Chapter 6
“Your grandmother won’t like this. Nary a bit of it.” Carruthers allowed her disapproval to show.
”The Portland Vase?” Helen replied lightly. “None of us like it.” She grinned. “Will and his friends came to Town once, with their tutors. They saw the Exhibition at the Royal Academy and they studied ancient arts here at the British Museum.” She gestured around at the room full of Roman glassware and porcelain. “They were tasked to make sketches of one object, so that they might paint it at home. Will chose this one. How I laughed at his efforts! I thought he’d mistaken the proportions and adjusted the subjects. A flying baby with a sword, that was half the size of a man? I was merciless, until the others assured me he’d captured it faithfully. When I came to Town for my first Season, I had to see it for myself. This was one of the first stops I made.” She grinned wistfully.
The maid’s sour look did not budge. “You know that is not what I meant, Miss.”
Helen sighed. “Yes. I know.” She paused and looked the woman in the eye. “I like you, Carruthers. You are skilled at many useful things. I’d hoped you would stay on with me, past the Season. But I don’t wish to have to remind you that it is I who pays your wages. I expect your loyalty to lie with me.”
“And so it does, Miss. I won’t be tattling to your grandmother, but that doesn’t mean I think you should go galivanting with a young gentleman. Especially not this young gentleman.”
“He is trustworthy. I believe it. And I’m not galivanting, but accompanying him to question the editor who wrote those scathing articles about me.”
Carruthers shook her head. “Not sure it’s any wiser to go dragging out all that muck again, when you’ve just nearly got past it.”
Helen’s gaze shifted away. “That’s just it, though. I thought I would get past it, if I was accepted back into Society. I thought that if I was only received back into their circle, if I could talk and smile and dance and maybe flirt a little . . . “
“And give them a lesson on taste and style,” Carruthers said with an approving nod at her smart carriage dress and matching pelisse.
“And that,” Helen agreed with a smile. “I thought that was what I needed, in order to put it all behind me.” She lowered her tone. “But I find that it is not.”
Carruthers heaved a sigh. “Very well, then. Just be careful, Miss. Please.”
“I will. I promise.” She nodded at the maid. “Now, you enjoy your unexpected half day off, will you?”
“I s’pose I will.”
Carruthers ambled out of the room. Helen suffered a small qualm once she was gone. Rambling about Hertfordshire was one thing, but London was quite another. She hadn’t been left alone in a public spot in Town before. Shaking her head, she bolstered herself with the memory of a passage from Ben’s last letter.
I used to admire your spunk, when we were younger. You never backed down. You chased us up trees, into caves and across the county, riding hell-for-leather behind us without hesitation. I admired it, but in a fleeting way. It wasn’t until I was at war and became a leader of men that I truly understood what a great heart you have, and what a rare and wonderful thing that is. There is a lot of quiet time in war. Why don’t they tell you that beforehand, I wonder? But there was plenty of time to think and reflect on yourmistakes and that of those around you. Many times, sitting under some Spanish tree, I would think of you and imagine what I might accomplish, if I had a regiment of men with your spirit behind me. I swear, the war would have long ended, if only more men were as brave and loyal as you.
Helen had teared up a little, reading it. She’d thought for so long that he’d scarcely noticed her at all. But this—it meant he’d seen far more than she’d thought. Or perhaps, more than he realized.
He saw her now, though, as he came into the room, moving steadily, even without his cane. They shared a laugh over the Portland Vase and then he explained that he’d discovered the location of the previous editor of the Prattler. “I thought perhaps you would care to go with me, to question him.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. I would, indeed.” She was caught up, suddenly, in the thought of everything she had ever wanted to say to the man . . . and in moments, Ben was leading her out to his carriage. They settled in, it set off, heading south through the city—and Helen cast him a nervous smile.
“Adventure,” he reminded her. But he grew serious, perhaps recalling her words when they first met again. “You are safe in my hands, Helen. I will not allow anyone or anything to harm you again.”
Nodding, she made an effort to calm her nerves. “Your letter. I—thank you. I’m afraid I lost that brave girl I used to be, but I’m trying to make my way back to her.”
“Nor am I the same. I don’t believe either of us can go back, Helen. If we solve this puzzle, however, it will be easier for us both to go forward.”
Together. The word echoed between them, unsaid. But it was there. A shining possibility.
“Distract me from my nerves. Tell me about the army,” she whispered.
He did, sitting back and gazing outside the window at times, as if seeing the hot, dry landscape of the peninsula outside. Some of his tales were amusing. Some were sobering. At least one set her heart to racing.
“I knew you would excel at it,” she told him. “That strategical, logical brain of yours had to be an asset.”
Before he could reply, the carriage slowed.
He looked out. “Lambeth High Street. I asked the coachman to stop a way down from the printer’s shop. We can walk up and keep from alerting him.”
She nodded and climbed down with his assistance. Shaking out her skirts, she squared her shoulders and set out with him. They came around a slight bend and stopped to gaze at the sign, hanging above.
E. McKay
Handbills
Ads
Broadsheets and Pamphlets
Ben held the door and they entered. Two men worked behind the counter. The older one looked up as they entered. His face brightened in anticipation at the sight of the well-dressed couple, but his delight faded as he saw her face.
“Good morning, Mr. McKay,” Ben said quietly. “We should like to speak with you, sir.”
“Oh, no.” The erstwhile newspaperman shook his head. “Apologies. I have no time, today.” He glanced over at the younger man, who eyed him with surprise. “We’ve orders to fill. Perhaps another day.”
Helen stepped forward. “How disappointing. We had a special project to discuss with you, sir. It is of an epistolary nature. Your specialty, I understand.”
“No, no. Not at all. No time, in any case. Come another day.”
“Very well, sir.” She raised her chin. “Come, Mr. Hargrove. You will take me to the Swan’s Neck, will you not? I’m afraid we must go there and discuss our disappointment. Loudly, and to anyone who will listen. I suspect there will be people there who might be interested in a local businessman’s past.”
The man’s shoulders dropped. “Ah, well, then. I suppose I can spare a moment. Let’s go into my office.”
They stepped past the counter and into a tiny space, furnished with a small desk, two chairs and a number of cabinets. McKay gestured for Helen to take a seat. With a glance at Ben, he crossed behind the desk and sat down. Swallowing, he looked directly at her. “I know who you are. I know it does no good now, but I am sorry.”
“It is too late for your words to make a difference now, sir. But you could perhaps make reparations by telling us what we need to know.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I cannot.”
“We have yet to ask a question.” Ben sounded exasperated.
“I know what your questions are. And I cannot answer.”
Helen leaned in. “I need to know who gave you those letters, sir.”
His shoulders hunched, but he said nothing.
They all sat silently for a moment before Helen drew a ragged breath. “You don’t know me, sir. You didn’t know me then. Not the least thing about me. It didn’t stop you from writing terrible accusations against me. It didn’t stop you from accusing me of sin and unsavory behavior.” She glared. “You destroyed the course of my life. The least you can do is explain why and how.”
“I didn’t write those articles,” he whispered.
“You published them,” she returned.
“Yes, to my shame. I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. I cannot say more. I shouldn’t have said so much.”
“Of course.” Ben sounded sardonic. “We have heard of your vaunted, journalistic integrity.”
“I gave my word of honor not to speak of it.”
Helen allowed her face to convey what she thought of his honor.
McKay stiffened. “I could not speak, even should I wish to. I signed a binding agreement, when I turned over the Prattler. I may not reveal anything about the matter.” He gestured. “If I break the agreement, I lose this shop.” He sighed. “It’s a step down in the world, but it is all I have.”
He did not give them time to contemplate his lowered circumstances. “If you will excuse me, I must get back to work. If you want answers to your questions, you must ask them of the new owner and editor of The London Town Prattler.
Ben stepped forward. “And who is the new editor?”
McKay shook his head.
Helen stood. “You disappoint me, Mr. McKay.”
He had the grace to look shamefaced. “I fear you lead a long line, Miss. But I am trying to improve myself. I sincerely hope you will be the last person I disappoint.”
Too upset to reply, she turned and walked out, not stopping to wait for Ben until she’d reached the pavement outside. Her mind churning, she took his arm and they returned to the carriage.
Ben spoke quietly to the coachman before climbing in and settling in across from Helen. “I asked him to get us back as quickly as possible. I don’t want you to be late, especially after we wasted our afternoon.” He could not keep the bitterness from his tone.
Helen breathed deeply. “Infuriating man. He frustrates me. But perhaps it wasn’t a waste,” she suggested.
He’d expected her to be disappointed. Instead she looked . . . thoughtful.
“We are beginning to build a picture, are we not? McKay did not write those articles. He didn’t defend publishing them, I noticed. He merely admitted that he did—and he didn’t sound happy about it, although that could be because of the consequences he suffered. But he didn’t complain about my father forcing him out of the paper, did he? He mentioned that he ‘turned the Prattler over.’”
“It is curious wording, isn’t it?” Ben was caught up. “He didn’t say when he left. He didn’t say he sold the paper. And he does not seem content with his step down in the world, does he? “ He raised his brows at her. “So, what did happen?”
“You did not meet the new editor when you went to retrieve my letters?”
“No.” Ben thought back. “There were only the two clerks, who looked to be rushing to get ready to send their latest edition to the printers. One of them did take me into the editor’s office, to find your letters.” He paused. “I am only just now realizing how it looked. A stack of boxes—old files in the corner. They were McKay’s, the clerk mentioned. Papers strewn about a desk, but nothing of a personal nature. No mugs, personal touches or even writing tools. Nothing to indicate a man works there, daily.”
“So where is he? Who is he?”
“It seems we must find out.”
“The adventure continues,” she said with a grin.
It lit up her face, but Ben felt it in his gut when her happiness visibly faded. “Helen?”
“I fear I am not being wise.”
He considered. “Investigating with me?”
She looked at him, frowning. “It would be terrible if I were caught like this with any gentleman. But with you? The scandal would reach unheard of proportions.”
He knew she was right.
“Honestly? I don’t feel like I owe them—the beau monde—anything. Beyond Grandmama, that is. I owe her everything. But I also owe myself a chance at happiness.”
“And this could ruin it,” he said flatly.
“Yes, but I can’t help but wonder . . .” She looked at him with her heart in her eyes.
“There it is,” he whispered. “So brave.” Reaching over, he took her hand. She did not pull away. He let his finger trace along the seam of her glove until he reached the soft skin of her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertip and his raced to match it. “I never expected to feel like this,” he said, low.
She shook her head.
“It’s madness,” he murmured.
“Dangerous,” she agreed. “And yet,” she whispered.
“And yet . . . I am caught in the same feeling I had beneath those trees in Spain.”
“Stuck recalling my stubbornness?” she asked with a laugh.
“In awe of it,” he corrected. Her willingness to expose her vulnerability both impressed him and made him wild to protect her. To make sure she was never hurt again.
“I always dreamt of having a secret with you.” Ducking her head, she stared up at him through the cage of her lashes—and it was he who was ensnared. Reaching out, she took his other hand.
How had they ended up here? Ben didn’t care. His emotions were a tangle of shouldn’t and cannot and would never. But they were fast losing to hope and want and need.
Suddenly, he was hopping across and seating himself next to her on the narrow bench. He could feel her at hand, shoulder and hip. Warm connection. Forbidden pleasure.
Reaching up, he grazed his thumb over her cheek. She lifted her face toward him and he pressed a kiss—softly, softly—to her forehead.
She sighed and leaned into it.
And he let go of the should nots. Covered her mouth with his. Pulled her tight against him and reveled in the sweet, lovely hum of encouragement that poured out of her. Pulling her other hand away, she reached up to grip his shoulder. Ben moved back until he braced against the back cushion. She followed, keeping her lips sealed with his. He let her explore a moment. She was tentative, but curious. After a few moments, impatience won out. He urged her onto his lap.
Hell and damnation. The feel of her. The warmth of her covering his thighs. He deepened the kiss. Ran his tongue over the silky slide of hers, taught her the slow give and take that lovers play at. Her hands climbed up over his shoulders to lodge into his hair. His took a leisurely tour of her curves.
The carriage rocked on and Ben lost himself in her sweetness. She pressed into him and began an exploration of her own. She kissed him so sweetly and ran her hands inside his coat. Heart pounding, he had to pull away and reach for control. “Give me a moment,” he gasped.
She cupped his face with her hands. “I won’t break.”
“No.” The truth slipped out. “But you might break me.”
“Never,” she vowed. But she laughed a little, as if pleased with the power she had over him.
And he fell a little further in love.
“We’re nearly at the museum,” he whispered.
Nodding, she scooted off of his lap. “I do enjoy having a secret with you, Ben.”
He laughed. “I daresay we could argue over who enjoys it more, but instead I shall look forward to sharing more secrets with you. Soon.” He sobered. “We should be in plenty of time for you to meet your maid. You must head home as expected and I will go back to the Prattler’s office and see if I can discover anything about the new editor.”
She tucked a last, loose bit of blonde hair away. “Am I proper, again?”
“Regrettably, so,” he sighed. “It makes me wish to muss you again.”
“Perhaps later?” she asked hopefully.
“What are your plans for this evening?” he asked.
“I shall ask Grandmama what she recalls about the Prattler, from when she was trying to prevent further articles from being published. I was too numb to absorb it all, back then.” Her face softened. “But later we mean to attend Lady Kershaw’s rout. Might you be able to attend? So that we might share what we learn?”
“Lady Kershaw? Well, I wasn’t invited, but we are acquainted and I have been in her home before. If it is a rout, she won’t turn me away.” He thought a moment. “Meet me at midnight. That should give me plenty of time to go to Fleet Street and still make the event.”
“Where? If we are seen exchanging more than a nod, people will talk.”
“In the dining room. There will be no dinner, likely just sliced meats and rout cakes and wine in one of the drawing rooms. The crowd likely will not spill into there, and there is a space to retreat, if someone comes.”
She gave him a soft smile. “There’s that strategic mind. I couldn’t ask for a better partner in this adventure.” Her expression darkened. “And our culprit has no idea what a formidable enemy he has made.”
“A formidable pair of enemies,” he corrected.
She gave him a nod as the coach door opened. “Quite right, Mr. Hargrove. I look forward to seeing you this evening.” Taking the coachman’s hand, she stepped down and headed for the museum door with only one quick grin over her shoulder.