Chapter 3
HELENA
“My lady,” he said, and bowed deeply. “I was just telling your housekeeper that I have come from St. James’ to call on you. As I was just saying to your maid, I am Gideon Blackwell, Duke of Blackthorne.”
She blinked and took a step back. The name rang a bell.
An alarm bell.
“I know who you are, Your Grace. Your reputation precedes you. You were formerly Viscount Ashford, I believe.”
“For a brief while,” he said, with a smirk that lit up his face.
He was a handsome man, but he had the air of somebody who knew it.
Those, she knew, were the most dangerous sort of men.
Huxley had been one of those. The first time she had met him, he had carried himself with a similar air to this gentleman.
Confident, charming, and very aware of his own good looks.
She was not going to fall for that again.
“I wondered if we might speak,” he said. Mary’s eyes flashed from her to him and back again.
“It is quite all right, Mary. If you could look after Lavinia, I would appreciate it.” Mary departed, but as she passed her, she whispered, “Let me know if you need assistance.”
Helena nodded with a smile. Mary, always her protector.
“We may speak,” she said.
“May I come inside?” he asked. “Only I do not think it would be proper to say what I have come to say while standing in your humble doorway.”
She blinked. “While my doorway is indeed humble, I do not think it would be proper for you to come inside either. Besides, I believe what you have come to say can be resolved in short order.”
“Is that so?” he said. “And why do you think I have come?”
“As I said, your reputation precedes you. Men like you see a woman like me as an easy target. I am young, suddenly widowed, and lacking certain protections. A woman someone might wish to while away the hours with. Well, you are at the wrong door. Might I suggest St. Giles?”
He looked genuinely alarmed. “You have just had a baby,” he said, “and you have been widowed not even a year ago.”
“That is right,” she said, gesturing at her deep purple attire. “I am almost out of mourning, but not quite. Still, that has not stopped certain gentlemen from presenting themselves looking for, shall we say, an addition to their collection.”
She shuddered. She had been most alarmed when, not five months after Huxley’s funeral, a middle-aged Earl had approached her outside a tea shop and implied that he was aware of her situation, and that if she ever needed his assistance, he would be willing to provide it in exchange for certain privileges.
Helena understood, despite having just had a baby, she was a striking woman.
She had always known this. It was no vanity on her part — she certainly did not think herself the most beautiful woman in the world — but she had always known that she possessed certain qualities that drew the attention of gentlemen.
Her mother had taught her to use that to her advantage.
A pretty exterior, she had always said, could quickly distract from certain other less attractive aspects of one’s life.
She could not deny that she had been tempted, once or twice, to accept the old Earl’s offer or those of the two gentlemen who had followed with similar propositions, because she was well and truly in dun territory by that point.
Still, she had her dignity, and she intended to keep it, even if she ended up in the poorhouse.
He raised his hands. “Believe me, I have not come for that. I am not blind, and I can appreciate that you are a very handsome woman. But I am not here for that reason. I am here because of your father.”
That instantly took the wind out of her sails. “My father,” she said. “How do you know my father?”
“Perhaps if you allow me inside, I can explain. I would rather conduct this conversation privately, between you and I, and not between you, I, and the entirety of Bloomsbury.”
She pursed her lips, tilted her head to one side, and then waved him in.
Mary had taken Lavinia to the little nursery at the back of the house and was now making her way upstairs. Helena nodded at her and escorted the gentleman into the drawing room.
She was not going to offer him tea. She had no desire to have him stay longer than was necessary.
But she was curious about how he knew her father — and what exactly he knew about him. And about her.
“You said you knew my father,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes wandering briefly over the table, where it was quite clear he had been expecting tea to appear. Even if she had wished to offer it, she did not have the ready to spare on hospitality for uninvited dukes. But she was not going to let him know that.
“I knew your father when we both served in the Somerset militia. It was many years ago. We met on a few occasions when you were much younger. fifteen, perhaps.”
She nodded. “I remember his regiment being stationed up there.” She paused. “You served under him?”
“For a while, yes. He once saved my life.”
“I see,” she said, crossing her ankles. “And what does that have to do with me?”
He smiled, and she noted how square his jaw was, and how straight his nose. He looked almost as though he had been carved from stone.
“Well,” he said, “I have recently come to learn that you have fallen on hard times since the death of your late husband.”
She did not acknowledge this one way or the other.
“So, I have come to offer my assistance.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Your assistance. I already told you I am not interested in any sort of proposition.”
“I am not making any illicit proposition,” he said quickly. “I have come to discuss your options. You see, the best option for a young woman in your position would be to remarry, and swiftly.”
“Oh,” she said, the sound coming out more like a laugh than anything else. “You have come to propose marriage to me? A complete stranger?”
“I have not,” he said. “I have already ventured down that particular path once. I did not enjoy it, and I have no intention of repeating the experience any time soon — though I may be obliged too sooner or later. But that is neither here nor there. This is about you. You need to find another husband, and if our conversation thus far is anything to go by, you need one more urgently than I had previously realized, given that you have already been propositioned in a most ungentlemanly fashion.”
“If you do not intend to offer yourself up, then why are you here? What does any of this have to do with you?”
“What it has to do with me,” he said, “is that I am a Duke. A recent one, admittedly, but a Duke, nonetheless. I have certain funds at my disposal, and a certain amount of influence. I do not mean to boast, but I was rather well connected even when I was merely a Viscount, and even before that when I was simply Mr. Blackwell. I have many connections. Surely you have heard of the Langley husbands?”
She pressed her lips together. “Everyone has heard of the Langley husbands and their wives. What do they have to do with you?”
“They are amongst my closest friends.” He paused, then seemed to catch himself.
“I do not know how that helps me, since they are called Langley husbands for a reason. Namely that they are all married to the Langley sisters or their cousins.”
He tapped his index finger on the arm of the chair, as though mildly annoyed with himself for not thinking of that sooner.
“Very well. But they are not my only friends. And their friends have friends. What I am telling you is that I can offer you access to a great many gentlemen who might prove suitable.”
She leaned back. Was he offering himself up as a matchmaker?
If so, this was the most peculiar thing she had ever heard.
This man, of whom the scandal sheets had a very great deal to say, was sitting in her drawing room and proposing to find her a husband.
Who on earth had ever heard of such a thing.
There were few professional matchmakers in London, and those who were available were older women with nothing to do with their time. Not dashing young dukes.
“And what do you get out of this?” she asked.
“Peace of mind,” he said. “As I told you, your father once saved me from a bullet that might very well have taken my head clean off, and I have felt the weight of that debt ever since.”
“I was not aware that the militia produced marksmen of such alarming accuracy,” she said. “And if you feel so very guilty, why have I not seen you before now? My husband died a year ago. My father four years before that.”
Was that guilt that passed over his face? She thought it was. Good. He needed humbling.
“I was at Captain Hartwell’s funeral,” he said, “though I would not blame you for not remembering me, given the circumstances. As for not coming to your assistance sooner — I do beg your pardon. The last few years have been rather tumultuous.”
She sat back, thinking over what she had read about him. Assorted tales about women. Drunken exploits. And then the story involving a curricle race that had left him suddenly a Duke — she was almost certain that had been the very headline in the London Sentinel. Suddenly, A Duke.
If that was all true, then this man had indeed had a rather busy few years. Busier than her own, perhaps.
“I see,” she said. “So I am to believe that you have come to my doorstep for no other reason than guilt over an old debt?”
“Indeed. And the truth is, I did not learn the full severity of your circumstances until last week, when I encountered your friend Lady Clara Hampshire at the Sandringham ball.”
The mention of Clara instantly lowered every wall she had put up.
“You know Clara?”
“I do.” He smirked but then caught himself. “Not intimately. But we spent some time together in Scotland last year, after she parted ways with Lord Bradbury.”
She remembered that time. Clara had been certain Lord Bradbury would propose to her, only to find he’d decided to marry some French courtesan instead and depart for the continent.
It had been mortifying for her and she’d taken herself to Scotland for several weeks.
She’d written to her then about a man she’d spent time with – platonically as she’d insisted.
Helena had planned to ask for more details, but then Huxley had crashed down from the roof and taken her entire life with her and there hadn’t been occasion to talk about Clara’s exploits since.
Besides, she was all but married now. Still, knowing that he might be the man Clara had written about so flowingly put her a little at ease.
“I see,” she said quietly. “This is very unorthodox.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But if you will allow me to introduce you to a few gentlemen, I dare say your chances of finding someone who is not a complete fool are considerably better with a Duke’s endorsement behind you.
I have very good judgement when it comes to people.
I can read a gentleman’s character and intentions from across a room. ”
“Yes,” she said, “your abilities in that regard have been written about at length. Although they do not usually pertain to gentlemen.”
“My reputation is what it is, and I will not pretend otherwise. But it has no bearing on the matter at hand. I am looking for a husband for you. Nothing else.” He paused, then glanced almost imperceptibly toward the wall behind her, where several pale rectangles marked the places portraits had once hung.
“Allow me to assist you. I can see that times have been difficult. Unless you have always preferred white patches on your walls?”
Her cheeks burned with mortification as she followed his gaze. She’d had to sell a few paintings this month which had left odd spaces on her walls.
“Times have not been easy,” she said stiffly. “But I am at point non plus as to why a Duke should concern himself with any of it.”
A cry from the back room cut her short. She knew Mary would tend to the child, but the truth was she needed to leave this room. She needed air, and space, and a moment to think. It did not matter that she had no great liking for this man or his reputation. The fact was, he was not wrong.
“Excuse me,” she said, and got up quickly.
She made her way to the nursery, her thoughts running ahead of her. He was an arrogant man who had charmed his way through half of England. And yet he might also be the answer to all of her problems. She could not maintain her present circumstances much longer.
She could not afford to pay Mary. There were the bills — the grocer, the butcher, and who knew who else would come knocking next.
She looked down at Lavinia, who had tears streaking down her red little face.
She picked up her daughter and held her close.
She could not provide for this child. Not properly.
Not the clothes and shoes and schooling a little girl deserved.
And the truth was, Helena simply could not go on as she was.
She glanced back toward the drawing room, where the Duke had risen and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
Could it be that the man standing in her drawing room was the answer?
She was not, by nature, a religious woman. But she had prayed in the way that desperate people pray — not with great faith, but with great need.
Could it be that this was her deliverance?
Helena looked at her daughter. Then she looked toward the drawing room again.
She had not imagined that salvation would arrive in the form of a tall, broad-shouldered Duke with an ego large enough to fill the whole of Mayfair. But perhaps, just perhaps, that was precisely what had been sent to her.