Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

EVELINE/HELENA

One hour prior

T hey haven't found me.

Helena repeated the phrase over and over in her head, pressing her body flush against the front door as though her physical strength was enough to prevent the nightmare from reoccurring. Chest heaving, she slid down the wood, collapsed on the floor, and dragged her trembling knees to her chest.

After weeks of crafting a new identity and reinserting herself into society, everything dashed to smithereens with the—potential—appearance of Selina Drummond, who would most certainly inform her brother she'd discovered his wayward fiancée hiding in Wiltshire.

If it even was Humphrey's sister…

Peeking through one of the beveled diamonds accenting an elaborately carved window beside the door, Helena held her breath, her gaze sliding over the fluffy white grounds.

There was no one outside.

She swallowed, unable to shake the foreboding sensation coating her stomach. By the time she'd reached the street, shoving aside the Duke of Lennox in her haste to confirm whether the apparition was Selina or merely a fabrication of imagination, the woman had vanished, leaving Helena questioning her sanity… and the Duke of Lennox questioning her upbringing.

Not that she considered herself worthy of his attention, having discounted herself upon learning his rank, but he was a kind man, and that alone elevated him in her esteem. He appeared genuinely concerned for her this afternoon, and while she appreciated his agreeable nature, she was quite certain he didn't harbor the same attachment she felt toward him.

"You didn't come here to become a duchess." Her stern voice echoed softly in the foyer.

"Why did you?" Miss Webb asked, drawing a scream from Helena.

Helena's head whipped around, her gaze landing on Miss Webb, who, hovering between the hallway and the parlor, clutched a chair and stared at her.

"To gain new acquaintances," Helena said, rising from the floor with as much dignity as she could muster.

"And if you happen to marry a duke…" Miss Webb winked and disappeared into the parlor.

Helena scrambled after her. "I have no intention of marrying."

"Neither did the Duke of Roxburghe," Miss Webb replied, setting the final chair down and shoving it into position.

"How did you sway his mind?" Helena asked, hoping her question sounded indifferent.

It didn't.

Miss Webb glanced over her shoulders as though ensuring they were alone and gestured for Helena to step closer. "What I'm about to share, you cannot divulge to anyone else."

"A secret?" Miss Fernsby-Webb, her eyes glowing, glided through the doorway, holding a silver tray laden with assorted sweet pies. "Involving who?"

"The Duke of Roxburghe," Helena replied, keeping her voice low.

After setting the tray on a table near the large window facing the street, Miss Fernsby-Webb spun with a grin. "What scandalous act has the Duke of Roxburghe recently committed?"

"It wasn't recent," Miss Webb said and flicked her wrist, indicating for both ladies to join her on the far side of the room.

Once they were huddled in the corner, Miss Webb, her voice barely louder than a whisper, added, "And it involves four more dukes."

Gasping, Helena pressed her hands to her mouth. "Whatever did they do?"

"They made a wager to avoid marriage for the season."

"I don't understand." Miss Fernsby-Webb frowned, her visible confusion matching that of Helena's. "The Duke of Roxburghe is engaged to you."

Miss Webb's eyes flicked to the doorway when the housekeeper entered the parlor, and she shook her head.

She didn't speak again until Mrs. Hawkins deposited a tray of cold meats and departed. "He purposefully lost the wager with his friends to win his bet with me."

"You bet a duke?" Pride punctuated Miss Fernsby-Webb's question.

"I only made the wager to rescue you." Miss Webb crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin into a defiant pose. "Had Mother not accused you of theft, the desperate choice wouldn't have been necessary."

"What did you wager?" Miss Fernsby-Webb asked before Helena could voice the same curious question.

Miss Webb's cheeks flushed light pink, and she dropped her arms. "I bet the Duke of Roxburghe that he couldn't find me a fiancé with a specific set of qualities by the end of the season."

"And…"

"He did." Cupping her hand around her mouth, Miss Webb leaned toward them. "However, his proposal cost him ten thousand."

They fell silent again when Mrs. Hawkins' footsteps echoed in the corridor. Before she entered the parlor, Helena darted across the room and held out her arms, taking possession of a large, silver punch bowl.

Turning in a slow half-circle, her eyes on the sloshing liquid, Helena prayed she didn't end up coated in the pungent beverage, whose scent would follow her for days. She took a steadying breath, slid one foot toward the reception table, and paused, then repeated the action with her back foot until she reached the edge of the table and set down the bowl.

Miss Fernsby-Webb exhaled a giggle. "I never doubted your ability, Miss Rowe."

"I'm grateful one of us didn't," she said, echoing Miss Fernsby-Webb's nervous chuckle as she crossed the room.

"Now," Miss Fernsby-Webb spun and advanced on her sister. "Why did a proposal to you cost the Duke of Roxburghe ten thousand?"

"That was the sum of the wager between his friends." Miss Webb scooted around Miss Fernsby-Webb, heading toward a cupboard beside the linen press where Helena arranged cups on a tray.

Her sister grabbed her arm. "How much would he have lost to you?"

"Five."

"Hundred?"

"Thousand." Miss Webb shook off her sister. "But he doesn't have to lose anything. If his friends also become engaged before the end of the season, no man would win the bet."

"How do you intend to convince four dukes to propose in less than six months?" Miss Fernsby-Webb chased Miss Webb to the walnut cupboard and stopped her from grabbing the tray of cups. "Nora?"

Miss Webb chewed her lower lip. "I was hoping you'd help me."

"Me?" Poking herself in the chest, Miss Fernsby-Webb took a rather large step backward.

"Both of you, actually." Miss Webb glanced at Helena, offering a sheepish smile.

Helena shook her head, wishing she, too, could back away from Miss Webb. "I know nothing about matchmaking."

"It cannot be difficult," Miss Webb said, lifting the tray of cups. "It's a favorite pursuit of many mothers."

"I've not heard of any mother matching four daughters in one season." Miss Fernsby-Webb lifted a second platter of glasses and followed her sister to the refreshment table.

"We aren't one mother. We are three," Miss Webb said, setting down her tray.

"And you are the only one engaged," Miss Fernsby-Webb replied, placing her tray on the opposite side of the silver punch bowl.

"Are you saying you want help finding a husband?"

"No!" Miss Fernsby-Webb's voice echoed in the parlor; she rouged, then nodded toward Helena. "However, I know someone who could use your services."

Shutting the cupboard doors with more force than she intended, Helena shook her head. "I've already stated I don't wish to marry."

As kind as their intentions were, she didn't need either sister meddling, at least not until she was certain Humphrey wouldn't learn of her location and demand that she follow through with the marital arrangement her brother had negotiated last year.

Miss Webb inclined her head. "Of course, Miss Rowe, neither of us wish to force you into an unhappy connection."

Her sister repeated a similar sentiment, adding an apology for her exuberance, then asked Miss Webb, "Do you have a particular duke you'd wish to match first?"

"I don't." Miss Webb glanced at the doorway as Mrs. Hawkins entered again, balancing two steaming platters.

Wordlessly, the housekeeper placed one tray at each end of the refreshment table, curtsied to Helena, then vanished from the room, tucking a loose piece of black hair into her bun.

"I'd like your assistance with that decision as well," Miss Webb said once they were alone again.

Helena wrestled open a drawer at the base of the cupboard and knelt, extracting several decks of cards. "Which men agreed to the bet?"

"The Duke of Beaufort, the Duke of Mansfield, the Duke of Warwick, and the Duke of Lennox."

At the mention of the Duke of Lennox, Helena's heart sped up, beating so fast that she feared the sisters would hear it. She ducked her head, hiding the blush that crawled into her cheeks.

"I'm afraid I don't know much about any of them," Helena replied, pretending to search for another deck.

Miss Webb appeared on her right and grasped two stacks of cards. "You've been introduced to the Duke of Lennox; he's quite an agreeable man."

The fading blush exploded on Helena's face. She nodded, twisted away from Miss Webb's observant gaze, and dug into the back of the drawer.

"Your plan is flawed," Miss Fernsby-Webb said, taking the decks from her sister. "No amount of prodding will convince a man to take a wife. He must love her."

"There are plenty of eligible ladies in this town," Miss Webb said, extending her arm and helping Helena rise. "We merely need to find one to capture their singular attention."

Setting a deck upon the nearest table, Miss Fernsby-Webb lifted her gaze, finding her sister. "Have you anyone in mind?"

"For the Duke of Lennox?" Miss Webb paused and tapped her finger on her lips as she considered the question.

Helena's chest squeezed.

Despite her claim against desiring marriage, a part of her hoped that Miss Webb would name her a suitable companion for the Duke of Lennox. Because no matter how many times she tried to rid him from her mind, he returned, hovering just out of reach and just outside of reality.

"I haven't," Miss Webb said, jarring Helena from her thoughts.

"Perhaps," Helena said as she handed Miss Fernsby-Webb the third stack of cards, "we should focus on a different duke. More time will be required for a less appealing man."

"Who are you considering?" Miss Fernsby-Webb paused, her inquisitive eyes sliding over Helena. "Certainly not the Duke of Beaufort."

The corner of Miss Webb's mouth crooked, and she patted her sister's shoulder. "We will focus our efforts on the Duke of Warwick."

"Which one is he?" Helena asked as she strode over to the only table without a deck of cards and set down her stack.

"The one with the cane," Miss Webb replied, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from a tablecloth. "I've had very few interactions with him; however, several ladies described his manner as cantankerous."

"What caused his injury?"

"A riding accident last year." Miss Webb sighed and sank into a chair. "Apparently, he may never fully regain the use of his leg."

Miss Fernsby-Webb plopped into the chair beside Miss Webb. "There are many ladies who don't like horses."

"That won't bode well." Miss Webb drew the stack of cards toward her and shuffled them. "The Duke of Warwick loves them; he kept the horse that threw him."

"Despite the injury?" Miss Fernsby-Webb's eyebrows shot upward.

"He said the accident wasn't the horse's fault, and the horse shouldn't be punished for reacting as it naturally would when frightened by a snake."

A soft knock reverberated in the foyer.

Knowing the housekeeper was occupied preparing for the evening's festivities, Helena excused herself and hastened into the hallway. She waved off Mrs. Hawkins, who, peeking into the corridor, flashed a grateful smile for Helena's assistance and disappeared into the kitchen.

Helena opened the door, but there was no one on the doorstep.

Wrapping her arms around her torso, she stepped out of the house, greeting the cold late afternoon sun with a shiver. Her gaze slid over the icy grounds. Leading from the street to her door and back again, only one set of footprints appeared in the newly fallen snow.

"Odd," she said, her breath freezing to her lips.

She took another step and froze when her shoe caused an unusual crunching noise. Glancing down, Helena lifted her foot and screamed.

Half-buried on the snowy walkway, its delicate purple petals smashed into the ground, rested a small bundle of lavender tied with a white ribbon, the exact flower Humphrey gave her when he proposed.

The same flower he had brought when he attempted to violate her.

Trembling, she leaned down and plucked the bouquet from its frozen grave. She lifted the flowers and turned them over, searching for a clue regarding the sender's identity, but the bundle refused to reveal its secret.

Helena raised the flowers to her nose and inhaled. Instantly overcome, the scent dragged her back to that dreadful evening in her brother's parlor.

Humphrey appeared, unannounced and uninvited, and attempted to ruin Helena.

She struck him.

The bruise that blossomed around his eye only served to increase his desire. He launched himself at Helena, tackling her, pinning her to the floor, and ripping her dress. As he unfastened his pants, Helena reached behind her head, her hand scrambling for a weapon.

Fingers closing around a log meant for the fireplace, Helena swung the piece of wood at Humphrey's head, striking him in the temple. Blood poured from the gash on the side of his face. His eyes rolled back, and he fell to the side, unconscious.

Before anyone discovered what occurred, Helena raced to her bedchamber, packed a small trunk, grabbed the paltry sum of money she'd saved from the allowance provided by her brother, and ran. She regretted parting with the ring Humphrey gifted her, but she needed funds to escape.

Helena swallowed the lump growing in her throat, her eyes investigating the long shadows stretching toward her.

Only one person knew of the lavender favors… Humphrey Drummond.

Black spots danced through Helena's vision as an unfamiliar numbness, originating in her chest, spread through her body like a virus. Before she could fling out an arm to catch herself, her legs gave way, and she collapsed in the snow.

"Miss Rowe!" Misses Webb and Fernsby-Webb yelled as they hurried toward Helena, their faces sharing twin expressions of concern.

They dropped beside her, negligent of the cold. Each lady grabbed an arm and pulled, lifting Helena's torso from the snow.

"Have you fallen ill?" Miss Webb asked, brushing frigid bits of ice from Helena's hair.

"I…" Helena shuddered as a tiny icicle slid down her spine. "I'm not certain. One moment, I was standing, smelling these flowers?—"

"What flowers?" Miss Fernsby-Webb asked, wrapping Helena's arm around her neck.

"These." She raised her wrist, waving the bundle at Miss Fernsby-Webb. "I inhaled, and the next moment, I was falling."

"Perhaps,"—Miss Webb exuded a soft grunt as she helped Helena climb to her feet—"the flowers made you ill."

Miss Fernsby-Webb shot her sister a glower. "Have you ever heard of a lady having that type of reaction to lavender?"

"No." Cautiously, Miss Webb tugged the bundle from Helena's fingers. "Where did you find the flowers?"

"When I opened the door, they were on the ground." Helena gestured vaguely toward the doorstep.

Miss Webb raised the bundle to her face and inhaled. She stood, eyes closed, for several moments, then shook her head. She passed the lavender to her sister, who copied her actions.

After a minute, Miss Fernsby-Webb opened her eyes. "It must affect only Miss Rowe."

"No matter," Miss Webb said as they trudged toward the house. "We shall dispose of them in the fireplace."

"I'd like to know where they came from." Miss Fernsby-Webb's low mutter crawled over Helena's shoulder.

Helena wondered the same thing.

They deposited Helena in the parlor on a long, cream-colored sofa stationed in front of the fireplace. Miss Webb sank onto the cushion beside her, then handed the lavender bundle to her sister.

With a resolute grimace, Miss Fernsby-Webb marched over to the fireplace, bent, and, with great ceremony, threw the flowers into the crackling fire. Standing, she brushed her hands together over the flames, removing any petal particles that may have stuck to her skin.

Helena's gaze fell to the lavender. The delicate flowers shriveled and turned to ash, destroyed by the fire's unforgiving intensity. Not unlike what would have happened to her had she followed through with the marriage to Humphrey.

Another knock sounded at the front door, but Miss Fernsby-Webb's hand gently pushed Helena's head back onto the cushion before Helena could sit up.

"Rest, Miss Rowe," she said, skirting the edge of the sofa. "The guests shouldn't be arriving this early."

Nodding, Helena returned her attention to the flickering flames. Nothing remained of the lavender bundle except traces of fear, which refused to leave Helena's body no matter how many times she told herself that no one knew where she was… or who she was.

"Who is Eveline Braddock?" Miss Fernsby-Webb said as she entered the parlor.

Helena's heart stopped.

Pushing up, she peered at Miss Fernsby-Webb over the back of the sofa. "What did you say?"

"Eveline Braddock." Holding up a letter, Miss Fernsby-Webb crossed the room. "This missive is addressed to her."

Both ladies stared at Helena as though expecting an explanation.

"Perhaps the letter was delivered to the wrong house," she replied with a shrug and winced at the unnaturally bright tone in her voice. "I shall return the missive to the postman the next time he visits."

"The postman didn't deliver it." Miss Fernsby-Webb sat beside Helena. "The missive was left on the doorstep. There was no one visible when I opened the door."

Terror bubbled into Helena's throat, and she struggled to keep her face neutral despite the chaos compounding in her mind.

"May I see the letter?" she asked, hoping both ladies missed the nervous crack in her voice as she accepted the thick paper. "I don't recognize the handwriting."

Miss Webb leaned closer, inspecting the elegant script, and murmured, "I don't either; however, you shouldn't open the missive if it isn't addressed to you."

Helena agreed with Miss Webb, but not for the reason of privacy. Someone in Wiltshire knew her actual name.

"For safekeeping, I'll place the missive in my chamber until after tonight's festivities." Rising from the sofa, Helena clutched the letter to her chest. "Then we can attempt to return the letter to its rightful owner."

She didn't wait for their accord. Instead, she darted from the room, raced up the staircase, and ripped open the seal the moment she burst into her chamber. One hand pressed to her mouth to prevent a scream from escaping as her gaze slid over the neat scrawl.

Greetings, Miss Braddock,

While your new friends may not know your true identity, I do. However, I'm willing to keep your secret for a small amount of compensation.

One hundred pounds, left on your doorstep at midnight tonight, or the truth of Miss Helena Rowe will be published in the morning's paper.

And then, you'll have nowhere to hide.