Chapter 22
“The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy’s not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him.”
Knowing when to lie in wait and when to attack was a skill every good commander possessed. After all, it could take years of preparation in order to win a battle that lasted only minutes. Patience was the key to victory.
But waiting for Mrs. Sweete to return from her reconnaissance mission at the Pratts’ residence? Well, that was simply taking too long.
I had asked my chaperone to play the role of a spy and figure out what Sybella was planning next.
After Sybella mentioned having “more work to do,” I knew she was planning something nefarious.
If I was going to win the war, I had to be two steps ahead of my enemy.
It was a dangerous strategy, sending my lieutenant into the fray, but with only three days until my deadline, I had no choice.
Father was at the club, as usual. I was left home alone, sitting with my face pressed against my bedroom window overlooking Grosvenor Square. When I finally spotted Mrs. Sweete’s coach, I leapt off the windowsill, tripping on my skirt, and fled down the stairs to intercept her at the entrance.
“Well?” I said, flinging the door open.
She blinked at me. “Good afternoon to you too, Miss Weston.”
“What did you learn?”
Before she could answer, the butler came and took Mrs. Sweete’s hat and coat.
“Well?” I prodded.
Mrs. Sweete turned to the butler. “Perhaps a strong pot of tea in the parlor, please?”
“The parlor is being cleaned,” the butler muttered.
“Still?” I frowned. “But it’s already four in the afternoon. What have the maids been doing all morning?”
The butler and Mrs. Sweete exchanged looks, then he said, “We have only one maid now, Miss Weston.”
I stared at him. Father had let all the maids go but one? I hadn’t realized our funds had run so low. If I had accepted the baron’s proposal ten days ago, the maids would still have their posts.
I thought of the old woman who refused my shawl and her cutting words. People like you don’t actually care about us. You give us crumbs so you feel less guilty about feasting.
Guilt soured in my stomach. The maids had left, and I hadn’t even noticed. Perhaps the old woman had seen my soul more clearly than I thought possible.
I vowed then that once I had a marriage contract, I’d personally rehire every maid and repay them for what they’d lost. Hopefully they’d all be able to return soon, depending on what information Mrs. Sweete had collected.
“We’ll take the tea in the music room,” I said. “Come, Lieutenant Sweete. Let us convene the war council.”
Moments later, we were seated across from each other in the little sitting area next to the pianoforte. I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees.
“Well?”
Mrs. Sweete pulled out her needlework. “I had tea with Mrs. Abernathy, the cook. She was reluctant to talk directly about Sybella’s private affairs, but I did find out that Sybella is hosting a dinner tonight, one that you were not invited to.”
“I hardly have to guess who is invited to this dinner.”
“Mr. Hawke is the guest of honor, yes. But that’s not all. Mrs. Abernathy told me that Mr. Hawke was at Rosemont yesterday—and that he spoke privately with Mr. Pratt.”
“Privately? But that could mean…” I shoved the awful thought down.
There were plenty of reasons why two gentlemen would speak privately with one another.
It didn’t necessarily mean that Mr. Hawke had asked Mr. Pratt for Sybella’s hand in marriage.
It was a ludicrous thought. Besides, Edmond had never shown a glimmer of interest in Sybella.
Except when he called on her three times.
Or when he offered her a seat beside him at the opera.
Or when he gave her first pick of the horses.
I crumpled into a heap on the couch. “This whole ordeal has gotten out of hand. It’s like every time I make progress with Edmond, Sybella is there to tear it back down. And why? Because Mr. Knight happened to fall in love with me? It’s not like that’s my fault.”
“Hmm.”
I glared at her. “What could you possibly be hmm-ing about? It’s not like I went out of my way to capture Mr. Knight’s heart.”
“No,” Mrs. Sweete said slowly, “but you didn’t exactly dissuade him either.” She pulled a thread taut. “You’re a brilliant girl, Helena. But you don’t always see others as clearly as you see yourself.”
I pulled back. “What does that mean?”
Mrs. Sweete gave me a patient look. “It was quite obvious Sybella was in love with Mr. Knight. Didn’t you notice?”
“Of course I noti—” But the lie fell short.
The truth was that I hadn’t noticed. I had been so caught up with the foolish game of collecting as many proposals as possible last season that I hadn’t paid any mind to Sybella’s pursuits.
Perhaps I had, unintentionally, swept Mr. Knight up into my scheme without ever pausing to think who might be hurt in the process.
It made me wonder what else I had overlooked.
A knock came from the door.
“Come in,” I said, shoving down the growing feeling of guilt.
“You have a visitor, Miss Weston.” The butler set a tea tray on the table. “A Mr. Hawke.”
“Edm—Mr. Hawke? He’s here?” I leapt to my feet. “I’ll see him in the parlor.”
The butler frowned. “The parlor is—”
“Not clean, of course. Then… how about the library?”
“The library was to be cleaned after the parlor.”
“Then which room is clean, Mr. Brown?”
“This one, I’m afraid.”
I glanced at the pianoforte, my palms feeling moist. “Very well. Send him in here.”
As soon as the butler left, I hastily shoved all the sheet music into the bench, closed the fallboard, and pinched my cheeks to add some color to them. I sat down just as the door opened.
Edmond stepped through the doorway, tall and handsome as ever, his golden hair illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through the window. He carried a basket covered with a cloth, holding it awkwardly as he bowed.
“Helena,” he said. “Mrs. Sweete. How are you both this afternoon?”
“What’s in the basket?” I asked, entirely forgetting my manners.
He handed it to me with a lopsided smile. “A small thank you for everything you did regarding Mr. Fletcher.”
Underneath the folded cloth were three beautiful marzipan cakes, each with a delicate glaze that smelled deliciously of rosewater.
“You remembered.” I smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, well. My cook makes them every week. These were just some extras.”
“Hmm.”
I tossed Mrs. Sweete a grateful glance before she took her usual place on the opposite side of the room with her needlework. I then motioned for Edmond to sit in the chair across from me.
“Did all go well with the constable?” I asked. “He stopped by a few days ago—thank goodness Father was out. I answered his questions, but he didn’t answer any of mine.”
Edmond’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Fletcher is behind bars. I was able to find proof he had sold the stolen items. The evidence goes before the magistrate next week.”
“What will his sentence be?”
“The law is not kind to men like him. But I have asked the constable to undervalue the stolen goods, so as to avoid hanging.”
“Hanging? For theft?”
“I hold no great affection for the man, but he did provide for me during the first ten years of my life. The least I can do is send him off to prison, not his grave.”
My heart clenched at his words. Edmond’s mercy was not deserved, and yet he offered it freely.
“Is that all you came to say?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“I—” Edmond swallowed. “Yes.”
I raised my eyebrow. “I thought there was something you were about to tell me at the opera, before we were interrupted.”
“I, um, forgot.”
“You… forgot.” I stood and slowly made my way around the tea table. “Funny. You can recall, word-for-word, an article in The Times from five years ago about an obscure Italian silk weaver,” I stopped right beside him, “but you can’t remember what you wanted to tell me two days ago?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Funny, isn’t it?”
“Edmond.” I sat down right next to him, fully aware of how close to him I was sitting. “There are no secrets between us, remember?”
“It’s not a secret, Helena, it’s just—” He glanced down, as if noticing that I sat no more than an inch away from him. He immediately readjusted, pushing himself against the armrest of the couch in a polite but futile attempt to flee.
“Should I help you remember?” I asked, scooting closer. “Let’s see, you said there was something you’ve been meaning to tell me. And, if I remember correctly, you were holding my hand like this.”
I lifted his hand and interlaced our fingers. His skin was warm and callused. Edmond’s eyes widened at my boldness, but he didn’t let go. I willed my quickening heart to calm as I continued.
“Then,” I traced circles over his hand with my thumb, “I believe I asked, ‘What is it?’ and you muttered something or other about being impatient and unable to withhold it anymore.”
I glanced up at him—only to find him already looking at me. He had gone completely still, but something fierce swirled behind his eyes.
“Does any of that sound familiar to you?” I breathed.
The room seemed to fall away until only Edmond remained.
I was distantly aware that Mrs. Sweete sat somewhere in the corner, no doubt glaring at my impropriety, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
All my attention was fixed on the man before me—on the careless sweep of hair across his brow, the faint parting of his lips, the scant inches between us where our breath mingled as one.
I leaned toward him, aching to close that final distance, to erase the space that kept us apart.
His eyes flickered down to my lips. A heat unlike any I’d ever felt before rolled through me, and for one breathless moment I thought—no, I knew—that he would kiss me.
Mrs. Sweete loudly cleared her throat.