He gave a pleased, professional grunt. “Let me take a look at you then.”
The examination was brief: he measured her pulse with cool fingers pressed to her wrist, checked her eyes and tongue, and, taking a reed from his bag, placed one end against her chest and the other to his ear to listen to the beat of her heart.
“All excellent. I do not think I will need to bleed you again.” He passed the reed back to his apprentice, then patted Helen’s hand. “A good thing, too. You are remarkably hard to bleed for any length of time.”
“Are you sure?” Aunt asked. She was a keen believer in the advantages of a bloodletting, particularly during the month of May.
“Quite sure,” the doctor said. “Now let us look at the wound.” With careful, practiced fingers, he removed the bandaging and studied the injury just above her hairline. “Ah, now this is very pleasing. Will you allow me to show my apprentice, Lady Helen?”
She nodded.
The young man sidled closer.
“Do you see, Mr. Ewell? The gash has all but healed. Remarkable.” Dr. Roberts smiled at Helen. “I believe you do not even need a dressing.”
“That is an awful quick heal, isn’t it, sir?” ventured Mr. Ewell.
Helen held her breath. Mr. Ewell was far too perceptive.
“Lady Helen is a very healthy young woman,” Dr. Roberts said. “Never underestimate the body’s ability to heal itself.”
Especially a Reclaimer body, Helen thought.
The doctor turned to Aunt. “She has made an excellent recovery, Lady Pennworth. The injury was obviously much less severe than we had first feared. I will make up a draught for her to take for the next few days—Mr. Ewell here will bring it round—and I will visit again tomorrow morning. If she continues to improve, she may even exit her bed tomorrow.”
“So soon?” Aunt asked. Her surprise held a note of calculation.
“Yes, but gently, and only to a chair.” He sent a mock-reproachful glance at Helen. “No rushing around to parties and being a giddy miss for a few days yet.”
“I had all but decided to cancel her presentation ball,” Aunt said. “Do you mean she may be well enough for it to proceed?”
“When is it?”
“This coming Tuesday.”
The doctor gave Helen’s hand another reassuring pat. “If she stays quiet and her improvement continues at this pace, then it is very possible.”
Aunt smiled, raising her brows at Helen in congratulation. “Well now, that is a relief. ’Tis a good thing, too, that I did not stop Cook from working on the white soup.”
Helen smiled back: her own overwrought flash of teeth.
BY EARLY NEXT morning, Helen knew that her Reclaimer powers had restored her to full health. No headache, no haziness in her mind, and the wound, when she looked in the dressing-room mirror, was barely visible. She stepped back, eyeing her grim face. If she used the miniature as her mother had instructed, she would lose this amazing ability. She touched the faint scar. What else would she lose?
Another face, burned into her memory, rose before her eyes: a hard hazel gaze, lush mouth, and dark hair. The demimonde Deceiver. She had said, He is coming for you. Helen circled her hand protectively around her throat. Was it a Grand Deceiver—a creator of a Terror—as Lord Carlston feared? If something like that was after her, then surely she had justification to use the miniature.
Darby arrived with a cup of morning chocolate and a gift that she had made overnight: a small cream silk bag with a drawstring long enough to hang around the neck or tie around the waist. “It’s for the miniature, so you can wear it close by without getting a headache,” she whispered. “I figured you’d not want to let it out of your sight now.” She looked at the closed door and then pulled the portrait out from under her bodice, lifting the riband over her head. With an anxious smile, she passed it back.
Helen caught her hand. “Thank you,” she said, feeling an absurd desire to cry.
Not long after, Aunt bustled into the room with another bouquet. “Look, aren’t they pretty?” she said, waving the arrangement of peonies at Helen, who was back in bed, demurely sitting up against a pyramid of pillows. “Admittedly, they came via Selburn’s footman, but it is only eight o’clock, and one can hardly expect a Duke to be up before ten.” She handed the flowers to Darby, then paced to the window and back again, pausing at the end of the bed to smile uncertainly at Helen. “I know your uncle is yet to visit you, my dear, but do not think he is unconcerned.” She lifted the tassel that hung from the corner of the bed canopy, smoothing out the thick gold thread. “He does not think it seemly to visit you in your bedchamber, but he asks for reports upon your health whenever I see him. I am sure that once you are able to manage the stairs to the drawing room, he will take the first opportunity to sit with you.”
She was, of course, lying. Helen had no doubt that her uncle was still too furious to be in the same room as his wanton, disobedient niece. She knew there would have to be an interview with him at some point, and just the thought of it made her innards tense into a hard knot.
During his promised visit, Dr. Roberts pronounced her recovered enough to dress and sit on the chaise longue. It had been set by her bedchamber window for the light and view, displacing her writing desk to the other side of the room. Dr. Roberts even suggested opening the window, but Aunt felt that was going a little too far. Helen, feeling wretched about missing Millicent’s ball, asked him if she could invite her friend to visit. The doctor agreed: after all, the enlivening company of a good comrade was essential to convalescence, as long as the young lady did not stay too long.
Millicent, escorted by her manservant, arrived at the same time as the Duke, delivering another hothouse posy himself. Naturally, His Grace could not ascend to Helen’s bedchamber, but he sent his warm wishes with a wide-eyed Miss Gardwell, and the posy of rosebuds in Darby’s tender care.
“The Duke of Selburn?” Millicent said, seating herself on the end of the chaise longue and pulling at her bonnet ribands. “You sly thing! Coraline Pritchard will be devastated.” She took off the bonnet—a pretty confection of brown silk, coffee-colored lace, and pink feathers—and passed it to Darby.
“Coraline Pritchard?” Helen inquired. She patted down the wool rug across her legs. “She is in her second Season, is she not?”
“Yes, and not one proposal yet. She has set her cap at the Duke. Hasn’t a chance, of course—squints, poor thing.” Millicent held out a package wrapped in Gunter’s distinctive paper. “Fruit jellies. I know they are your favorite.” She passed the gift, pressing Helen’s hand for a fervent moment. “I am so glad you are better. When the news came, I was beside myself. I could not believe Circe threw you. Whatever happened? Did she hit a hole?”
Helen licked her lips, unprepared to conjure such detail. “I was galloping her at the morning ride, and she must have shied at something. I am not sure what—I cannot remember.” She hurried onto a new topic. “I am so sorry I missed your ball.”
“You could hardly help it, could you?” Millicent said. She leaned forward. “But I did miss you. I was so nervous. And, of course, we had the most horrific storm. Did anyone tell you?” At the shake of Helen’s head, she continued. “At about half past eight, just as the first guests were arriving, the whole sky went dark, and then the most terrifying thunder and lightning started. All very dramatic. I swear, Mother thought it was divine retribution for choosing the cheaper champagne.”
Helen laughed, rocking hard against the back of the chaise. As she finally subsided into a few giggling hiccups, it occurred to her that it was the first real laughter she had enjoyed in weeks.
“So, tell me about the Duke,” Millicent said, working off her gloves. “It seems a lot has happened since our promenade together. Your aunt told me he asked you to go riding along Rotten Row, and has sent you at least eight posies since the accident. Do you thin
k . . .” She allowed the sentence to trail off dramatically, her arched eyebrows posing the question.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
Millicent clapped her hands. “And do you like him?” She waved away the question. “How could you not? He is charmant! And, of course, the catch of the Season.”
“I do like him. Very much,” Helen said, but all she could see was an image of Lord Carlston’s dark head tilting toward her own. What would Millicent make of such a situation? Of course, she could not share that exhilarating, confusing moment with her friend. Or anyone, for that matter. Not even Darby. Besides, Lord Carlston had betrayed her, and it was possible—no, probable—he thought that moment had been a mistake. With a bright smile, she lifted the box of fruit jellies. “Shall we have one?” At Millicent’s enthusiastic nod, Helen tore the paper from the box.
“I have a little bit of news myself,” Millicent said as she considered the selection. Her fingers hovered, then struck, digging out a jelly in the shape of a pineapple. “Lord Holbridge has been rather assiduous in his attentions. We danced twice at my ball, talked the whole way through, and he took me into supper.”
Helen remembered the young Viscount. Nice-looking in a milky kind of way, with a good sense of humor. She chose a strawberry jelly. “Describe everything that happened,” she said, sinking back into the pillows and the safe, easy excitements of her old life. “I want to hear every detail.”
HALF AN HOUR later, Millicent rose to take her leave, insisting that if she stayed any longer, she would expire from too many fruit jellies. As the door closed behind her friend—under the escort of Darby—Helen rose from the chaise longue to walk around the room and work some of her own queasiness from her body. Five fruit jellies were definitely beyond her limit too. In fact, she needed something far more vigorous than a mere walk.
She started a series of jetés, the leap from one foot to another getting faster and higher. Muscles stretching, blood pounding, the room a blur of increasing velocity, every part of her working in perfect harmony. Such a glory to move with so much confidence and unearthly speed—another thing that would go if she used the miniature. The knock on the door caught her spinning into a wild pirouette. She stopped, breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Who is it?” she called.
“It is your uncle, Helen. I wish to speak to you.”
Helen clamped her hand over her mouth, trying to calm her breathing. She ran to the chaise longue and dropped onto it, yanking the rug across her legs.
Dragging in a deep breath, she called, “Of course, Uncle.”
The door opened. He stood in the doorway, snuff-stained nostrils flared as if he could smell the abandon in the room.
“I believe you are well enough to receive me,” he said.
Without waiting for confirmation, he strode in, waving her back onto the chaise as she prepared to rise and curtsy. His mouth had folded into lipless disapproval, his face suffused with a purple choler that made the broken veins across his cheeks bulge into violent blue chasing.
Helen pulled the rug up to her chest—a soft, woolen shield—and waited for her uncle to speak. He paced across to the secretaire, and stared down at the posies displayed across its top.
“I cannot even imagine what could have compelled you to do something so unwomanly, so disgusting, as to attend a hanging by yourself.” He swung around to face her, voice rising into brimstone and fire. “To go forward into the world unescorted and available—like a common whore.” He sucked in a hissing breath between his bared teeth. “Do you realize that strange men could have touched your body as you were carried from that crowd?”
Helen found herself leaning back, away from his words. She straightened her spine. She would not cringe.
“Your brother is extremely upset,” Uncle said. “To be so embarrassed in front of his friend the Duke. If it were not for His Grace, you would have brought even further dishonor to the family name. I am sorry to say that you are, truly, your mother’s daughter.”
Helen clenched her jaw, holding back the truth. She was her mother’s daughter in more ways than he could ever count.
“The Duke has just left,” he said. “He has applied to me for your hand. You can expect a proposal. For some reason, he believes your spirit is merely lively, not pernicious, and that it needs only to be directed into more womanly activities.”
“The Duke wishes to marry me?” Helen drew back, confused. Why would he want her after she had disgraced herself so thoroughly?
“Yes, you should be amazed,” her uncle snapped. “You are lucky you have forty thousand pounds, girl. I have a feeling your lively spirit would be far less attractive without it.”
Helen stared down at the rug, fists bunched around the wool. Her uncle was mistaken: the Duke was not a venal man. He was far nobler than that. Her eyes blurred with tears. Was it possible that he cared for her? He had shown some particularity, that was true, but there had been nothing ardent in his manner before. Perhaps it was just a convergence of suitability, timing, and a gallant nature. Did it matter? The match would bring everything her family expected: rank, protection, honor. And he was such a kind man. A union with him brought every prospect of happiness and a safe life.
“You are indeed fortunate,” Uncle added. “If knowledge of your shame was to spread further amongst our acquaintances, you would be unmarriageable: your mother’s taint and your own disgraceful behavior would prevent any decent offer.” He crossed his arms high on his barrel chest, the points of his shirt rising up around his jowls. “As it is, the Duke has used his wide influence and rank to stop the papers printing any reports of your conduct. He has placed only one condition upon such generosity. He feels that Lord Carlston has some kind of sway upon you. As a gentleman, he refused to elaborate, but I shudder at what he could mean. He has asked that we no longer accept Carlston’s claim on our family. Considering his own history with the man and what he is doing to save you from your own nature—what he is doing for this family by taking you—I have no qualm in cutting that connection.” He strode to the bed then swung around to face her, his mouth curled in disgust. “Is there truth in what he says? Do you have some kind of base attachment to Carlston?”
Helen raised her chin, but she felt heat coloring her skin. “No.”
He pressed his hand over his eyes. “A liar as well as a wanton. Your capacity for deceit is sickening.” He strode across to the chaise longue and shoved his face before her own. “You will accept the Duke. Do you understand?”
She turned away from the spray of vehement spittle. At the corner of her sight, she saw his hands clench. No need for Reclaimer calculations to know that if she hesitated too long, she would feel his fist. For one fierce moment she knew she could pick him up and throw him across the room if she wished. And, God forgive her, she did so wish. She closed her eyes, letting the frightening rise of savagery pass.
Even so, she had no reason to hesitate or refuse. “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”
“From now until your ball, you will stay in the house. You will attend only those appointments I deem necessary for the preparation of that event. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He drew back. “I will withdraw Lord Carlston’s invitation to your ball and make it clear to him that his claim on our family is at an end.”
Helen kept her face blank. Surely she should be relieved that his lordship would not be at the ball or have any claim upon her again. Why then did she feel so hollow?
“You should spend your days praying in the hope that you can, at least, offer the Duke a clean soul, free of the thoughts of another man, and free of those base female desires that no decent woman would propagate.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Start now.” He grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her off the low chaise, pushing her onto her knees. “Give thanks that Selburn will have you.” He relea
sed his hold upon her shoulder, the brutal dig of his fingers remaining on her flesh. “I shall certainly be giving thanks that you will soon be another man’s problem.”
He turned and strode from the room, leaving the odor of old snuff and sour breath.
Helen stayed on her knees until she heard his footsteps descend the stairs. Slowly, she pulled herself back onto the chaise and dragged the wool rug around her shoulders.
What if she refused the Duke? Her uncle would almost certainly try to impel her to marry him. Or if the Duke would not agree to a forced marriage, she would no doubt be quickly wed to the next who offered—perhaps the meat-loving Sir Reginald. Helen shuddered. Uncle could incarcerate her at his estate, Lansdale, until she “saw sense” or was free of his guardianship—and his control of her money—seven years hence. Seven years! It was even possible that in his fury he would cast her out and refuse her access to her fortune. She would be forced to rely upon Andrew’s charity.
Helen shook her head. She was tormenting herself for no reason. Now that her mind had calmed and cleared, she could see that her uncle’s brutal manner had set up a false resistance within her. For goodness’ sake, she liked the Duke! She just did not want to do what her uncle demanded: a humiliatingly childish response. She could not allow such a contrary reason to rule the most important decision in her life.
The Duke was a good man. An enlightened man. A man of enormous wealth and influence. But, above all that, he was a man worthy of admiration and respect. If she married him, she would be the Duchess of Selburn, below only the Queen and Princesses in rank. There would be grand salons and parties and travel, and life at the very pinnacle of society; the life that she had been trained to lead, and that she had thought was no longer possible. It was the life that her mother had wanted her to live. She had no reason to hesitate. After all, she had already resolved to strip herself of the alternative, and once that was done, there would no longer be any danger from Deceivers for herself or anyone in her life.