Chapter Three

I f Mark had hoped to live quietly in London, he'd been much mistaken. Since he became Lord Inverness, matchmaking mothers seemed to jump out of the woodwork to introduce him to their daughters. Brothers and fathers wanted to befriend him at gentlemen's clubs, only to mention that they happened to have a most beautiful and accomplished sister or daughter, with a good dowry, whom they would like him to meet.

He tried to put them off with talk of enjoying his bachelorhood. Mark could hardly explain that his anatomy did not work properly since the war and that he could not perform a husband's duties. Nor did he have the emotional capacity to tie his soul to another's. His heart was a dry well and he did not wish for company in his misery.

Mark shook his head. The same people would have discouraged his suit a few years ago as a fortune-hunting second son. He was used to people toad-eating his elder brother, Jamie, because he had a title and a solvent estate. How he wished his brother were still alive. He would have laughed at Mark's predicament and perhaps helped him find the humour in it as well.

Even the London house had not met Mark's expectations. His family had let it for over ten years since his father's death. Jamie hadn't had any interest in visiting. Either the tenants or his servants had quite let the property go. The back garden was an overgrown jungle. All the walls inside the house were stained with smoke. The carpets had scorch holes in them. The curtains were all ragged and the linens full of tears.

He had no choice but to dismiss all the servants and hire new ones, as well as a range of tradesman to remove and replace the carpets and wash or wallpaper the walls. He also had the foreman move the master bedchamber to the back parlour on the ground floor. It was difficult to go up the stairs with his wooden leg.

The inside of his house was a cacophony of workers.

He had to escape.

Limping to the back door, he carried a chair out into the long grass of the garden. There was a crooked tree that gave quite a bit of shade. He placed the chair under it and took out his sketching book. In Scotland, he'd loved to go bird watching and to draw the ones he saw. He doubted he would see much variety of birds in London. The sky was mostly grey with smoke from all the chimneys.

He looked up at the tree and saw a common red robin, sticking out his breast as if to challenge the world. Mark began to sketch the fellow's chest and then the tail feathers, claws and, lastly, his face and beak. If the bird could survive in such an inhospitable city, perhaps it was not so common after all. The robin squawked as if it understood his thoughts. But, no, he was claiming his territory from another bird.

Mark had to blink a few times to assure himself of what he was seeing.

The bird flying around his garden was not indigenous to England. It was a beautiful, brightly coloured, tropical bird. The chest was a golden yellow and the wingspan was wide. Scribbling furiously, Mark tried to capture this exotic creature. The bird's beak was black and curved like a hooked nose. The back of the bird was turquoise blue and there was a tuft of green feathers on the head. Around the eyes, the feathers were white and possibly black.

It had to be a parrot or a macaw.

But what was a macaw doing in London?

Sketching the claws, he saw that the bird was missing his left foot, like himself. He dropped his pencil. The macaw had successfully scared the robin away and was circling around him, before landing on the armrest of his chair.

‘Pegleg. Pegleg.'

Mark glanced down at his legs. His wooden leg was hidden inside his trousers. It was not apparent that he was missing the lower half of it. He even wore a matching boot on the fake foot.

‘Mademoiselle Jaune, you come back here right now!' a feminine voice called from over the fence directly south of him. ‘You're not supposed to leave the conservatory.'

The macaw made a trilling sound. ‘Small treasure chest. Small treasure chest.'

‘Stop calling me that.'

He glanced over his shoulder and saw a young woman climbing over the top of the five-foot stone fence. Her hair streamed down her back in the palest shades of blonde. Nearly white. Her skin was practically translucent and the delicate white gown that she wore was spun like gossamer. Her shape from the back was willowy, but quite lovely as well. So much so that he longed to see her face.

The phantom itch returned. The need to scratch his long-gone leg.

What was he thinking? Fairy, woman or witch. She certainly wasn't for him. No female was. And he didn't even wish to speak to her. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and pretended to be asleep just as he heard her feet land on the grass behind him.

‘You naughty, naughty bird,' the voice said. It was polished and aristocratic. He could tell that she was used to giving orders.

The macaw's wings flapped, causing Mark's hair to stir. ‘You naughty. Naughty. Naughty.'

‘I am not going to exchange insults with a bird. If you don't come at once, I am going to feed you to Theodosia.'

‘Pegleg. Small treasure chest. Pegleg. Small treasure chest.'

Mark resolutely kept his eyes closed, mortified that the bird had known about his missing limb. If he just pretended to be asleep, maybe the beautiful young woman would disappear over the back fence the same way that she'd come.

‘He does rather look like a pirate, Mademoiselle Jaune,' she said in a softer tone of voice.

His black hair was too long and he hadn't allowed his valet to shave his face in several days. He let his hair grow to cover the long scar on the edge of his left jaw.

She leaned over him and glanced at the sketchbook in his lap. The young woman was certainly not shy of strangers.

‘Oh, what excellent illustrations,' she exclaimed. ‘Do wake up, sir. I know that you are not sleeping. I have five siblings and I can tell when someone is only pretending.'

Chagrined, Mark reluctantly opened his eyes. He'd been wrong. She wasn't merely beautiful, she was as ephemerally delicate as the morning dew. Her form was slender, but not without gentle curves in the right places. Her white dress was stained with dirt from her climbing. Her eyes were the lightest blue he'd ever seen and she moved with the grace of a bird. If she hadn't taken his sketching book, he'd have been half tempted to draw her, for she seemed otherworldly.

Then she smiled at him. It was blinding in its intensity and heat collected in his belly for the first time in years. ‘I'm Helen. I see that you've already met Mademoiselle Jaune. She's a complete rascal. I can only blame her upbringing. She belonged to a horrible man in a rookery before Papa purchased her and tried to set her free, but she was too domesticated at that point.'

Mark knew he should stand up and bow to her, but he didn't want her to know about his leg. He didn't want this beautiful fairy creature who made his blood hot to pity him like the other women did. And he didn't give his surname or his title. He was never going to see her again anyway. ‘I'm Mark.'

‘Have you ever sketched snakes, Mark?'

He could only blink at her. Was this some sort of hallucination brought on by the laudanum? But he hadn't taken it in weeks. It didn't numb the chronic pain, nor stop him from waking up soaked in sweat from his nightmares of the war.

She laughed, a floating sound that trilled in the air. ‘Maybe you were actually asleep after all. But since I've already awoken you, I might as well continue. I am Helen Stringham and I'm publishing a book on snakes and I do believe that your sketches would improve the work. Pictures can be so much more helpful than words.'

His entire body tightened at the thought of spending more time with her. He rubbed his eyes, still half convinced that this was all a fever dream. ‘You're publishing a book on snakes?'

Helen grinned, nodding her head. ‘Actually, Gibbs and Thomas are the publishers. I wrote it, though. And I think that snake illustrations would greatly improve it. Would you be interested in drawing them?'

‘Snakes?' he repeated stupidly.

‘Yes.'

Mark should not spend more time with her. She was a lady and he had no interest in becoming her suitor. ‘No.'

Helen gestured around the overgrown garden. ‘By the looks of things, you shouldn't say no either.'

‘I don't need your money.'

Or your pity.

She sighed, shrugging her narrow shoulders. ‘All right. I shan't pay you in coins, but in garden work.'

‘I doubt you've done a day's work in your life, my lady,' he scoffed.

‘You would be wrong.' Helen took off her gloves and showed him the calluses on her hands. ‘One does not become a leading naturalist on snakes by staying inside. I will return tomorrow with my snake, Theodosia, and I will tame your back garden while you draw her.'

Mark opened his mouth to tell her no for a second time, but she'd already reached out an arm out for the macaw, who dutifully hopped on it. Helen didn't wait for his answer, but walked to the fence, lifting her pet over first, before stepping on a tree branch and scaling it as easily as a staircase. He felt a tingling at the back of his neck as his blood gathered most inconveniently in uncomfortable places. Apparently, he was not dead quite yet.

And the fairy queen would be back.

‘Where have you been, Helen?' her mother asked.

Helen lifted her arm for the macaw to fly away inside the greenhouse room at the back of their town home. ‘Mademoiselle Jaune escaped from the conservatory and I had to go and retrieve her.'

Mama shook her head. ‘You're covered in mud from head to toe. Come, you must have a bath before your presentation to the Queen.'

She dutifully followed her mother and spent the next three hours being poked, pinned, prodded and covered in tall feathers like a bird. She couldn't help but think of their mercurial neighbour, Mark. He had made her heart beat most irregularly. Maybe he would like her now that she was covered in white feathers. He seemed quite interested in birds, but not in her. Blushing, she remembered how handsome he was, so unlike the other men of her acquaintance. His appearance was rumpled and careless. His manners non-existent. He'd not even stood in her presence, like a peer would.

Perhaps he truly was a pirate. The idea thrilled her. He was so much more intriguing than the buffoons dressed in pastel coats with their high shirt collars, who were looking for society wives to become hostesses for their guests and mothers for their progeny.

The door to the room burst open and her elder sisters came in. Both Mantheria and Frederica were dressed in the same outrageous court gowns with feathers, stoles and hoops. The elderly Queen Charlotte insisted that ladies dress in the same fashions as their grandmothers had for court and they were ridiculous.

‘You two look like tiered cakes,' Helen said.

Frederica laughed, kissing her cheek. ‘Thank you! I know that I look good enough to eat.'

‘Don't encourage her, Helen,' Mantheria said, half smiling. ‘I am in the same carriage as her and Samuel and the way they look at each other is enough to make one blush scarlet.'

Helen couldn't help but grin. The Horrible Samuel of their childhood had somehow turned into a handsome young duke who doted on her sister. Frederica and Samuel were always kissing or quarrelling, sometimes at the same time. They played and loved roughly like a pair of foxes in spring.

‘Did you bring Arthur down from the nursery?' Helen asked.

Her one-year-old nephew was adorably roly-poly, with the chubbiest cheeks that you couldn't help but kiss.

Frederica shook her head. ‘Samuel offered to stay home with him, but Nurse wouldn't stand for it. I've finally found someone who intimidates my husband.'

Mantheria giggled. ‘Nurse?'

Eyes dancing, Frederica nodded.

Sighing, Helen said, ‘I'll happily stay home with them as well.'

Frederica and Mantheria each took one of her arms and marched her to the door. Older sisters were overbearing that way.

Mantheria squeezed her elbow. ‘You're not getting out of your presentation to the Queen.'

Frederica gave her a sympathetic grin. ‘Don't forget your bargain with Mama. You have to go to every event she says, if you hope to marry your curate and live an idyllic life in the country.'

‘Very well,' Helen said, frowning. ‘But I don't have to like it.'