Chapter 8 #2
“Only that he is top of the trees in terms of pedigree — comes from a long line of Earls, and will be the seventh holder of the title when the time comes. Not a bad match at all.”
“No indeed. He and I used to fence together. A formidable partner.”
Clara’s lips twitched. “And that, in your estimation, makes him a suitable match for Helena? I dare say she has very little interest in fencing.”
“Good,” he said. “After Cassandra, I would be extremely wary of any woman who claimed an interest in my more unusual pastimes.” He paused. “I think he is suitable. But since you are her friend, you will hear of it soon enough.”
“Let us hope you are right,” Clara said. And thus they parted, and he went upstairs to find the hat his valet had laid out and dashed out the door.
* * *
“Be sure to smile,” he said, as the carriage made its way toward Mrs. Bevis’s tea salon. “And nod along, even if you do not particularly agree with what he has to say.”
Helena turned to him. “But if I am not interested in what he is saying, how am I ever to change the subject?”
“You are expected simply to listen and endure.”
“Endure,” she said. “I dare say I have endured quite enough in my time. But very well. I suppose I can feign interest in a few subjects that bore me to tears.”
“Perhaps you will find something in common,” he suggested.
“Perhaps,” she replied, in a tone that suggested she thought this exceedingly unlikely.
He could tell that her enthusiasm for the meeting with Lord Whitcombe was nowhere near what her enthusiasm for meeting Sir Franklin had been, which had itself been tepid at best. Not that he blamed her.
He had made rather a hash of that outing.
“I promise not to interfere this time.”
“Good,” she said. “Now — the rules.” She turned to face him, and for a moment the sunlight came through the carriage window at precisely such an angle as to catch her quite off guard, and him equally so.
Her fair hair shimmered in it, and the light lavender of her gown suited her complexion to perfection.
He swallowed and looked away. He had no business thinking about her complexion.
He was here to find her a husband, not to admire her in carriage windows.
“Right,” he said. “The rules. You were going to set them.”
“As we already established, you will not remain in the room beyond the introductions. You will greet him once and then absent yourself.”
“Agreed.”
“I would also like more notice before any future meetings. I appreciate that you sent information about Sir Franklin in advance, but I want considerably more detail going forward particularly regarding their views on children.”
“Of course. I can arrange that.”
“Good. And there must be a signal.” She sat up slightly. “If I find the gentleman utterly dull, or arrogant, or I simply have no wish to continue the conversation, you must extract me immediately. I shall tug on my earlobe.”
He considered this. “How am I to know you are not simply adjusting your earring?”
She drew her hair back and he saw that she was wearing none. He raised his hands in surrender. “Very well. The moment you tug on your ear, I shall appear and rescue you.”
“I appreciate it,” she said. “Now — I believe we are almost there.”
Indeed, the carriage drew to a halt. He climbed out and handed her down, holding on for just a moment longer than was strictly necessary to ensure she was steady.
Then the two of them made their way toward Mrs. Bevis’s tea salon.
It was a gentlemen’s establishment ordinarily, but open to all on Wednesdays, something he had only recently discovered in the course of his investigations into suitable venues for inconspicuous introductions.
The salon was already well occupied. It took him a moment to locate Whitcombe, but when he did, the man raised a hand in greeting.
He was a few years older than Gideon, with a touch of silver at his temples that lent him a distinguished air.
When he smiled the corners of his eyes creased in a way that made him look, Gideon had to admit, rather well.
He was top of the trees in every visible respect, and the sight of him smiling at Helena produced in Gideon a sudden and entirely unwelcome sensation that put his nose distinctly out of joint.
He composed himself. “Peter. Good to see you.”
“And you, Gideon.” Whitcombe’s gaze moved to Helena, and something in his expression shifted, not unpleasantly, but noticeably. “And you must be Lady Helena Vale. What a very great pleasure.” He bowed, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “I must say, you are bearing up remarkably well.”
Gideon blinked. Helena’s smile did not waver by a fraction.
“Lady Helena Vale,” Gideon said, completing the introduction with slightly more speed than was perhaps necessary. “And Peter Wakefield, Earl of Whitcombe.”
“A pleasure,” she said.
She glanced at Gideon with the expression that meant he was to remove himself immediately, and he remembered his promise. He made himself scarce.
He settled at a table by the window, ordered tea, and propped a newspaper in front of him.
He glanced over the top of it every now and again toward the corner where Whitcombe and Helena were seated.
Helena’s back was to him, which was inconvenient.
Whitcombe, however, he could see clearly and the man appeared to be doing most of the talking, with a manner that suggested he found the whole enterprise rather noble of himself.
He chuckled occasionally. He leaned forward with the attentive air of a physician at a bedside. At one point he patted Helena’s hand a way that made Gideon’s jaw tighten behind his newspaper.
Still, it did not look disastrous. Whitcombe seemed engaged. He seemed pleasant. Helena’s posture was straight and composed, which was either a good sign or the sign of a woman exercising extraordinary self-control with Helena, it was genuinely difficult to tell.
He was cautiously optimistic when, across the room, Helena’s hand moved to her ear. He watched it. She moved her hand from her ear along her neck and rested it against her collarbone. Perhaps she had simply been scratching. He had been inattentive. He could not be sure.
He watched. He waited.
Then the other hand came up, and she grabbed her earlobe and tugged it three times with some feeling behind it.
He set down the newspaper, noting, with some embarrassment, that he had managed to turn only a single page in half an hour, and cast about for a plan.
He waved over a young waiter. “Will you bring me a folded piece of paper,” he said quietly, “and hand it to me as though it arrived by messenger?”
The waiter stared at him. “A note, Your Grace?”
“A folded piece of paper. Tell me it has arrived by messenger. That is all.”
The young man went away looking thoroughly confused and returned two minutes later with a folded sheet.
“Your Grace,” he said then, clearly remembering his instructions, repeated it rather too loudly. “This note has arrived for you by messenger.”
“A note? For me?” Gideon said, matching the volume. “Thank you.” He unfolded the blank paper, made a show of reading it, and rose from his chair.
He crossed to their table. “I do beg your pardon, Whitcombe, but I am afraid I shall have to spirit Lady Vale away. Her daughter has taken ill.”
“Lavinia…” Helena said, and the genuine alarm in her voice made him close his eyes briefly in self-reproach.
“Nothing serious,” he said quickly. “But we must go at once.”
“Oh, the poor little mite,” Whitcombe said, rising with every appearance of warm concern.
“These things happen, I suppose, when one is managing alone. You are doing a remarkable job, Lady Helena truly remarkable, given everything.” He pressed her hand.
“Do not lose heart. Things have a way of coming right in the end.”
Helena smiled at him with such serene composure that Gideon almost believed she felt it.
“You are very kind,” she said. “You must excuse me.”
He bade Whitcombe a hasty farewell and followed her out. She was standing on the pavement, and as soon as he appeared at her side she rounded on him.
“What in heaven’s name…”
“There is nothing wrong with Lavinia,” he said quickly. “It was the only extraction method I could devise on short notice.”
“The only method…” She pressed her lips together.
“Never tell me my daughter is ill again,” she said, her voice low and controlled and considerably more frightening for it.
“I nearly suffered an apoplexy on the spot. And that was a whisker of the first order, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. When I said extract me, I assumed something rather more elegant might occur to you. You telling Lord Whitcombe we had another appointment, for example. Anything at all besides telling me my child is unwell.”
“Yes,” he said. “That was my first thought actually, but then…” He waved a hand. There was no good way to explain his thought process and he did not attempt it. “What happened? He seemed perfectly agreeable.”
“He is perfectly agreeable,” she said. “That is precisely the problem.”
Gideon looked at her.
“He spent the entirety of our conversation complimenting me on how well I was managing,” she said.
“How admirably I was bearing up. How remarkable it was that I retained my composure given my circumstances. How very fortunate Lavinia was to have such a devoted mother despite everything.” She paused, composing herself.
“He told me twice that he thought it very brave of me to be seen in society at all. He said, and I am quoting precisely, that many women in my position retreated, and that it spoke very well of my character that I had not.”
“He meant it kindly,” Gideon said.
“I am sure he did,” Helena said. “He is a kind man. A genuinely kind man who looks at me and sees a poor broken creature who has suffered a great misfortune and requires careful handling and a great deal of patient charity.” She met his eyes.
“I will not marry a man who pities me, Gideon. I would rather take my chances in the poorhouse.”
He was quiet for a moment. He thought of Whitcombe’s expression when Helena had walked in. He had noticed it himself and not quite understood what he was seeing. Now he did.
“You are right,” he said. “I am sorry. I should have seen it.”
She shook her head slightly, as though the apology was beside the point. “I want a husband who sees a woman sitting across from him. Not a charitable undertaking.” She said it without heat, but with a quiet certainty that settled the matter.
He handed her up into the carriage and climbed in after her, and they rode in silence for a little while. It was not an uncomfortable silence. It was the silence of two people who have understood something.
“There are better men,” he said at last, as they turned toward Bloomsbury. “I promise you. There are better men.”
She looked out of the window. “I hope you are right.”
“I will find you someone who sees you,” he said. “That I can promise.”
She did not reply to that. But something in the set of her shoulders shifted, very slightly, and he thought that she believed him.
He resolved firmly to do better.
Although he could not deny, sitting here now with the carriage rocking gently beneath him, that there was some small and thoroughly reprehensible part of him that was not sorry the meeting with Whitcombe had gone to pieces.
That thought, more than anything else that had happened today, was what ought to have worried him.
Because that would mean he cared for Helena beyond the bounds of what this arrangement required.
Which he absolutely did not.