Chapter 2
“Helena! Where are you going?” Her father took her by the arm and dragged her back to stand beside her mother.
“I need to visit the washroom, Father,” Helena said earnestly, adding a fluttering of her eyelashes to sell the lie. “I will only be a moment.”
Her father narrowed his eyes at her, clearly sensing something was off. He couldn’t possibly know what, because Helena had worked as hard as ever to keep her secret just that. But he knew his daughter and was right to be skeptical.
“Oh, leave her be, George.” Her mother took his hand and peeled it off her arm. “Trust goes both ways, and I think Helena has earned enough tonight that she can visit the washroom without an armored guard watching her.”
“Return as soon as you are done,” her father instructed. “And I mean it, Helena. As soon as you are finished.”
“Five minutes,” Helena assured him. “Possibly six, if I walk slowly.”
“Helena…”
She laughed and leaned in, kissing him on the nose. A grateful smile for her mother next. And then, free from the unyielding supervision of her parents, Helena spun around and hurried through the busy ballroom without looking back.
The ball had started three hours earlier, hosted in the ballroom of her parents’ manor, and attended by what appeared to be nearly the entire ton.
There were scores of them all over the large hall, moving to and fro in small groups as they laughed and chattered and enjoyed the festivities in ways that most would agree were normal and expected, but that which Helena had long since come to loathe.
Colorful gowns every way she looked. Men dressed in smart suits.
Footmen weaving through the guests with trays of wine and whiskey.
Music floating through the air. Couples already dancing.
Many a young lord approaching a younger lady and introducing himself with a bow and a smirk and a kind word because these events were all about meeting like-minded singles in the hopes that a courtship might begin, which would then hopefully lead to marriage.
Helena rolled her eyes to see it. She had no desire to be courted and was even less interested in marriage. All that concerned her was her dream to be published, and if tonight went how she expected it to…
That dream will become my reality. I cannot wait!
She had to hurry. And hurry she did.
Through the ballroom she went, then a quick detour to her bedroom, where she retrieved the manuscript, which sat ready and waiting.
Once it was in hand, she rushed back downstairs, only to turn away from the ballroom and head toward the library, where she asked the publisher to meet her…
or to meet Henry Monroe, as he expected.
Her heart was pounding as she hastened down the long hallway, blood in her ears so all she could hear was the thudding of her heart against her ribs.
She knew the publisher was going to be surprised. Perhaps he would even be angry. But she was determined not to let him leave until he promised to take her work home with him.
Once he reads it, he won’t care what my gender is. All he wants is a good story to publish, and that is what I will give him.
She reached the library and came to a stop. She took deep breaths, calming herself, focusing on the mission ahead. Her knuckles were white from how firmly she clutched the manuscript, but she hardly noticed.
Finally, the time had come.
It was once she stepped into the large library that she spotted the publisher with whom she had spent the last week corresponding.
He had his back to her, bent over the desk at the room’s center, reading through a text of some sort, by the looks of things. The single lantern lit the immediate space around him, plunging the rest of the room into darkness.
Helena came to a stop a few feet away. She watched him for a moment, bracing herself. And then, with nothing else to wait for, she spoke.
“Good evening. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
The publisher’s name was Mr. Ramsay, and this was the first time that Helena saw him in person.
He was shorter than she, balding terribly, and had a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least two times.
His eyes were beady and lifeless, and when he turned to see her standing there, a gleeful smile spreading across his thin lips, she felt a sudden stab of worry.
“Ah, Lady Helena, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She balked, taking a surprised step back. “I… You know me?”
“Of course,” he purred as he walked toward her, stepping out of the light and into the shadows. “You did ask me to meet you here, did you not?”
“N-No,” she stammered, her confusion mounting. “It was Mr. Monroe who asked you to meet. I am merely… He sent me ahead to speak with you first.”
Mr. Ramsay chuckled. “No need for subterfuge, Lady Helena. We are well past that.”
“What…” She glanced around, that stab of worry inside her growing by the second. “What do you… There is no subterfuge.”
Helena didn’t know why she was lying. After all, she fully intended to tell him who she was—she had no choice! But the fact that he already knew was concerning and highly worrying.
He clicked his tongue. “I will admit, when you first started writing to me, I believed it was Henry Monroe with whom I was conversing. Why would I not?” He shrugged and gave his head a shake. “But once you asked me to meet you this evening… well, the veil was lifted.”
“I don’t understand. How…”
“Your stories,” he explained. “Oh yes, I have read them all. They are quite good, as I am sure you know. Only…” He tittered lightly. “It was clear once I looked closer that the author could not possibly be a man.”
Helena’s mouth dropped open. “It was?”
“To a trained eye,” he said casually. “Little giveaways and such. Pairing that assumption with this clandestine meeting, I put it all together as a detective might.” He smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “And as is often the case, I was proven right.”
It was exactly what she wanted to hear. What she had hoped for. And yet for reasons that Helena could not explain, something felt terribly wrong.
She glanced around the empty library again, wondering if this was nearly the brilliant plan that she had originally envisioned, or if it had the makings of a disaster.
“And… and you do not mind?” She swallowed. “That I am a woman?”
He flashed his beady eyes, his smile growing. “Is that it then? The manuscript?”
“Oh…” She was clutching it to her chest. “Yes. This is… I was hoping you might…”
“May I?” He held his hand out for it.
“Of course…” Her hand was shaking as she handed him the manuscript.
He took it and then, without asking for permission, snatched her arm. “Come…” He started to drag her toward the lantern by the desk. “Let us explore.”
Helena gasped at the feel of his hand on her arm, but she did not shrug it off. She told herself that this was as good a response as she might have wanted, and that maybe Mr. Ramsay was simply… odd.
“The Lady Who Would Be King…” He placed the manuscript on the table. One hand still holding her arm, he used the other to flip through the pages. “Interesting title. What is it about?”
She swallowed, her eyes flicking to his hand.
“It is a satirical story about a young lady who…” She gently tried to pull her arm free, but his grip was strong.
“… poses as a duke, soon finds herself in line for the throne, and… and…” She swallowed again.
“Through certain circumstances, he ends up as the King of England, all while pretending to be a man.”
He chuckled. “How amusing.”
“It is supposed to be a reflection on societal expectations and, ah…” Again, she tried to peel her arm free to no avail. “What it means to be a woman, how one is viewed, and what one might be capable of, was she not held back by her gender?”
“As I said…” He flipped through the pages. “Obviously written by a woman. Oh yes…” He flipped through a few more. “Your writing is rather… quaint. In a good way. You refrain from exaggerated prose, simple writing, but with purpose. Oh yes… humorous too. Very good.”
“You like it?”
“Very much.”
Her heart soared at the praise, such that she was almost able to ignore the way he continued to grip her arm. It seemed purposeful, as if he suspected she might turn around and flee at any moment.
“So, what happens now?” she asked, glancing around, her nerves rising. “Would you like to take it home with you and read it? I would value your opinion.”
“You wish to be published, do you not?” He stopped reading and looked up at her. Expression flat, eyes narrowed, a crooked smile on his lips. “Is that not the goal?”
“That is the dream.”
“A rather outlandish one, as I am sure you know. We do not publish female authors. Few do.”
“But you would not be publishing a female author,” she pointed out, again pulling on her arm to no avail. “It would be Henry Monroe who is published.”
Mr. Ramsay laughed and shook his head, his grip tightening on her.
“That is true enough. But I would know the truth, and gosh darn, I just do not know if my conscience would allow such a thing. A shame too, as this is a brilliant work and it should be read by as many eyes as are capable of such a thing.”
“Oh…” Her mouth turned dry, and her tongue felt swollen. “What… I do not… If only you and I know—”
“A secret, you are saying?” He flashed his beady eyes at her again. “Yes, I can agree to such a thing. However…” He stepped into her, pulling her to him. “Only for a price.”
It was only then that Helena realized the trap that she was in. One that, she was embarrassed to admit, she had set herself and then walked right into.
For years, she worked so hard to keep her secret safe, knowing what would happen if her parents found out—how embarrassed they would be, not to mention ashamed.
And in one fell swoop, that secret was now threatened to be exposed because the single person who knew about it…
as clear as it had now become, was not nearly as honorable as she might have liked.
They were alone. Mr. Ramsay knew who she was, just as he knew how desperate she was to keep anyone else from finding out. So desperate, in fact, that he likely thought he could do and say what he wanted without having to worry about it coming back to haunt him.
And as he gripped her arm, as he pulled her into his body, as he looked at her with those wicked eyes, Helena did not doubt that he was willing to ask a most terrifying price for his discretion.
“I… Mr. Ramsay, there is no need to…” She tried to pull free, but he refused to let go. “Please, you are hurting me.”
“Just as you are hurting my feelings,” he purred. “Come now, Lady Helena, you are not being very reasonable. I want to help you with this—truly, I do. But seeing the danger it presents, surely I am owed something.”
“Please…”
“I would hate to tell the world who you are.” The gentleness in his voice faded, replaced by a sharp edge. “To reveal your secret. Which I will do, unless you make it worth my while.”
She was trembling. Terror coursing through her body.
Again, she tried to pull free, trapped and alone and without recourse. How could she have been so stupid?
“So, what is it going to be?” he growled. “Shall I reveal your secret? Or are you going to play nice?”
“I suggest you unhand the lady at once,” a deep voice spoke from the shadows. “If you do not, nice is as far removed from how I intend to deal with you as exists in this world.”
Mr. Ramsay gasped in surprise. He did not let go of her arm, but he turned to see who had spoken. His mouth dropped open as from the shadows emerged a man whom Helena recognized immediately.
She wondered if perhaps she was better off with Mr. Ramsay.
The man was dressed in a dark suit, his hair as black as night, his eyes clear blue and as cold as ice in the stare they fixed on Mr. Ramsay.
Tall and imposing, broad-shouldered and thick-bodied, power emanated from him such that even the light from the lantern seemed to wither in the face of it.
Handsome too, with a perfect jawline, a straight nose, full lips, all symmetrical and damn hypnotizing.
Under normal circumstances, Helena might have found her heart fluttering. In this instance, however, she could do little more than gape as her stomach dropped and the room spun.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Ramsay let go of her arm and stepped away from her. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“And what does it look like exactly?” the Duke asked, taking another step closer.
“Lady Helena and I. We were just… She and I… It is just—”
“You were just leaving,” the Duke spoke over him.
Another step forward, towering above the publisher like a tidal wave threatening to drown a small village.
“Unless you care to explain why you were manhandling Lady Helena. Unless you care to be manhandled in a similar fashion by me.” He bared his teeth.
“I assure you, it is not something you would enjoy.”
Mr. Ramsay cried out in fright. He opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and then ducked his head and scurried around the Duke’s indomitable frame.
As he went, Helena caught his eye. He sneered at her with pure wickedness, the sense that he was not quite ready to forget what had happened here.
She was left alone with her savior—although that title felt somewhat hopeful. A better title was His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne, a man whom Helena knew a little about, but nowhere near enough to gauge what might happen next.
He stood in silence as he looked down at her. On his lips was a crooked smile, a glint in his eyes as if something amused him. Curiosity, perhaps. Wondering why she was alone with a man like Mr. Ramsay, and how she had allowed such a thing to transpire.
Her mind raced. Eyes flicking every which way for an exit, he continued to stare at her, and she felt the pull of his power and command because he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
“So,” he finally spoke in a deep voice. She felt it in her chest. “Tell me, Lady Helena. What on earth have I stumbled upon?”