, as though that was an end to the matter.

  “You can know anyone you want to, you’re a duke.”

  “And those I don’t want to as well.”

  Helen ignored the jab and plunged ahead.

  “All I want to do is talk to him, and as soon as he gets me what I need, you’re done. I swear.”

  “I believe that’s what you told me two days ago,” he said, a hard smile forming on his lips.

  “After I see Black—assuming he gets me what I need—I’ll give you the diary. I swear! I know my word means nothing, but once you have the diary, I’m not a threat to you. This will be over.” Her voice wavered, which seemed to sharpen his focus. Like a lion seeing a weak deer stumble.

  He scrubbed his hand over his jaw and looked away, breaking his intense scrutiny. If she hadn’t been wearing the damned corset, she would’ve sagged in relief. He was too intense. And he confused her when he stared at her that way. “Colchester is on the fringe of acceptable society. Any event he is hosting is not suitable for good ton.”

  Abruptly, he laughed. More like a chuckle, but the sound disturbed her on several levels. “I cannot believe I’m being blackmailed by someone so utterly bizarre.”

  “Hey!”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “Do you realize you are unlike any female I have ever met?” He shoved away from the desk, standing and pacing away from her.

  For a moment, the words stung, the way he said them making it clear that wasn’t a good thing. I’m here to save the fucking world, I don’t need to impress you.

  “The States may be different, but surely they’re not that barbaric. It is almost as though you have no concept of how society works. Of its…” he made a gesture, as though to call the right word forward, “complexities. I should not even be here right now. I returned from my estate an hour ago. This is not a time when people call upon each other. But here you are, cleaned up, perfection in a jaunty hat bought with my money, and you want more.” He was almost shouting at her.

  Her hand reached up to touch the hat. It was jaunty, wasn’t it. Perfection? What did he mean by that? He thought she was perfection? Or she was trying to look like perfection?

  “No,” he said low and vehemently. She could also feel his born and bred superiority reasserting itself. Helen knew she had to remind him who was in charge.

  She stood up, put her hands on the table as she leaned towards him. “This is bullshit.” His eyes widened at her coarse words, and he froze midstride, looking at her as though she’d just said she liked to have puppies for breakfast. Oh yeah? She had more where that came from. “I have that fucking diary, and I can ruin you. If you don’t do what I want, I’ll turf your family into the streets! And guess what? They speak even more crudely than I do. What kind of life would Amelia have: object of scandal and suddenly a pauper? What about your mother with her constant illnesses? She’d probably have a heart attack. How would they fare if all of this was stripped away from them? Just because you didn’t want to do this one little thing.”

  His nostrils flared in anger, his lips becoming a thin white line. Helen wished she’d left out the bit about the heart attack. That seemed a bit low. “You don’t have to like me. All you need to know is that I’m enough of a badass motherfucker to ruin you and not give a crap that it happens.” She stood up tall, moving slowly around the desk towards him like the grim reaper ready to collect. “I know all your dirty secrets, and I know you.” She was breathing hard, and she was pretty sure she hadn’t needed to tell him she was a badass motherfucker. But it had felt pretty damn good to say.

  “You do not know me,” he whispered furiously, as though the slightest increase in volume would make him snap. His cheekbones stood out in harsh relief. He stayed rooted to the spot as she advanced upon him, refusing to give ground.

  She moved in closer to him, and he let her, watched her with glittering intensity, several feet still between them. “I know you’ll do what I want you to do because what I want costs you nothing, and not helping me would cost you everything.”

  For a moment there was complete silence, and she was surprised she couldn’t hear echoes of their shouting match reverberating around the room. He moved towards her, and she shifted on her feet, raising her arm defensively, automatically reacting as though he was about to attack.

  He froze, his head jerking back as if she’d slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “You expect me to hit you?” The words were oddly flat, half statement, half question.

  “Is that a threat?” she asked. He dropped his gaze and walked past her, leaving four or five feet between them. He stopped at a sideboard that contained alcohol and tumblers. She heard the faint glug-glug sound of liquid going into a glass, but she could only see his broad back.

  “No. ‛I will see you caught and hung’, that is a threat. Would you like a drink?” he asked, not bothering to look at her as he made one for himself.

  “Um,” she had visions of a poisoned decanter. “Yes, please. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  He cast her a brief, appraising glance. “I’m having whiskey,” he said, in a tone that imp
lied she didn’t want what he was having.

  “I like whiskey.” I don’t know shit about whiskey.

  “Of course you like whiskey,” he said, chuckling unhappily.

  There was a pause while he poured them drinks, a moment where the conversation and antagonism stopped. She had the sense that it was intentional, that he was using these few moments to get himself together and diffuse the tension between them.

  Helen’s body was humming, her breathing a little fast, her heart rate elevated. She wasn’t sure if she needed a good fight or a good shag, but the odds of getting either were zilch. The Duke was a beautiful man; even more attractive than his icy control was him in a red-hot passion. What would it be like to have him act without thinking through the consequences? An image of him stalking over to her, pushing her against the wall and taking her furiously, was distracting.

  He was suddenly in front of her, interrupting her daydream and handing her a drink. That is the kind of distracted bullshit that gets people killed.

  Helen got back to business. “Here is the deal. You are to pretend that I am an American heiress—”

  “Flush with my money.”

  Helen rolled her eyes and let that slide. “And you are—”

  He stopped with the drink halfway to his mouth, as though he’d just put the pieces together. His words were flat with conviction, the syllables like cut diamonds. “I am not going to pretend that I’m courting you. You must be out of your mind to think anyone would believe that. It doesn’t matter how beautiful you are, no one would believe it, and more importantly, my fiancée would castrate me.”

  “That’s…blunt.”

  “I know how much you appreciate colorful language,” he said. “I’ll do you the courtesy of speaking in terms you understand. People would believe you were my mistress. But they won’t believe I’d marry you.”

  Helen had never expected to be the marrying kind, but no one had ever thrown it in her face. She huffed out a breath. “Fine. That’s all I want.”

  He scowled and took the drink he’d forgone a moment before. “Now tell me what you want with Roland Black. Is he a bastard too?”

  “Very funny. I just need an introduction…and an uninterrupted meeting with him.”

  He looked at her oddly. “What are you going to do, kill him?”

  “No!” Helen said, surprised at the question.

  “Then what do you want with him?” He took a step closer to her, and Helen narrowed her eyes. A ‘back-it-up-buddy’ look on her face.

  “It’s none of your business.” She put her glass down on a small side table near the door. He stopped moving. Helen reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, setting it down on the table too. “Here is the information about the ball and where we will meet and what time.”

  She had a hand on the door knob.

  “Just so we are clear. You are giving me the diary at the end of the night?”

  Helen let him see the sincerity in her eyes, their gazes locking. Trust me, her expression said, I won’t let you down. “I swear.”

  He nodded sharply, setting the half-filled glass down with a loud thunk. Amber liquid splashed onto his desk.

  And then, somehow, Helen found herself out the door and in the street, walking towards her hotel. Shakiness overcame her with each step, almost feeling like the beginning of a fever, except that it was emotional. She’d lied to him, was using him, and he hated her. She didn’t like him and his judgment. Or that she was here doing something good, and he thought she was evil.

  Some part of her wished she could tell him she wasn’t a bad person. I told him I’d give him the diary. Which I don’t have and can’t get. Even though she knew it was for the greater good, she didn’t like lying to him. And she couldn’t imagine how angry he was going to be when she ditched him and didn’t give him the diary. But it would sever the connection between them. She’d see him once more, get the plans and go about her life while he went about his. It was as simple as that.

  Her pace quickened; she had a ball gown to buy.