Chapter 7
Helena immediately wished she could call back her words. Admitting her powers to Cynthia felt intrinsically wrong.
Since childhood, she had lived by three unbreakable rules:
Don’t reveal your powers to anyone outside of kin and coven.
Don’t trust anyone outside of kin and coven.
Don’t love anyone outside of kin and coven.
She just broke one of her rules with Cynthia. But when the woman leaned forward to ask her question, hazel eyes as mysterious as a dark forest, vanilla and honeysuckle pouring from her like some kind of love spell, Helena lost all sense.
A forbidden memory of the last time she trusted an outsider flashed in her mind.
Helena was running from her home, running from her mother as blood dripped down her arm.
Her sweet, gentle mother had become something else.
Something terrifying and twisted. Helena stumbled on the uneven dirt path as she pumped her little legs harder.
Aunt Rowan’s was a fifteen-minute walk from their cottage in the woods; surely she could run there in five.
But when she got there, Aunt Rowan was gone.
‘The village… she must have been called to the village.’
She pulled the water from the air and rushed forward on a wave of power made even more potent by her fear. She nearly crashed into Old Mrs Campbell. Her eyes widened at the sight of a girl running on a river of water that disappeared like mist in a moment. She caught Helena before she could fall.
‘Yer bleedin’, lass. What the devil is wrong?’
In her sheer panic, she told Mrs Campbell everything, and in the telling, destroyed her entire world.
‘You’ve gone pale, Miss Blair. Are you well?’
Helena blinked, dispelling the forbidden memory.
She forced a brittle smile, ignoring the concern in Cynthia’s gaze.
The last thing she needed was pity from a woman facing the possibility of a hangman’s noose.
‘I’m perfectly fine. It’s you who should be worried.
If you’re keeping any secrets, your thoughts will betray you, Lady Burrows. ’
Cynthia’s eyebrows winged up. Helena saw the flutter of her pulse beat madly against the delicate skin just under her jaw. Concern was quickly replaced by the flash of challenge in Cynthia’s eyes, more green than brown today. ‘What secrets am I thinking now, Miss Blair?’
Uncle Lachlan shifted, the creaking of his chair reminding Helena that she wasn’t alone with Cynthia.
Once again, the entire world had disappeared until it was just the two of them.
What dark magic was at play that Helena would forget everything except Cynthia’s soft voice and sharp questions?
Questions that Helena could not answer. Because she had no clue what thoughts ran riot in Cynthia’s mind.
Damn her for testing me!
Before she embarrassed herself by admitting the truth, she pivoted to the attack. ‘You never returned the locket. It’s evidence in the case. We’ll need it back.’
‘You never asked me to return it.’ Cynthia slipped her hand in a fold of her skirt, pulling free the damning jewellery. She let it dangle from her fingers, the rubies glinting in the sunlight. ‘I lied to you yesterday.’
Impossible!
Alarm winged through Helena. She always knew when someone lied. Until now. ‘You are admitting that you didn’t tell us the truth?’
‘I’m admitting that I didn’t know the truth, and thus inadvertently misled you.’
‘Miss Burrows, you’ll pardon my bluntness, but what the hell are ye on abou’? Lying to the Superintendent of Scotland Yard hardly bodes well for ye in a murder case.’
‘Not when my lie implicated me in his murder, and the truth will help to set me free.’ Cynthia’s triumphant smile cracked something hard and cold around Helena’s chest.
She pressed the edge of the locket, and it sprang open. Inside were two miniature portraits.
Helena leaned closer. Hamlet, who was curled next to her side, cocked his head in interest.
‘This is not my necklace.’ Cynthia offered the evidence to Helena. ‘At least, not any more.’
Snatching it from her hand, she squinted at the two faces within. ‘That is your husband.’ Helena brushed her thumb over a miniature of Lord Hubert.
‘Yes, but the woman opposite is most certainly not me.’
Superintendent MacDougal stood, strode across the room on powerful legs, and took the necklace from his niece. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘When he gave me that locket, more than ten years ago, my face was opposite his.’
Uncle Lachlan’s dark-brown eyes sharpened. ‘He gave your locket to someone else. Do you recognise this woman?’
Cynthia’s smile faltered. ‘No. I don’t. I suppose it could be any number of his mistresses. I’m no idiot. I know my husband philandered with all manner of women. Perhaps this lady caught his particular fancy. Or mayhap the trinket meant as little to him as I did. It’s hard to say.’
Anger rose in Helena like a rogue wave. How dare he treat his wife with such callous disregard? To take a gift he’d given her in their courtship to a mistress was wilfully cruel. She might not like Cynthia, but no woman deserved to be humiliated by her husband in such a manner.
‘Would he have anything in his possession that might aid us in locating this, er, friend of his?’ Uncle Lachlan’s cheeks darkened. He was clearly struggling to talk around the awkwardness of Lord Burrows’ blatant infidelity.
Shrugging, Cynthia lifted her teacup to her lips but didn’t sip. The tremor in her hand betrayed her nerves. This wasn’t as easy as she was pretending. ‘He has a safe in his room. We could start there.’
‘Do you have the key?’ Helena stood. Hamlet hopped down, waiting expectantly next to her.
Cynthia’s brittle laughter answered the question.
‘Hardly. But his valet will know where he kept it. I asked him to help pack Hubert’s things.
Come.’ She stood and gracefully swept out of the room.
Helena and Uncle Lachlan followed her into the hall, up the wide stairwell to the third floor, then down a long corridor with portraits lining the wall.
The last painting was of Hubert and Cynthia.
It must have been commissioned soon after their wedding.
The artist was skilled at his craft. He captured the hope blazing in Cynthia’s hazel eyes.
And the smug ownership in Hubert’s smile.
Helena’s hatred for the dead man grew.
Cynthia opened the door at the end of the hall and juddered to a halt. Helena ran into her, grabbing Cynthia’s hips to steady them both. It was an unconscious reaction, but acute awareness pulsed through Helena as their bodies collided.
Uncle Lachlan cursed low and foul.
A young man, bowler hat pulled low over his eyes, poorly fitting suit hiding his shape, froze.
He was holding a painting he’d just removed from the wall.
Behind the painting was the steel glint of Hubert’s safe.
The valet sat on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, and a gag was in his mouth.
When he saw them standing in the doorway, he began making a concerted and frantic racket while writhing to escape.
‘Don’t move!’ Uncle Lachlan shouted.
Fucking hell! The Devil’s going to kill me for sure if I come back without it.
The thief’s thoughts were so loud, Helena flinched.
The man threw the painting at them. With admirable athleticism, he raced across the room to the open window and scuttled out.
Uncle Lachlan leapt over the broken painting and hurried to the window, Helena on his heels.
The young lad scaled down the brick wall with such speed, he was almost on the ground by the time Helena reached the window.
She pooled her powers, throwing a blast of water that tumbled the boy across the manicured lawn, inadvertently aiding his escape.
He recovered his feet and dove through the hedges before she could lobby a second attack.
‘Blasted hell!’ This felt like losing, and she didn’t like losing.
Uncle Lachlan turned and rushed into the hall, yelling for assistance as his footsteps pounded down the stairs.
Knowing Uncle Lachlan had a far better chance of catching the lad without Helena slowing him down, she turned from the window to assess whether the thief had managed to open the safe.
Cynthia crouched on the floor next to the valet and struggled with the rope binding his wrists together.
Hamlet sat next to her. He sniffed the valet’s ear as the poor man flinched away.
‘He won’t hurt you, Lawrence. He’s a lovely fox, aren’t you?’ Cynthia spared Hamlet a sweet smile. The fox curled his lip in a snarl. ‘Ah. Right. Sorry. He’s a wild and fearsome creature who won’t hurt you because of his impressive self-control.’
Helena refused to be charmed by Cynthia.
Joining the woman, she crouched down and worked on the gag, which appeared to be a pillowcase twisted and forced between his teeth, then tied around his head.
‘You poor man! What happened?’ Cynthia asked.
Helena untied the knot in the pillowcase just as Cynthia was able to loosen the rope around his wrists.
The valet helped pull the gag away and rubbed his raw wrists.
‘I was in his lordship’s closet when I heard scuffling.
I came out to investigate and that bastard – pardon my language, Lady Burrows – but that bastard was standing there, a pistol pointing at my chest. He made me get the key to the safe and tied me up, telling me he’d shoot me if I made a sound.
Thank God he put his pistol away to take down the painting.
He could have killed you both.’ The valet’s eyes grew wide, his face paling.
Cynthia looked over the valet’s head to Helena. Her eyes were all the colours of the forest. Green leaves with veins of brown. Golden streaks blending with grey. Helena could spend eternity categorising their exact shade.
‘Your uncle is chasing the culprit! We must warn him that the man is armed.’