Letters to a Wallflower

Chapter 4

Helen looked around Lady Bailford’s ballroom, trying very hard to not be seen looking. Outwardly, she appeared calm. Serene. At ease among those in the ton who had welcomed her back—a little over half, she estimated. But inwardly, she was a roiling mess of conflicting emotion.

Because she had begun to doubt her own plan.

And because of Ben.

It was his face she was looking for, even as she called herself a fool. He’d showed up at that garden party and then he’d appeared at every event she attended. Watching. Always watching. Just exactly as she’d wished, so long ago, he’d centered all that daunting focus on her—and it had shattered her nerves.

She wanted him to go away.

She wanted him to come close enough so that she could confront him about his claim of innocence.

She wanted to march up and demand answers, but that she could not do, at any cost. Imagine the gossip if she was seen approaching him! Someone would say she was chasing him and soon enough the story would become outrageous. So she held her ground and ignored him. And abruptly, he had gone away.

Now she could not stop wondering. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he watching some other girl?

She suppressed a groan. Saints alive, but she was a colossal fool.

The rest of the evening stretched on. There was some sort of on-dit circulating in the room. She could see the gossip moving from group to group, from behind one raised fan to another. But the talk died away when she approached. It gave her a momentary fright. This was remarkably similar to the way her own scandal had begun. But then she overheard a giggling remark about the Baron Akers and another naming him as Lady Littleton’s newest flirt. It eased her nerves a bit. Most everyone knew she and Leighton were close. They likely did not wish her to hear them discuss his affairs with the infamous widow.

Her evening was at last brightened by the arrival of Miss Parker and her brother. Helen’s gown this evening was one of her favorites, the skirts dropping away from the empire waist in alternating long panels of ivory silk and lace she’d tatted in a rose and leaf pattern. Her underskirt was sage green, which showed beneath the lace and she’d embroidered embellishments on the bodice and sleeves to match. It looked a treat in motion, and she was happy to accept a dance with Mr. Parker to show it off.

Afterward, Miss Boyd joined their group. She was the young lady who had brought up riding at the Isleworth party, and Helen had happily fallen into several horse-heavy discussions with her, since. Now the girl invited Helen to ride with her in Hyde Park.

“I’ve asked my papa’s permission and he has granted it, Miss Crawford, as long as I mount you on one of the town-trained horses we keep in London.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Boyd. I should love to accept.” Helen was both touched and grateful. “It’s been so long since I’ve been riding. Too long. I look forward to it.”

Helen knew she should feel happy. She hadn’t won everyone over, but Society people were acting kinder and more accepting than she’d expected. Her plan was a success. Her grandmother’s spirits seemed high and her health held steady. She told herself she was satisfied.

And yet . . .

She glanced around again. And once more as the musicians struck up the first chords of the supper dance. She stilled. Was that Ben? Over near the French doors?

“Excuse me.” She nodded around the group and set off, but found no sign of him. After a moment, she went out onto the terrace. It was damp tonight and there was a chill in the air. A couple passed by her, heading back inside, shivering. Helen stayed, enjoying the change from the warm and crowded ballroom. Crossing to the stone balustrade, she gazed out over the small garden.

“Will you walk with me? Just for a bit?”

Startled, she let go of the railing and took a step back.

Ben. He stood below, just a shadow in the dark. She knew his voice, though, and she saw the flash of green and gold in his eyes as he stepped forward into the light. She knew the familiar weight of that gaze, the one that had lately been watching her so intensely, making her feel seen and understood in a way completely new and terrifyingly addictive.

“What? No,” she said reflexively. “I cannot be seen with you.”

“No one knows I’m here. And they are used to you disappearing during the supper dance.” He gestured.

“Not without Grandmama.”

“Let them wonder, then. Come,” he wheedled. “I think we should talk. And I have something for you.”

Helen hesitated, but after a moment she stepped down the stairs, telling herself it was only curiosity driving her.

“You do not have your cane,” she observed.

“No. I don’t use it every day.” He watched her step down the stairs, his eyes roving over her, as if to reconcile her with the young, foolish girl he’d known so long ago. He didn’t look as if he’d succeeded, but he did look as if he appreciated what he saw now.

“You look lovely,” he said quietly, moving away from the house. “And cold. Here, take my coat.”

She started to object, but he was already draping it over her shoulders and suddenly she was burrowing into it. Warm comfort and the citrus tang of orange blossom from his cologne. How many times had she absorbed both, in his company?

As they followed the garden path around a bend and past a large yew, Ben stopped and turned to her.

“I do apologize for knocking you off balance and into the pond at Isleworth,” she said, before he could speak. “I understand you’ve taken quite a bit of ribbing about it. I truly did not meant for it to happen.”

His mouth quirked. “Oh, it was no accident.”

She started to sputter.

“Neither was it your fault,” he hurried on. “You did not overset me. Akers pushed me.”

“He did?” Helen was shocked. “But . . . why? And why let everyone think it was me?”

Ben shrugged even as Helen absorbed the truth. “Akers will never change. Let him have his moment. It’s no use baiting him with the truth. And in any case, I think you rose in some people’s estimates, getting a bit of your own back. Especially in the eyes of the younger, female members of Society.”

Helen was abruptly irritated with both of them. “I wish the both of you had just told the truth. This is the second time I’ve been falsely accused of something related to you, Mr. Hargrove.”

“You used to call me Ben,” he said softly.

“I used to be able to lay claim to my own sins—and only my own sins,” she retorted sharply. “I spoke the truth when we met by that pond. I never posted those letters to you.”

He blinked. “Of course not. I never believed such nonsense.”

His casual statement dispersed her rising anger. To her surprise and irritation, his simple declaration sparked a different sort of warmth in her chest.

He continued, speaking in earnest. “But I want you to know I also spoke the truth. I never received those letters before I left for Spain. I knew nothing of them, or of what you endured, until I arrived back in London. I never read them until three evenings ago.”

“Three evenings ago?” That was when she’d looked up in a crowded ballroom and found him suddenly gone. “What happened three evenings ago?”

“I went to the offices of the London Town Prattler.”

She felt the blood drain from her face.

“I had to know,” he said urgently. “Everyone kept telling me how bad it had been, but I needed to understand for myself.” He explained what he had done.

“You read them? My letters? As well as the newspapers?”

“I did. I’m sorry. For so many things. For never noticing how you felt. For everything you’ve suffered. For the fact that you had to endure it alone.”

The chagrin she felt at the thought of him seeing the letters shouldn’t have struck her so hard. She’d lived with the idea a long time, after all. And yet . . . “I wasn’t alone. Not completely. I had Grandmama.” She lifted her chin. “And Leighton.” She suspected he wouldn’t like hearing that.

He nodded. “Akers and I have never rubbed well together, but I give him full credit and thanks for standing by you.” He spun on his heel and walked back and forth. “I just don’t understand who would do this to you? Or why? It seems an act of pure deviltry.”

“If it wasn’t you?—“

He stepped back and took her hands. “You believe me? Please, say that you do.”

She stared up at him. Sincerity blazed in his face. And hope. And still, a bit of the appreciation that she’d seen as she stepped down toward him. She sucked in a breath. “I want to believe you, Ben.” She looked away. “But it’s difficult.”

“That is something, at least. Better than outright refusal.”

“I’ve believed it for so long, but now you deny it and I can’t help but wonder—if not you, who?”

He frowned. “I mean to prove it to you, Helen. I’ve been doing a bit of digging, trying to find what I can. Perhaps I can discover who did this to you.”

Helen shook her head. Her eyes closed. “I don’t want to relive it all.”

He looked struck.

“Grandmama tried to uncover who it was, but the editor stood firm on his journalist principles and she was unsuccessful. It doesn’t matter, in any case. It’s done. I weathered it. I’ve moved past it.”

His gaze hardened. “Helen, this . . . attack does affect me too. It’s made me a villain, in your eyes and in many others. My reputation suffered and it affected my mother, my family. Someone used my name to hurt you. I will find who it was.” His expression shifted to one of approval. “This is still new and fresh to me, but yes, I understand you have had time to adjust and get past it all—and you’ve done it beautifully. I’m so glad I got home in time to see it.”

His words struck a sudden dismay in her. She ran an eye over him. He had still walked with a slight limp. “Oh, yes. Goodness, I have not even asked how you came to be injured?—”

“No. Another time.” He glanced back toward the house. “I believe it’s time you went back. Before someone comes looking.”

“Oh, yes.” She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and begin to sort through the onslaught of feelings he pulled from her.

“Before you go . . .” He handed her a small bundle.

It took a moment before the truth of it hit her, a shock like being swamped by an unexpected wave in the sea. She reached out to take it—but snatched her hands back at the final moment. Her letters. The source of so much pain.

“Take them,” he urged. “Hide them. Burn them. Whatever makes you at ease. But no one need ever read them again, against your will.”

Hands shaking, she took them. Gratitude spiraled through her, along with a storm of relief. “Thank you,” she whispered. She turned to hurry away before he could answer. He let her go.

But as she rounded the yew, she remembered. Taking off his coat, she went back and thrust it in his hands. “Thank you, again.”

“Take this as well,” he said quietly. “I think perhaps I owe you a few in return.”

It was another letter. Addressed to her, in his hand.

She looked up into his quiet, hopeful expression, then whirled and ran for the house.

Helen’s brother was on Ben’s mind as he watched her flee. Ben had already spoken to Will Crawford, even before he found a way to return Helen’s letters. Her brother had been frosty when he first approached him and Ben had been quick to anger. Terse words had led to shouting, which quickly turned to a short, fierce brawl. Twenty minutes later, bruised and calmer, they had drunk ale together and talked.

“I was just, bewildered,” Crawford confessed. “I could scarce believe you would do such a thing, but there it was, in black and white. I felt so betrayed.” Crawford had taken a long drink. “And Helen, she admitted she’d written the letters, but she’d hidden them away in a drawer in her room. She swore she never posted them—then she just stopped talking. To everyone. She stopped crying. She wouldn’t go to church or see her friends. She didn’t want to come down to meals. She stopped interacting with everyone.”

Ben had sat silent. It hurt, deep in his gut, to think of her suffering so much.

“We were at a loss as to what to do. She just sat in her room and made her lace. Reams of it. Even when Papa forced her to come down, she brought it with her and barely looked up.”

“What did you do?”

“Eventually, we called in Grandmama.”

“Heavy artillery,” Ben said with a nod.

“The old girl arrived and went straight to Helen’s room. The door was shut. They were quiet in there for hours, while we waited. Then Grandmama came out and ordered that all of Helen’s things be packed up. She was taking her to London. They kept a low profile in Town for a while, but when the next Season started, Helen was there, by the countess’s side.”

“And you never discovered how the letters got out of the house?”

“No. Not the truth of it, I don’t believe. Some suspected a new maid in the household. She’d behaved . . . less than ideally, in other ways. My mother was more than ready to believe her guilty, even though the girl stridently denied it. But she was fired, in any case.”

Ben noticed the hard set of Crawford’s jaw and the slight color that rose in his face and wondered at it. “What happened to her? The maid?”

“She left Hertfordshire. Came to London, I heard.”

“What was her name? Perhaps I will find her.”

“Maggie. Maggie Wilson. But how will you track her down now, when it all happened so long ago?”

Ben grinned. “Do you think I’ve learned nothing while in Spain? I have a few skills up my sleeve.”

Ben also had a hunch, a whisper of gossip and a memory of an uncomfortable moment’s encounter with that maid at the Crawford’s, when he’d walked past and seen her in a compromising position—in the young Baron Aker’s bedroom.

Will had only sighed. “Do what you will, Ben. Just leave Helen alone. She’s finally coming out of the shell she constructed around herself. Don’t derail that.”

Ben had nodded, and the recollection of that conversation was forefront in his mind as he left the ball. It led him to search out Elliot Ward, in hopes of confirming his suspicions. After several misses, he finally found him at the Horned Owl, a shabby tavern on Maiden Lane, where the sprigs and young bucks of the ton liked to congregate away from the eyes of matchmaking mamas and judgmental fathers. Ward was sprawled at a table before a game of cards, but he rose readily when Ben offered to buy him a pint at the bar.

“Lost enough already this evening,” Ward sighed. He toasted Ben. “You’ve been scarce lately.”

“I’ve been reacquainting myself with London again. Enjoying a bit of freedom. Taking care of some old business. Catching up on politics and the London news.” He took a pull of his own ale. “Speaking of which, I heard some gossip about Akers.”

“That’s certainly nothing new. He’s still up to his old shenanigans.” He shrugged. “Drinking too much, spending too much. Not so different from the rest of us.” He paused. “Though he does still like to poke at Major Crawford.”

“So his trustees did not yield and give him earlier access to his inheritance?”

“No, and his resentment just seems to build,” Ward said.

“I wonder how he affords all of his shenanigans, then? Beyond the carousing, I heard Akers has a mistress. A fancy piece, here in Town.”

“Not so fancy,” Ward corrected. “I heard she’s a country mouse. Certainly she’s not part of the demi-monde in London or I would have seen her. But word is, he keeps her quietly in Camden Town.”

“How long has he had her in his keeping?”

“A couple of years, at the least,” Ward said with a shrug.

“That’s interesting. And it might just prove my hunch. I was wondering if she’s the Crawford’s maid. The one that got dismissed, after Helen’s troubles? The timing of it seems right. And I know Akers had an interest in her.” He told Ward what he’d seen in the Crawford home.

“Well, I didn’t know it, by God. Nor does Will Crawford, I would wager. He’ll be hot as hellfire if he hears of it.”

“Why? I thought the girl was dismissed for messing about with Akers?”

“She was sent off when Will’s mum caught her with him. The sainted heir was not to accost the servants, or worse, to proclaim feelings for a lowly maidservant. Will was quite broken up about it. I think he actually did care for her more than was seemly.”

“What a mess.”

Ward shook his head. “It will be just one more reason for Will to hate Akers, should he hear of it.”

“There’s never been a shortage of reasons for them to argue,” Ben remarked. “But he won’t hear it from me.” He paused. “Still, Akers has apartments in Town and a house for this girl in Camden. He certainly seems to dress in the first stare of fashion and you say he’s still waiting for his inheritance? How does he afford it all, I wonder?”

“Gaming,” Ward stated. “The man is famous for his luck. He wins far more than he loses. And beyond the money he makes, he does seem to acquire the oddest things with his winnings. Won a monkey once. Took it about with him for a while, until it bit a girl in his lap and he gave it to a black leg bookie to cover a racing debt.”

Ben couldn’t help but let out a startled laugh.

“Oh, I could go on,” Ward said, warming to his subject. “You know old Lord Mayweather is one of his trustees? Akers took the man’s youngest son on in a game of écarté. The young scrapper, newly married, put a voucher for his wife’s wedding jewels on the table as collateral. Akers won it. When the young pup turned over the pearls, Akers made a show of giving them back to her. At Almack’s. In full view of the ton. The patronesses haven’t let him back in since.”

“Good heavens.”

“See George over there?” Ward nodded toward a young man playing cards at the table he’d left. “Lost his favorite ruby stickpin to Akers last week. George has been waiting for him to pawn the thing so he can get it back, but Akers has taken to wearing it every night, just to irritate him.”

Ben sighed. “Akers always was the master of a petty jab.” He ordered another round.

Ward took up his first drink and drained it. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Prattler, too. You are right. We all allowed this slightly sordid paper to shape our opinions of Helen Crawford and I think we gave them a sort of influence that we should not have. They’ve become more and more brazen in their reporting on Society’s peccadillos. And they seem to have sources that are right inside the world of the ton. This latest bit about Lady Littleton? They must have spoken to her lady’s maid, they had so much detail. But the tide is turning on them. People are grumbling. They may well find their popularity on the wane. And I’ve wondered if that fact has actually helped Helen as she ventures back into the beau monde.”

“An interesting theory.” Ben stayed a while longer, enjoying Ward’s company, before heading home for an early night. Early the next morning, he was in his rig, tooling his bays north to Camden Town.

He left the horses at a livery, then went to have breakfast. A few discreet inquiries turned up no information about Maggie Wilson, but a second thought had him returning to the livery. There, he asked about Akers.

“Oh, aye. Him,” a groom said, and spat to the side.

Ben laughed. “That matches my own feelings for the man, I’d say. But I heard he keeps a woman in this area.” He paused. “Nothing in my experience of the man tells me he’d treat her well.”

“I seen her,” one of the livery men spoke up. “She keeps to herself, but she seems well enough. Brompton Road is tidy, in any case.” He shrugged. “But it does seem as if she could do better.”

Ben pushed away from the stall he’d been leaning against. “Thank you.” He tossed the man a coin and set out. He passed through the market and purchased a pastry and directions from a sweet seller. It wasn’t far. He strolled down the street, examining the brick fronts and iron railings. Near the end, he found a house that had been obviously divided into two households. Here the blooms in the window boxes looked a little straggly and neglected. He shrugged a shoulder and went to knock on the first door.

A young girl in a too-large cap told him Maggie Wilson lived next door.

He had to knock at the next door several times before a stout woman wearing a flour bedecked apron eventually answered. She stared at him with a flat expression. “Yes?”

Ben smiled.

The woman frowned.

He cleared his throat. “I was looking for?—“

“Who is it, for heaven’s sake?” A familiar figure stepped up behind the maid. Large, brown eyes met his in shocked recognition. “Never mind.” She pulled the maid away and took a hold of the door herself. “I heard you were back,” she sniffed. “Well, you can take yourself off. I’m not giving you the chance to tell lies about me again.”

“I never spoke a word against you, Maggie. Not about what I saw. And certainly not about Helen’s letters. I never even heard of the whole debacle until last week.”

She looked as if she did not believe him.

“I swear it,” he said, low. “I said my goodbyes and then I spent a year and a half chasing the French about Spain, and another half a year trying to recover from injuries. I knew nothing of this scandal until I came back.”

“You stepped back into a mess, then.”

“You could say that.”

She stared at him, considering. “Very well, then. But if not you, then who would pull such a stunt on that girl?”

“I mean to find out.”

“It’s about time,” Maggie snorted. “That family of hers. What good were they to her? Only Leighton and the old countess stood by her.”

“They accused you of posting those letters.”

She inched the door open a bit, only so she could lean out toward him. “I—did—not—do—it. And so I told the girl’s mother, but she chose not to believe me, for her own reasons.”

Ben raised a hand. “I never said a word about you and Akers.”

“I know. It’s why I believe you about the letters. That family still doesn’t know about me and Leighton.” She sighed.

“Who do you think stole those letters from Helen’s drawer?”

The girl shrugged. “One of the other maids, I daresay? They were all old retainers, though, so no suspicion fell on them.” She shook her head. “In any case, much as I enjoy the idea, it’s likely too late to do the girl any good, stirring up the old trouble. Whoever it was, they made a smart move, putting the blame on you just as you were leaving and couldn’t defend yourself. Designed so the truth wouldn’t be uncovered. A crafty plan.” She shrugged. “Might have dug out the truth if someone had forced that editor to give up his secrets. I know Major Crawford had him run out of Fleet Street, but what good did that do his girl?”

This was news to Ben. “The major questioned the editor?”

“He did, but the man was stubborn and said his honor would not allow him to discuss the matter. If the major had suspected it wasn’t you who gave the paper the letters, it might have gone differently, though, eh? He might have pressed the man good and proper. Then the newspaper man would have more to gripe on about than the loss of his position, now, wouldn’t he?”

Ben paused. “Gripe on about? You’ve heard him griping about the situation?”

“Aye. He gets in his cups and goes on about it, still. A bore, he is.”

“Lately? You’ve seen the editor who published those letters and lectures? Heard him complaining lately? The staff at the paper said he couldn’t find another position in London.”

“Yes.” She glanced back over her shoulder, but the maid had disappeared into the house. “When Leighton goes back to Hertfordshire, I sometimes go and visit my cousin in Lambeth. Her husband runs a tavern there. That McKay, the editor? He’s set up a little print shop in the main street there. Puts out religious pamphlets and radical essays. He drinks at the tavern, though, and when he’s in his cups, he complains about how he’s come down in the world.” She raised a brow. “If you want to know more about this mess, I’d say you’d best talk to him.”

“What is the name of the tavern?”

“The Swan’s Neck. Right on the main street, down from the print shop.”

Ben shot her a look of gratitude. “Thank you, Maggie.”

She nodded. “Figured I owe you, for keeping quiet.” Lifting her chin, she gave him a shooing motion. “Go on, now. Go help that girl and get a leg up on the rest of the lads. I heard the swells are getting over that old scandal and the young miss has a beau or two chasing her. About time, I say.”

He left Maggie and thought about what she’d said as he drove back toward Mayfair. He had entertained not a single thought about marriage or even dalliance. For so long he’d been focused solely on recovering from his injury. Since he’d discovered this scandal, he’d thought only of solving the mystery of it. He supposed if he’d found Helen in the state she’d been in before, he would have felt duty-bound to offer for her. But now? Now that she was finally getting a bit of her own back? Now that Parker and some other gentlemen were paying her respectful attention?

He doubted she’d welcome any such advances from him. Surely her youthful feelings had been put to death by two years of suffering. Her reactions to him had been wary and guarded—and who could blame her?

Why then, did he find himself thinking of those letters? Of the admiration and appreciation she’d expressed? And why did he suddenly wonder what that might look like, coming from her now?

He contemplated these absurd and contrary thoughts as he fought the traffic heading into Town. It was later in the afternoon before he reached his father’s house and carefully climbed down. His leg was beginning to object to the day’s activities. He gave instructions to the groom and limped inside, where he found his mother’s butler awaiting him.

“Will you have my cane brought down to me, Withers?” Ben asked the servant. “I think I’ll sit in the study for a few moments before I attempt the stairs.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler held out a small silver tray. “You have a message, sir. It arrived an hour ago.”

Ben took it. His pulse jumped when he recognized the hand. How could he not, when he’d just recently read so very many pages of it? He sank down onto a bench meant for less worthy visitors, those who would never pass beyond the entry hall.

We will be at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane tonight.

He drew in a breath. She summoned him? Why? What might it mean? Hope sprang to life, banishing his pain.

“Never mind the study, Withers. Can you have a bath drawn for me, instead?” he asked.