Chapter Twelve
Helen exited the carriage and followed Cerise into Madame Laurent’s, one of London’s pre-eminent modistes, at least, for this Season.
Having the daughter of a marquess frequent her establishment was something of a coup for Madame Laurent so Cerise was fawned over as if she were royalty.
Bathing in her own self-importance, the girl nodded as she entered the shop, pausing only to pose and flutter her hands.
Helen wanted to push her into a bolt of fabric.
“I don’t need you trailing at my heels, Miss Cosgrove,” Cerise stated. “Amuse yourself by looking at hats or ribbons while I confer with Madame.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Helen wandered over to the counter, peering at the ribbons and lace on display. She ran her fingers over a length of deep blue piping, thinking how the color would freshen one of her oldest gowns. But the cost was more than she dared spend.
She chuckled under her breath. There wasn’t enough piping, lace, or ribbon in the entire city to salvage her wardrobe.
Every bit of clothing Helen owned had been purchased when she’d still been companion to Enid, who had been somewhat generous when the mood struck her.
Galway had never offered Helen a clothing allowance, insisting her wages were more than adequate.
They were not.
But even had she wanted to spare the coin, Helen would have resisted. Between Cerise’s stupidity and threats, not to mention the lack of trust in Lord Galway, Helen was terrified to spend a single farthing. Cerise was far too determined about Roxboro.
Roxboro. Her lips pressed together.
Helen’s life hadn’t been blissful exactly, but at least matters were tolerable until his arrival. Now Cerise was threatening her in addition to Galway and the future she’d planned so hard for seemed further away than before.
This was entirely the duke’s fault.
Roxboro was wed now if the paper she’d hidden in her skirts and taken from Cerise’s room was correct.
Even now he was headed to his country estate, new bride in tow.
According to what she’d read, Roxboro wouldn’t return to London for weeks, uncaring of the havoc he’d wreaked on Helen and her future.
And why would he?
Her finger trailed over a length of Belgian lace, pretending to be absorbed in the pattern, which was lovely and likely took weeks to create.
Roxboro dismissed her in the park. Pushed her aside like a pebble under his shoe.
Helen had a terrible habit of assuming she was of some importance to others.
A flaw of hers. She knew this, but still, all she could see was Roxboro.
Literally.
Helen blinked. Roxboro was still there. Staring at her through Madame Laurent’s front window. She glanced around the modiste shop which wasn’t crowded. No one else seemed to see the Duke of Roxboro standing just outside.
He tilted his head, motioning for her to come out.
Shocked, Helen stuttered, “I believe I’ll get some air,” to one of Madame’s assistants. “Should Lady Cerise require me. I’ll be just outside.” She bustled out the front door, wondering if she was hallucinating. She must be. The papers said Roxboro had gone to the country.
Stepping outside, she peered down the street, but saw no one, only an elderly gentleman with a dog.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Helen was about to re-enter the modiste shop when her skirts caught on something.
Not something. Someone.
“Come here, little gnat,” the raspy whisper came from the entrance of a shop beside Madame Laurent’s. A tobacconist who was closed due to illness, according to the sign on the door.
“What—” she at Roxboro. “Are you doing here? You are just wed and should be in the country.”
“I forgot my trunks,” he whispered back, eyes shining down at her like bits of lichen stuck to a rock. “I had to return for them.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.” The last word came out in a little shriek as he pulled her into the dim recess of the doorway. Helen’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. “You claimed you would never approach me again.”
“I don’t recall.” He grinned at her, absolutely breathtaking and far too sure of his welcome.
Roxboro’s proximity to her caused that persistent, insidious hum to slide under her skirts, stroking Helen in the most tempting way. “Won’t your new duchess notice your absence?”
“You are overly concerned with my duchess.”
“I think someone should be.” No matter how Helen tried to stop it, that glorious tingle echoing over her skin, heat searing her from where his fingers touched Helen’s waist. She leaned closer, before catching herself, and pulling away, eyes widening at the sight of his…
coat? Gaudy and trimmed in gold piping. Worn at the edges. Not ducal at all.
Roxboro’s fingers tightened, sliding to caress Helen’s hip through the fabric of her dress. The touch was possessive. Intimate. Just like the connection that had so unexpectedly sprung up between them. Felt first at the Stout ball and now blossoming with each meeting.
“Your circumstances have not changed,” she stated bluntly, alluding to the words he’d spoken to her in the park. “Nor should you be here.”
“Nothing is exactly as it seems, little gnat,” he said quietly, his lips brushing along her temple, sending small shocks of pleasure down her spine.
“And you are correct in both instances.” His fingers slid into her skirts, tugging gently.
“I needed to see you. Against my better judgement.” Mouth ghosting over her cheek, the tip of his tongue licked at her skin.
Helen sagged against him, already intoxicated and Roxboro hadn’t even kissed her.
“Miss Cosgrove.” Margarite, Madame’s assistant walked outside looking for her. “Miss Cosgrove.”
“We’ll be seen,” Helen murmured, turning in the direction of the modiste shop once more, though her heart leapt at his words. “Go away.” She kept her eyes on Margarite, hoping the girl wouldn’t wander in the direction of the tobacconist’s shop.
The light touch on her skirts receded. The ache at his nearness abruptly disappeared.
She spun about to see that Roxboro had gone, vanishing like morning mist. Helen peered down the alley between the two buildings, but there was nothing except a bit of dust and mud. Pity he was a duke. Roxboro had the fine makings of a thief with his manner of moving about so silently.
Helen breathed through her nose. Several times. Until the blush felt on her cheeks faded away. She prayed Madame’s assistant hadn’t seen her with Roxboro, but there was nothing in the girl’s face to suggest it.
“I’m here, Margarite,” Helen said, waving. “I walked down the street a bit. It’s such a lovely day, don’t you agree?”
Margarite inclined her head, looking up at the clouding sky. “If you say so, Miss Cosgrove,” she said, ushering Helen inside. “Lady Cerise requests your opinion on her new gown for the Sopwitch ball.”
“She did?” Helen said, surprised. Cerise rarely asked her opinion on anything. “I mean, yes, of course.”
A smile tilted the girl’s lips. “This way, Miss Cosgrove.”
*
Fletcher curled deeper into the recesses of the alley beside the tobacconist’s shop, pulling his hat lower to hide his features. Just as he hadn’t intentionally sought out Miss Cosgrove in Hyde Park, he hadn’t today either. But fate kept bringing her into his orbit all the same.
Strolling out of The Dancing Swan, he had announced, somewhat loudly so that Ripps might hear, that he was going to meet a tavern, then mumbled the name. He did indeed stop at the Crown and Cock, paid for a room laughing that his ladybird would be by, and slipped out the back.
Best way to avoid one of Lark’s boys who was following him.
Dangerous to leave The Devil’s Acre, with Mrs. Bean so ill and Ripps poking about, but Fletcher needed to pay a call on his solicitor who had an office off Bond Street and while Lark and his minions were unlikely to follow him this far, he didn’t want to take the risk.
Ah, but then his unwanted obsession appeared.
Heart thudding duly in his chest, Fletcher caught sight of Miss Cosgove’s small form, dutifully following that cabbage-headed twit into the dressmakers, after leaving the solicitor. And though he’d vowed to stay away from Miss Cosgrove, watching her through a window didn’t count.
Until she saw him and came running outside.
Fletcher shouldn’t have stayed, but he did.
He’d hidden in the shadows of the closed tobacconist’s shop.
Miss Cosgrove came to him, trembling with her cheeks flushed, pleased to see him and not wanting to show it.
Spouting nonsense about the duke and his new duchess, until Fletcher had wanted to scream he wasn’t Roxboro.
Miss Cosgrove was unlikely to find the alternative more pleasing.
She had strong moral fiber, his little gnat. A firm sense of right and wrong which was why she so reluctantly succumbed to Roxboro. He liked that about her. A woman who stood her ground. Unfortunately, that didn’t bode well for the future of their relationship.
Miss Cosgrove longed not only for him, or rather, Roxboro, but for a life of her own choosing not dictated by circumstance. Just as Fletcher did. Which would have made them an excellent match save for the small problem of him being a bit of a killer and a thief.
A few fancy gents paused when they noticed Fletcher, his coat and scuffed boots marking him far beneath their snooty noses. At least with the clothing and his hat pulled low, no one mistook him for Roxboro.
“A shame because I like being a duke.” One toff eyed Fletcher as if he were apple peelings someone left to rot.
Quickening his pace, he tried not to think of Miss Cosgrove, how she smelled of sunshine and tasted of sin. How much he wanted the promise of her, though he shouldn’t. Not as Roxboro and certainly not as Fletcher Bean.
His heart, however, felt differently. Which was inconvenient.
Skirting around a wagon carrying a stack of crates, he started whistling and headed back to The Devil’s Acre, wondering if Miss Cosgrove would mind living in a broken-down manor house in St. Osyth.