Chapter 6
At half past five the next morning William settled into his usual seat in the east-facing study, where tall windows framed the stillness of the city outside. He lit the lamp and turned his attention to the first task, reviewing the mail.
The morning correspondence proved unremarkable.
A notification from the Society of Antiquaries, a few polite notes from acquaintances eager to remind him of their existence, and folded into a neat rectangle, a thick cream envelope bearing the monogram of the Morning Post. He opened it with absent-minded efficiency, bracing for the usual reports of parliamentary events and subscription invitations.
The society column occupied the third page, a blend of scandals and gossip, its tone both knowing and disinterested. William skimmed the opening paragraphs—Lady Quenby’s fondness for opera gloves, Lord Ruskin’s poetry—until a phrase snagged his attention.
An incident had occurred at the Ashcombe masquerade, so the column claimed, with more confidence than evidence.
He read the line again, slower:
A woman dressed in crimson was observed engaging in spirited debate and some athleticism with a man whose identity remains unknown. The mask may conceal, but demeanor and wit do not.
William's grip tightened on the paper, his jaw twitching.
The scent of ink and cold leather enveloped him.
For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air thickening.
He forced himself to breathe as the words scrolled before him in silent accusation.
‘Vixen,’ they had written. ‘Crimson.' It was hardly clever.
His first instinct was to destroy the evidence, to burn the column and erase it completely.
But he was an Atteberry, and such displays of panic were beneath him and, paradoxically, beneath the threat itself.
He reread the paragraph, absorbing each implication, then folded the page and set it aside.
The urge to laugh, hollow and incredulous, flickered and died.
With sudden clarity, he realized his body had gone rigid, his spine pressed flat against the leather of his chair, shoulders hunched and jaw locked in a mix of rage and fear. He loosened his grip on the paper with effort, the tremor in his hand lingering.
Helena.
Protect her name. Touch nothing else.
He saw her smile flash behind the fox mask, just as she had looked at him in the conservatory. No, not at him, but through him, as if she could see his undoing. Had she read the column yet? Would she care? He doubted she would be intimidated, but that did nothing to lessen the risk.
He imagined the spread of gossip, the shift from ‘woman in crimson”’ to Lady Fairfax through countless whispers.
In a week, or two at most, the suggestion would become an open secret.
The name ‘Powis’ wouldn’t appear in print, but it would linger in every drawing room, poised to ignite with a careless word.
William ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the morning’s order, and glanced at the clock. Nearly six. He was expected at the Queen’s Gate rout by eight. The rest of the day loomed with monotony: accounts, correspondence, reprimanding a junior steward. None of it would distract him.
He set the newspaper aside and stared at the cold grate, imagining how the fire would look when lit for the evening’s return. Would it illuminate or merely expose?
He had promised to protect her, a vow he intended to keep, no matter the cost.
Queen’s Gate at eight, Lady Trevelyan’s rout, was a vibrant scene of light and noise.
As a maid passed, a program brushed his sleeve, its margin marked with a tiny fox.
He pocketed it without a glance. The air outside was sharp, cutting through layers of fashion and artifice, but inside the ballroom, there was only the crush of three hundred people, each eager to be seen and fearful of being truly known.
William moved through the crowd with the ease of one who had spent a lifetime as both predator and prey. He wore black, as always. It made him a void, defined by the absence of hue. Still, he felt the eyes upon him, the speculative glances and quick remarks that followed him like a shadow.
He let Helena set the distance, matching her movements.
She was easy to spot, her hair, her posture, and her clear disdain for everyone present, but she was equally skilled at pretending not to notice him.
They circled each other in the crowded room, maintaining a distance that felt neither random nor safe.
At one point, he caught a glimpse of her profile, laughter spilling from her lips at something the Marquess of Brunsford had said.
Her gown was blue this time, severe and high-necked, as if to mock the memory of the masquerade.
Yet her eyes, when they met his across the room, remained unchanged—bright, hungry, unyielding.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but she did not return the gesture. Instead, she resumed her conversation with sudden intensity, underscoring her indifference.
Anger simmered within him, predictable and pointless.
A new waltz was announced, and the guests shifted toward the dance floor.
William positioned himself near a pillar, indulging in the luxury of observation.
The room swirled with color and sound. Ladies in jewel tones, men in military or political attire, chandeliers casting sharp patterns onto every surface.
He watched as Helena accepted a dance from Lord Fitzwilliam, a young man with more ambition than grace. She endured the attention with a calmness that bordered on contempt, yet he noticed the tension in her jaw and the way she scanned the room every few seconds.
He told himself he was imagining it, that he did not, should not, matter enough to occupy her thoughts. But the urge to observe was irresistible.
After the dance, Helena slipped into the card room, and William seized the opportunity to make his own circuit of the ballroom, keeping a safe distance of three or four bodies at all times.
He spoke with Lady Harrington, who regarded him with the wary amusement of someone who had been both admirer and adversary.
He accepted a glass of punch, barely tasting it, and listened to the Viscount of Ridley lament the state of the Royal Navy.
All the while, he tracked Helena, paying more attention than he should to her location, her company, the fleeting expressions that crossed her face.
He noted when she left the card room and the precise moment she made her way to the far end of the corridor, toward the small salon favored by those seeking air or privacy.
He anticipated her next move. When she slipped into the corridor, William was already there, his posture casual but his senses alert.
She intercepted him halfway between music and silence, her footsteps measured yet purposeful. He braced himself, masking his anticipation with a facade of indifference.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice low. “I expected you to offer me a dance, at the very least.”
He did not smile. “I thought it best not to draw attention.”
Her brow arched. “How considerate of you.”
He looked past her, toward the window at the end of the corridor. “May I speak plainly?” he asked.
“Please do.” She tilted her head a fraction.
“There is talk about the masquerade. Someone has taken note.”
She laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the air. “Let them. No one can prove it was us.”
“We have everything to lose,” he replied firmly. “You would be ruined.”
“I am a widow and permitted toi be discreetly wicked.” She stepped closer, her perfume enveloping him. “Is it my reputation that concerns you, or your own?”
William forced himself to remain composed. “Yours. Always.”
For a moment, silence surrounded them, heavy and thick. Then, quietly, she said, “You are a coward, William Atteberry.”
He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps. But I promised to protect your name, and I intend to keep that promise.”
She flinched.
He caught the slight tremor, though she masked it quickly. Then her chin lifted, and the light caught her features, rendering her almost unrecognizable.
“Very well, Your Grace,” she said, her tone icy. “You have made your point. I will not inconvenience you further.”
With that, she turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving him alone with the echo of her words.
William stood still for a minute, his knuckles white against the banister, before he dared to move. Every nerve in his body screamed to hold her, to apologize, to explain the consequences of his decisions. Instead, he forced himself to remain, fingers pressed hard against the polished rail.
Helena returned to her dower house in the early hours, a cold light filtering through the carriage windows and pooling at her feet.
She stepped out as soon as the wheels stopped, her skirts gathered high and her jaw set tight.
The footman scrambled after her, offering a brief bow, but she brushed past without acknowledgment.
The house was silent, the stillness a rebuke rather than a comfort. She ascended the stairs with determination, her heels echoing on the wooden steps. Her lady’s maid hovered at the threshold of her bedchamber, unsure whether to offer help or retreat.
“Go,” Helena said sharply. “I require nothing further.”
The girl vanished, leaving Helena alone, accompanied only by the echo of her heartbeat.
She peeled off her gloves, her fingers flexing as if preparing for a fight.
The blue, severe gown followed, discarded in a heap at the base of the bed.
Stripped to her chemise, she approached the desk, her hands trembling not with cold, but with something more intense.