Chapter Eleven Hélène
Chapter Eleven
Hélène
Hélène was grateful that Nicholas had alerted her to this gallery tour at the Earl of Stafford’s house. Earlier, when she’d come downstairs and seen the waiting letter, she had hoped—for a fleeting, foolish moment—that it was from Eddy.
“It’s from the tsarevich, isn’t it?” Hélène’s father had demanded, watching her rip open the envelope. Hélène had nodded, her heart sinking. Of course Eddy hadn’t written. Why would he, when she’d given him no reason to hope?
“Yes, it’s from Nicholas,” Hélène said distractedly.
Her father beamed. “Already you’re calling him by his Christian name! Ah, the number of ships the Romanovs could muster in a war, not to mention the number of troops…”
Ignoring her father, Hélène had scanned Nicholas’s message. It was only a single line of text.
If you’d like to continue furthering our mutual goals, I shall be at the Earl of Stafford’s gallery tour this afternoon with my cousins. Three o’clock.
So Hélène had come, just in time to see May sneaking off with one of Eddy’s cousins.
What was the girl’s name—Daisy? Dona? Whoever she was, May had fed her a bunch of nonsense, effectively telling the girl to act like a clinging vine, to make Eddy feel suffocated and stifled. As if any man would want that.
Clearly, Queen Victoria was trying to push Eddy toward the cousin, and May was sabotaging the engagement.
Disgusted, Hélène had retreated, not wanting May to catch her eavesdropping. She’d hurried to rejoin the group in a gallery full of oil paintings.
Hélène was too distraught to even pretend to study the collection. She needed to clear her head, needed to think. Lifting a hand to shade her eyes, she headed through the double doors that led to the earl’s back lawn.
There were more statues out here, arranged along a wandering path lined by trimmed hedges. Hélène lingered near a stone Cupid, relishing the sensation of the sunlight on her face.
“Hélène.”
She had known this would happen, hadn’t she? Perhaps her subconscious had drawn her outside for that very purpose, because she knew Eddy would also choose the outdoors over the art.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said, dipping into a curtsy. They were alone out here, but she suspected that May was still watching.
Eddy cursed softly. “Please don’t act like that.”
They stared at each other, both holding their breath. Hélène longed to reach for his hand, pull him close, lower his mouth to hers.
She realized she was staring at his lips and tore her gaze away.
“You never replied to my letters,” Eddy said hoarsely.
“I’m sorry.” It was all she could give him.
Eddy ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “My grandmother is pushing me to marry Ducky. She says that if I don’t announce an engagement soon, she’ll send me on a three-year world tour.”
“Three years?” Hélène blurted out.
He nodded, watching her closely. “I would stay in each location for several months—Canada, the West Indies, Bombay, Africa. The only way out is to get married. I’ll put Grandmother off as long as I can,” Eddy insisted.
“I’ll go on the tour if that’s what it takes, as long as I know you’re waiting for me. As long as I know there’s hope.”
“Eddy,” Hélène began helplessly, “you know that—”
She broke off before saying, You know that I love you. Because of course she did; her love for him suffused every fiber of her being. How could he doubt that?
She dared a glance toward the house, and her heart sank. May stood there, arms crossed over her thin chest. Staring at them.
It took every ounce of Hélène’s willpower not to march up there and slap May across her lying face. God, how she itched to fight this battle out in the open, the way Eddy would do if he knew.
But that road led to certain defeat. At least if she tried to outsmart May, Hélène had a chance—however slight—of still marrying Eddy.
So she forced herself to do the hardest thing of all, and walk away from him.
“I’m sorry, Eddy. Truly, I am,” she told him, and turned back to the house.
She was moving so blindly, fighting back tears, that she nearly walked straight into a man’s chest.
“Your Royal Highness, there you are.” Nicholas caught her arms, steadying her. “I was hoping I could show you the Rembrandt in Lord Stafford’s collection.”
Clearly, Nicholas had seen her distress, and was covering for her; in a firm voice that warned everyone else to mind their own business. Hélène couldn’t help noticing that he’d called her by her royal title, unlike everyone in England who referred to her as Miss d’Orléans.
“I hate Rembrandt,” Hélène muttered, her words shaky. She was still on the verge of tears.
“Let me guess, his works are too dark for you.” Nicholas almost sounded like he was teasing. “You’d rather look at something bright and colorful—Monet’s water lilies, perhaps—than a shadowy Rembrandt.”
“It’s not my fault that France has produced the world’s greatest artists.” Hélène let Nicholas put a hand on the small of her back.
He steered her gently toward the wall until they stood before an Impressionist scene of a beach at sunset, all golds and blues and shining amber. “Will this do?” Nicholas asked, an eyebrow lifted.
“Exceedingly. Thank you.”
“If you truly hate darkness, you should avoid Russia in the winter. There are months when we only get a few hours of sunlight a day.”
“In that case, it’s a good thing our courtship is a farce.”
He coughed. Hélène realized he was hiding his laughter. It almost made her want to smile.
Nicholas must have sensed her sadness, because his laughter died. “I saw you talking to my cousin. Dare I ask…is he the one you…”
“Yes,” Hélène confessed, because there was no point in hiding it. She and Nicholas were in this together now.
“And you’ve quarreled?” Nicholas guessed.
“It’s more complicated than a quarrel.”
He didn’t ask what she meant. Instead he simply said, “How can I help?”
“If only you could.”
“Nothing? Please, Hélène, ask me for a favor, because I’m about to ask a very big one of you.” Nicholas was still speaking in low tones, as if they truly were courting, and were whispering sweet nothings. “I was hoping you would accompany me to the Isle of Wight, to see the Cowes Regatta.”
“The Isle of Wight,” Hélène repeated.
“The Waleses are all going. Whatever has happened between you and Eddy, you would be near him….” Nicholas trailed off as if uncertain.
Hélène saw at once why he had invited her. “I take it Alix and Ernie are going as well? And you need me to cover for you while you see her in secret?”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It was thoughtless of me—you might not want to go anywhere, not when you and Eddy…” He floundered uncomfortably.
Hélène forced a pale imitation of a smile. “Of course I’ll help. We promised to aid each other, didn’t we? And Alix is my friend.”
Nicholas looked visibly relieved. “I’ll ask my parents if we can borrow one of the yachts.
The Polar Star is smaller than the others, but it’s already anchored in the Baltic, and we’re not a large party.
I’ll invite your parents, unless you have a dowager aunt who could chaperone instead?
” Because, of course, it wasn’t as if she and Nicholas could travel alone.
Hélène was too distracted to even marvel at the fact that the Romanovs had multiple yachts to choose from. She merely said, “My parents will be delighted.”
“I’m sure my own parents can’t get away, but I’ll ask Uncle Vladimir to join.”
Hélène nodded, making a silent plan of her own. Because she didn’t doubt that May would be at this regatta, too.
Things were moving too fast for her to play it safe any longer. Eddy was being threatened with a world tour, being pushed toward his cousin, losing hope.
Hélène had no other choice. She would have to steal the letter back from May.