Chapter Sixteen
Helen smoothed down the fabric of her ancient indigo gown, satisfied that adding a bit of lace had softened the appearance of what was a matronly neckline nearly worn with age.
Not that anyone at the theater would be looking in her direction.
Very few noticed the lady’s companions and chaperones moving about.
Stepping back and forth before the mirror, Helen eyed the hem of her gown for any sign of the tear she’d carefully mended.
Barely noticeable. She’d done a fine job with her needle and thread.
Again, no one would be looking at her hem. Or at Helen at all.
She was to be seated in the back of Galway’s box, behind his guests, which was perfect for Helen’s purposes.
And as the play commenced—she hadn’t any idea what the name of the play happened to be, nor did it matter—she would excuse herself to attend to personal matters and slip away.
Galway inferred the duke’s box was close to his own.
She would enter, confront the duke and threaten to expose him if he didn’t return the pendant. It was a decent plan.
Helen’s gloved fingers tightened with righteous indignation as she made her way down the stairs.
“Lord Galway and Lady Cerise await you in the carriage, Miss Cosgrove,” Park intoned as she passed.
There was a hint of accusation in his pale eyes as they followed her out the door, probably reconsidering his promise to stay silent about the pendant.
But she couldn’t be bothered by Galway’s lapdog at the moment.
Helen needed to focus all her attention on the matter at hand.
Confronting the Duke of Roxboro, accusing him of his crime and demanding, albeit discreetly, the return of the emerald pendant could go wrong quickly were she not careful.
His box was bound to be filled with guests and his new duchess.
She would threaten instant exposure if he didn’t return the pendant promptly.
He need not even confess, though Roxboro should at least apologize for the chaos he’d created with his little trick. That would be the honorable thing to do.
Once Roxboro relented, Helen would receive the pendant and slip it into the potted palm at the top of the landing, mere steps from Cerise’s rooms. She’d insist Kate search once more. The pendant would be found.
Helen had spent endless nights not sleeping and thinking of Roxboro. His manipulation of her at the Stout ball and in the park. Distracting her. Whispering to Helen that she reminded him of drippings of all things. He’d only wanted to know about the pendant.
“Truthfully,” she uttered under her breath. “I should have known then he had an ulterior motive. What duke would say such a thing?”
A distraction. That’s all I am.
And the connection she felt plucking at her skin? The longing?
Rubbish.
Helen settled across from Cerise and Galway, hands in the lap, placid expression on her features. Like the bloody sheep they both thought her to be. She must be careful not to arouse Galway’s suspicion concerning the pendant. Or that she wasn’t considering his offer of further employment.
“I nearly left you behind, Miss Cosgrove,” Lord Galway intoned, eyes flicking over the lace at her modest neckline. “Is that a new gown?” His gaze lingered. “Quite lovely.”
Cerise sniffed in annoyance.
Why wouldn’t she? Cerise had often claimed Helen’s figure to be that of a child which wasn’t true at all, she was only not…generously endowed. Either way, she didn’t merit or want Galway’s attention. She had a mission to complete.
She turned her head to the window, determined to ignore Galway. If he wished to ogle her non-existent bosom. Helen could hardly stop him.
The journey through the crowd gathered at the theater to Galway’s box seemed endless as every few feet Cerise or her father insisted on pausing to greet an acquaintance or gain an introduction.
Tedious at best. Then the pair would continue on their way, Helen trailing closely behind.
Entering Galway’s box, Helen could see that they’d barely arrived in time.
The curtain was going up on the performance.
Lord Lowell and his mother, the dowager countess, were already inside sipping champagne.
Lady Lowell had her son’s kind eyes and friendly, polite manner as she greeted them, but her smile faltered at Cerise. Clearly, she did not approve of her son’s choice in a wife.
Helen didn’t blame her.
But Lady Lowell seemed to like Galway well enough, taking his arm to escort her to her seat and chatting about a friend they had in common.
Helen’s place was at the back, a spot chosen by specifically by Galway because no one could enter or exit the box without first passing her, which was the entire point.
There would be no opportunity for Cerise to slip away and attempt to see Roxboro.
The displeasure on her charge’s face was so glaring, Helen nearly laughed.
That was likely the only entertainment she’d have tonight, given the dull play and enduring Galway.
Also, accusing a duke of theft wasn’t exactly steeped in amusement, but it would be satisfying to know Kate wouldn’t suffer Roxboro’s arrogance.
After another quarter of an hour of watching the dreadful performance on the stage, Helen stood and made her way quietly to Galway’s side.
“Please excuse me my lord. I need to see to matters of a personal nature.”
Galway turned away from Lady Lowell and rolled his eyes in exasperation. As if Helen’s bodily functions had been created solely to annoy him.
“I suppose. Hurry back, Miss Cosgrove. Remember your duties,” he breathed.
Helen bowed and hurried out. Once in the hall, she no longer strolled calmly but marched purposefully in the direction of Roxboro’s box, which Galway had earlier with a nod, pointed out to her.
She would have known regardless. Cerise’s slender form had arched dramatically as they passed Roxboro’s box, which Helen found to be both ridiculous and overly dramatic.
Approaching the door to the duke’s box, Helen took a deep breath, preparing herself to face Roxboro, a terrible human being but the only man who’d ever inspired passion in Helen.
I have the worst luck.
Had she been wise, she would return to Galway’s box and forget this ridiculous endeavor, but Kate’s life floated in the balance.
She couldn’t let that poor girl be accused of stealing something Roxboro had taken.
Helen had practiced a scathing speech, one meant to slash at the duke so that there was no misunderstanding of her feelings.
Despicable. He’s despicable.
Helen stepped inside the duke’s box, heart pounding at the audacity of a lady’s companion entering without an invitation. A footman stood by the door and she blatantly ignored him, striding further inside as if she belonged there.
“Madam,” the footman said, voice fraught with warning as he stumbled after her. “This is the Duke of Roxboro’s box. Are you an invited guest?”
“Hardly.”
“Then allow me to escort you to your own box.” He took her arm. “Perhaps you are lost.”
“I am not lost.” She dug her heel into his toe and wrenched herself free.
There he was. Just standing, shining with magnificence, like a beacon.
Her stunning lapse of judgement.
Helen pushed her way past an expensively dressed older matron who gasped at her rudeness. The lord at her side raised a brow and took another sip of brandy before escorting the woman to the front of the box. Two other heads turned in her direction.
She ignored them all and stepped boldly into his path so he couldn’t ignore her.
Little gnat indeed.
Roxboro was exquisitely turned out. Dressed to perfection.
Dare she say, ducal. Far more than any time she’d seen him previously.
Not one loose thread or button. Formal wear perfectly tailored to his lean form.
Cravat, elegantly twisted sporting a stickpin with a diamond the size of her thumb.
Hair slightly shorter than when she’d last seen him outside the modiste shop.
A wine glass dangled from one graceful hand, though he didn’t take one sip.
Bergamot caught in her nostrils, hovering in the air and subtly clinging to Roxboro.
A duke can change his shaving soap. Cut his hair. Find a new way to twist his cravat. Doesn’t change his character.
Even so, Helen sensed something wasn’t…quite right.
The tingle along her limbs she experienced in his presence was oddly absent. No hum which made her ache in his direction. He was both the same but different from the man who’d kissed her senseless in the park. So altered, Helen nearly didn’t speak, but luckily, she came to her senses.
“You.” She pointed a finger at him.
A lavishly garbed young woman, a bit plump and plain, stood just behind him—the new duchess, Helen’s mind whispered.
The duke exchanged glances with his duchess before giving Helen a bemused, slightly bewildered look. “I’m sorry, but have we been introduced?”
Have we been introduced? Yes, your mouth has been on mine you bloody cad.
Helen drew in a breath. Her temper, once so easily controllable, roared inside her. She wanted to slap at Roxboro. Kick him. Punch him in his wonderfully flat stomach. Not only for Kate but, Helen realized belatedly, for her.
There was nothing but confusion at Helen’s appearance and adoration for his duchess in Roxboro’s gaze. Difficult to miss. And the pain of it leached over her heart. Because horrible man that he was, depraved duke or not, Roxboro was clearly in love with his wife.
Her steps wobbled, dizzy at the knowledge. Why would he be out stealing. Seducing other women. Why—
“You are vile. I knew you were a libertine,” she finally spat out. “A rogue. But even for you, this is beyond the pale. It isn’t as if you need the money. Good lord.”
Not the speech she had practiced, which was a shame.
There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in Roxboro’s stunning eyes. Not so much as a hint he knew her.
The unease curling around her spine ratcheted up a notch.