Chapter 2
“Are you quite sure you don’t wish to go home to Hargrove House? You still are not quite recovered.”
Major Benjamin Hargrove did not sigh in response, although he was tempted to. “No, Mother. I am more comfortable in Town. Thank you.”
The Viscountess Elswater also looked as if she would also like to sigh. For some reason, she had been trying to drag him to the country house since the first moment he arrived back in London. He stretched out his injured leg. Perhaps his limp embarrassed her.
Well, it didn’t embarrass him, by God. He considered himself lucky to still have the leg at all. He’d had to fight off the field surgeon and his bloody saw, after his injury. He’d suffered the wound in Santander, Spain. The combined English and Spanish forces had succeeded in capturing the port city, but Benjamin had been injured trying to prevent the escape of the French governor. In the end, Dubreton had got away, several of Ben’s men had died and a French blade had sliced open almost the whole of his thigh.
Not his finest hour.
But he’d managed to fend off the sawbones and although it had taken months of recuperation on foreign soil, he was healed and walking again. Home again, with his commission sold and a new future to figure out. His limp was less noticeable than it had been at first, and he had hope that it might one day leave him altogether. He still made use of his cane, though, when his leg tired. Perhaps it was this visible reminder of his imperfection that bothered his mother.
Certainly something was bothering her. Ben had hoped he might, at last, feel a bit of warmth from his parents when he finally made it home. And there had been something. His father had smiled with pride when he welcomed him home and awkwardly made mention of several of Ben’s past military triumphs. To prove he’d been paying attention? He’d mostly just looked relieved to have his spare son home safely. His mother had given him a stiff hug and tut-tutted over his cane. But she’d been on edge. Now, she tried again.
“I know there are people in the neighborhood in Hertfordshire who would love to see you,” she ventured.
Ben didn’t sigh. He pushed his coffee cup away and struggled to his feet. “Honestly, I’ve no wish to go to the country, Mother. There, I will not be able to ride yet, nor walk to the village, or hunt or swim.”
“You will not be able to do those things here, either.”
“No. Nor will I be able to box or fence, as I might wish. But I can watch a mill or a match. I can go to Tattersalls. To my clubs. To the theatre. I can drive in the park or go to a ball?—”
“But you cannot dance!” His mother looked almost panicked.
“No, but I can play cards, drink champagne or sit out a set with a pretty girl. I can be occupied and social far more easily in Town, Mother. And who knows, if I keep working my leg, I might be able to ride before the Season is over and that will make going to the country far easier.”
His mother cast his elder brother an imploring look.
Bernard, the all-important heir, the son who had been taught, tutored and molded into the perfect viscount’s heir, had held his tongue until now. But at that look, he rose to his feet, too. “Why don’t we take a turn about the square, Ben?” he asked genially. “Give that leg a good stretch to start the day.”
With a nod for his mother, Ben left the breakfast room. Not until they were outside and strolling slowly along the wide pavement did he turn to his brother. “What is it, Bernard? I feel as if there is something I don’t know. Why doesn’t Mother want me in London?”
“She is uneasy,” his brother hedged.
“Uneasy? It’s just a limp, for heaven’s sake!” Ben stared. “What is the fuss about?”
Bernard frowned. “A limp?”
“Yes, by God, and one earned in honest service to king and country. She should be grateful I don’t carry my nasty scar where she must see it. And happy that I managed to keep my leg at all. Imagine the uneasiness if I had come home with a peg!”
“Your leg is not the issue, Ben.” His brother rolled his eyes.
He paused. “Then what is?”
“She’s worried about the scandal.”
“Scandal? What scandal?”
“The one that is bound to be stirred up again when you step into Society.” Bernard sighed. “It wasn’t easy on her the first time.”
“What have I done to warrant a scandal?” Ben was growing exasperated now.
So was his brother. “Don’t be obtuse. The letters, Ben. They are bound to come up again, now that you are home and insist on going about.” Bernard shrugged. “But there’s nothing for it, I say. It will flare up. You will just have to ride it out. Nothing to be done. And soon enough, the gossips will move on.”
“Letters? What letters?” Ben thought back and felt a moment’s panic. “Did I disclose something I should not have, in writing home? Did I give something away? Our strength? Our strategy? I swear, I never meant to!” He frowned. “I was given laudanum for a time, after the injury. Perhaps?—”
“Ben! No. I meant the Crawford girl’s letters, of course.”
“Crawford girl? Ben frowned. “Do you mean Helen Crawford? Will Crawford’s sister? I never wrote her any letters.”
Bernard stopped and took his arm. “Ben, are you speaking the truth? I meant the letters she wrote to you. The ones you published?”
“Published?” Ben pulled away. “I have no idea what you speak of. Helen Crawford never wrote to me. Her father wouldn’t have allowed it, I’m sure.”
His brother gaped. “You truly don’t know? You didn’t send her letters to the papers before you left? Everyone assumed you did!”
“Tell me.” A bad feeling had begun to rise in his gut. “Tell me what happened.”
Bernard groaned. “It was perhaps a week after your regiment sailed—the first one appeared then. A letter, addressed to Dearest Ben was published in the London Town Prattler. It expressed her violent admiration, her deep and abiding feelings for you. How she felt both awkward and ecstatic when you called her Squirt.”
Squirt. It was a nickname he had given Helen Crawford. He’d been the best of friends with her brother Will and had spent a good amount of time in their home, at one time. He’d come across Helen with her younger brother Charles in the kitchens one day. They had been up to their elbows in a sink of soapy water and she had been showing the boy how to squeeze his palms together to make a squirt of water spout high.
“The newspapers held it up as an example of lapsed morals. Of the forwardness of a young lady allowed too much free reign.”
“And they were addressed to me?” Ben asked in a whisper.
“Dearest Ben. And signed Helen. She spoke of you being a friend of her older brother and Society worked out who it was, quickly enough.
“The first one, you said?”
“A series of them. The next one spoke of how tongue-tied she felt in your presence, how she hoped you could see the breadth of her feelings in her eyes, because she could never find the words. That one came accompanied with a stern treatise on what a modest young woman’s behavior should be.”
Great Caesar’s Ghost. “How many?”
“Letters and accompanying articles?” Bernard thought back. “Two or three more after that, I think.”
“What happened? To Helen?”
“She was . . . humiliated. Publicly censored. Shunned. She was sent home almost before the Season had begun.”
Damnation. “And Mother believes I sent those letters to the newspapers?”
“Everyone believes it.”
“But I didn’t!” Ben gripped his cane tightly. “I never saw any letters. This is the first I’ve heard of it.” He drew up short. “By God, I never understood why Will never answered my letters. I eventually stopped writing. What must he think of me? What must she?” He turned and started back towards home. “Where is she now? Helen?”
“That’s just it. She’s here. In London. She was admitted back into Society, but only as her grandmother’s companion. Many still don’t speak to her. She’s become a quiet mouse of a girl, hiding behind the dowagers, keeping to the shadows. A wallflower.”
“No!” Ignoring the pain in his thigh, Ben walked faster.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he called back. “But I have to do something!”
“A triumph. It can be called nothing else,” Grandmama crowed again.
Helen bit back a grin. Last night had been her first night in Society after what her grandmother called The Great Transformation—and it truly had felt like a triumph.
The first big event of the Season had taken place at Lady Stockard’s ball. Grandmama had timed it carefully, arriving early enough so that the family still stood in a receiving line, but late enough so that there were plenty of witnesses as they made an entrance.
Helen had never felt more beautiful. She’d finally given in and allowed her grandmother to hire a lady’s maid for her. Carruthers could sew, thank goodness, and she knew a fair few tricks with powder and face paint, but she was a genius with hair. She had pulled back Helen’s blonde hair, leaving curls at her temples, but fashioning the rest into a glorious, loosely woven circlet at the back. It had been interesting and different and lovely and the maid had tucked tiny pink rosebuds in at the crown of her head, to match Helen’s gown.
She had fashioned the dress herself, as she had done with all of her new wardrobe. She’d had Carruthers’ help, along with the aid of a seamstress they’d hired to live in for a few weeks. After two seasons of watching the finest fashions, of being ignored, but able to listen in on the young ladies talk of their fabric choices, trimmings, favorite linen drapers and modistes, Helen had let loose her imagination.
She started with her tatting. It felt like an extension of herself. A shield of sorts, as well as an interesting and different trimming for her gowns. Last night’s gown had featured a design of her own, a thin lace incorporating delicate, misshapen hearts in pearlescent white thread. She’d used it as trim on the curved, high bodice of her gown and on the capped sleeves. She’d then attached it to an exquisitely sheer organza and laid it all over a deep pink silk. The result was a rich but soft and romantic gown that left her feeling both feminine and somehow . . . capable.
And in the end, though she’d suffered a few terrified moments and nervous flutters, it had all worked as they’d hoped. No one in the receiving line had equated this new version of Helen with the old, retiring, plain-clad companion. Lady Stockard’s oldest son and heir had stared and quickly requested a dance. A number of people stopped and gawked as she and Grandmama entered the ballroom. A young buck standing with his friends looked closely and said, a little too loudly, “Old Battleax Bitwell’s granddaughter? Where’s the other one, then? The mousy one? The w?—”
“The wallflower?” Helen had turned to smile at him and address him directly. “The one that suffered a schoolgirl crush on a man who proved unworthy and was ostracized for it? I am she. Right here before you, as you see.”
The young man gaped. One of his friends gasped. But two others grinned and one stepped forward. “Quite right, Miss Crawford. Well done, setting old Brendford in his place. You recall meeting me, I hope? I am Landing.”
Helen curtseyed. “Of course, Mr. Landing. A pleasure to see you again.” She had met him at court when she’d been presented to the queen. He had not spoken to her since.
“I hope you will do me the honor of reserving me a set?”
She smiled. “With pleasure, sir.” And then she moved on to follow her grandmother through the room.
No one else mentioned the scandal. No one mentioned the letters. Not to her face, in any case. A few people raised brows or gossiped behind fans as she passed, but she danced every dance before the supper dance and was surrounded by both young ladies and gentlemen. As the first chords struck, her grandmother insisted they depart. “Always leave them wanting more,” she said wisely.
They moved on, then, to a musical evening at Lady Merriview’s. Word of Helen’s success had already reached the gathering, thanks to a few gossips who had departed Lady Stockard’s before them. Helen had found herself awash in friendly faces and in young men who vied for a chance to sit near her or fetch her drinks.
“I feel a little heady with last night’s success,” Helen admitted now as she paced the parlor. They were awaiting Lord Akers, who had agreed to escort them to a garden party at the Edsmond estate in Isleworth. “But I also feel a bit sad.”
“Sad? Sad? After such a grand beginning?”
“Yes. I couldn’t help but think, as the ladies asked about my tatting and my interests and my family, and the young men admired my figure, my hair and my grace on the dance floor, that they might have known, asked and admired at any time during the last two years.”
“They could have,” her grandmother agreed. “But you must be honest with yourself. They might have made an effort and looked past the scandal and the dark, forbidding gowns and the severe hair and expression—but were you ready to be seen?”
No. She had not been. The truth of it settled over her. She had been hurt, embarrassed and more than a little angry to be attacked over something that had been meant to be private and never seen by other eyes. She had wished someone, anyone, had defended her. And then someone had. Her grandmother. But she had still wanted to hide away from prying, judgmental eyes. Who knew how long she might have wallowed in her own misery, had it not been for Grandmama’s announcements? Facing the horrible reality of her grandmother’s fleeting time left had forced Helen to stop. To ponder. And to decide to take the reins and not let her life be something that merely happened to her.
“I was not,” she admitted. “But I am now.”
She looked down at her gown. It was another lovely, eye-catching piece, this time in a lemon yellow softened by the same organza, but embellished with lace she’d fashioned into chains of daisies and leaves. It made her feel bright and happy, and she was beginning to see how a gorgeous dress could also function as armor.
“Hell and damnation.” Leighton had finally arrived. He stood in the doorway and stared at her. “I can scarcely believe it. You might actually pull this stunt off.”
Color rose from her low, curved bodice. “It’s not a stunt.” She raised her chin. “And I am absolutely going to pull this off. As I have already told you, multiple times.”
“Yes, but you never said it looking like that.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let us go, then, ladies. I cannot wait to see how this all plays out.”
It was a lovely, sunny day and they rode west out of London in the countess’s open barouche. Helen kept a careful eye peeled, but her grandmother was relaxed and looked at ease and in good color. Leighton seemed happy. As happy as he ever allowed himself to be, in any case, although Helen thought there was a brittle quality to his mood. Still, he exerted himself to amuse Grandmama and she was grateful for it.
As they arrived, they were greeted and shown around to the side and back of the sprawling house. The gardens looked magnificent, lush and green and blooming with flowers of every color. They held a good portion of London Society, many competing with the blooms in color, flounce and ruffle.
Their host, Sir Henry Edsmond, met them there, himself. A banker of great fortune and well-known taste, he was also the grandson of a marquess and a leader of Society. He greeted Lady Britwell as a friend and ally, as they had often aligned in the trenches of societal drama.
“I’ve saved you a seat in the folly, Rose,” he said, kissing Grandmama’s hand. “You may sit upon the dais with my wife and hold court while you enjoy the view of the gardens and the pond.”
He greeted Helen and Leighton, complimented her lavishly and led them through the winding garden paths to where they trailed next to a rectangular pond lined with flowering shrubs and conical conifers. The folly sat at one end of the pond. Helen saw her grandmother seated, then allowed Leighton to pull her back down from the dais and into the garden.
“I must stay close, to see to Grandmama,” she told him.
His mouth twisted. “You know she doesn’t need you to hover. She never has.”
The remark stung. Helen did not retort with the truth of the matter, however. She had promised to keep her grandmother’s secrets. “Perhaps not. But I need to do it.”
Surprisingly, he kept to her side instead of wandering off. Leaning against the folly, he let his eye rove over the wandering crowd, making sharp observations and occasionally bitter remarks.
“Please, Leighton,” Helen said, sighing. “You know it makes me jittery when you speak so harshly.”
“I don’t know why,” he complained. “It’s not as if you have any great love for these people.” He snorted. “They have surely spoken harshly of you.”
“Yes, and they did it without knowing the truth of the matter. Why should you or I make the same mistake?”
“Because we can?” he asked sardonically.
“Are you feeling irritable because your merry widow isn’t here?” she asked teasingly. Leighton liked talking to her about his affair with the widowed Lady Littleton, likely because he knew he shouldn’t.
“I tire of her,” he said shortly. “I don’t care to play second fiddle.”
“You cannot complain about coming in second to her dead husband,” Helen admonished him.
Leighton gave a laugh and shot her a look. “Helen, my dear innocent, I didn’t even come in second to the baron when he was alive.”
She sighed, but it seemed to do the trick. He stopped sniping and watched the crowd, brooding in silence, until they were interrupted by the clearing of a feminine throat.
“Lord Akers? Good afternoon.”
“Miss Parker,” Leighton said with a short bow. “Mr. Parker,” he said to the man at the young lady’s side. “Good day.”
“It is the perfect day for such an event, isn’t it?” Miss Parker looked about with satisfaction. “Won’t you introduce us to your companion?”
Leighton did the honors and Helen found the brother and sister pair to be friendly. “Everyone is admiring your dress, Miss Crawford. Did you truly make the lace adornments yourself?”
“I did.” She spoke a little of her tatting and several other young ladies moved in to join the discussion as the gentlemen stepped aside.
“I do enjoy embroidery,” one girl remarked. “But I’ve never heard of tatting.”
“It sounds like peasant work, if you ask me,” another said with a sniff.
“Then you may share your opinion with Queen Charlotte,” Miss Parker told her. “For I have heard that she practices the skill as well. Did you know that, Miss Crawford?”
“I did. I have exchanged patterns with several of the court ladies.”
“There. You see,” Miss Parker declared.
“You all have far more patience than I,” someone said. “I prefer a bruising ride.” The young lady sighed. “Although there’s no such thing to be had in London.” She arched a brow at Helen. “Do you ride, Miss Crawford?”
“Oh, yes. My father was a cavalry officer. He never lost his affection for horses and keeps a fine stable. We all learned to ride nearly as soon as we walked.” She drooped a little. “I had to leave my mount at home, though, as Lady Bitwell prefers her carriages. But I did used to ride roughneck with my brothers.”
Leighton stepped close again. “Oh, yes,” he laughed. “Helen chased Will Crawford and his bosom friends all over the county. She rides like a burr, stuck to the saddle.” His face lit up as he stared beyond their group. “Oh, and look there! Here is one of Will’s friends, now. We can ask him if he recalls it as vividly as I do.”
Helen turned her head to follow his gaze—and found herself rooted to the spot. Her heart began a frantic pounding even as gooseflesh erupted along her arms and at the nape of her neck. She shivered at the clammy feeling—the same one she’d felt several years ago, when she’d first been given the cut direct. The same reaction, caused by the same man.
Mr. Benjamin Hargrove.
He stood there, at the corner of the pond, mere feet away. She could not rip her gaze from him. The sun lightened his chestnut hair. It lay a little too long, and his face had changed. He was still tall and eye-catchingly handsome. But his square-jawed face looked . . . thin. His cheekbones looked as sharp as glass. His changeable eyes were the same, though. Right now, they looked almost brown as his gaze met hers—and suddenly she was a girl again, pouring her huge emotions onto paper.
I am fascinated by your eyes. Now green, now amber, then brown. Only the gold flecks stay the same. The gold flecks, and the kindness, the good humor, and that lively interest in the world.
He took a step toward her and broke the spell.
Involuntarily, she retreated a step. But she stiffened her spine—and her resolve. It had to happen sometime. His return. Their first meeting. But why now?
Then she noticed the cane.
A cane? He’d been injured? How? How badly? She stopped herself. She didn’t care, she reminded herself firmly. She could not care.
Helen drew a deep breath and turned to the girl at her side. “Do you ride, Miss Parker?” She kept her gaze on the ladies as the conversation continued, but she couldn’t help watching him from the corner of her eye. Helen smiled and gave the correct answers and marshalled all the charm she could summon, but still, a great deal of her attention remained on him.
He stood stock still and stared. His expression kept changing. Eager, then reluctant. Pale, as if he’d seen a ghost, at first. Then, wondering, as if was meant to know her, but didn’t, quite.
His focus unnerved her. Her hands began to shake. She clutched them tightly together. Her heart would not return a normal rhythm and her knees began to knock. This was intolerable. She cast about, reaching for an excuse. “Well,” she said as her eye fell upon a nearby table. “I see there is a punch bowl! I am sure my grandmother would enjoy a glass.” She pressed Miss Parker’s hand. “It has been so lovely to meet you. I hope we will speak again.” She made her goodbyes, cast a dark look at Leighton, and walked away. She meant to fetch the punch, whisper to her grandmother that she didn’t feel well, then retreat to a dark corner inside the house where she could be alone to fall apart.
But Ben wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Whispers had already begun. She could feel the glances bouncing from him to her and back again. As she moved away from the group, he moved to intercept her.
Cursing under her breath, Helen stopped.
He stopped as well, a few feet away. “Miss Crawford . . . Helen.” He paused, his expression strained. The silence stretched out, too long. “It’s good to see you.”
How was she supposed to respond? With a lie? Her pride would not allow it. “Mr. Hargrove. It appears you’ve been injured. I hope you recover well.” Her chin high, she made to move past him.
He reached out to grasp her forearm. “Wait! Helen, please. I must speak with you.”
She jerked her arm away. “I don’t believe you do, sir. I believe that you—and your friends at the newspaper—have already said more than I care to hear.”
A hush had grown around them. Every eye watched.
“You must listen,” he insisted. “It was not me! I never saw a single?—”
“That’s enough, Hargrove.” Leighton was beside her now, his face stern and his tone as cold as ice. “You’ve done enough damage.”
“This is not your concern, Akers,” shot Ben.
“Nor am I your concern,” Helen retorted. She kept her tone low, but now that the moment was here, there were things she must say. “I wrote those letters, yes,” she admitted. “I was . . . young and I felt things strongly. I needed an outlet. A safe place to pour my emotions and contain my sentiments. But I did not post any of them. I don’t know how they fell into your hands.” She settled her shoulders. “I know now that I was looking at you through young, innocent eyes. The girl who wrote those letters is gone, buried under an onslaught of public censure and shame—all poured upon me at your invitation.” She took a step closer. “I am a woman now, sir. Older. Wiser. And I sincerely pity any woman who finds herself bound to your . . . care.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “No! Helen, I—” he stepped toward her.
She whirled away and moved on, ready to be done with this performance.
She heard the gasp behind her. And then the splash.
The crowd erupted into titters, bravos and sputtering protests.
Helen turned slowly. Ben was climbing to his feet, soaking wet from head to toe and wearing a drape of water lily.
Her hand went to her mouth. But she dropped it and stiffened her spine. “I do apologize. I did not mean to overset your balance.” She sighed. “Mr. Hargrove, I believe it will be better if you keep your distance from me, from here on out.”
Without waiting for an answer, she strode on, heading toward the house.