Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

M iss Emerson was radiant.

If she had known that she had completely conquered Joshua's heart, he wagered she would have been more glorious yet.

She was like Gerald in that she preferred to be triumphant, but there was a joy in her response that was utterly unlike Gerald. Perhaps she would be content with her situation, if she had the one she desired most. Gerald, in contrast, had been insatiable in his desires.

Perhaps he had done the lady a disservice in assuming she must be the same.

When she smiled at him as she did on this night, her eyes shining with pleasure and her cheeks flushed, he thought her the most glorious lady in all the world. If his invitation was responsible for her satisfaction, he could not see how he would resist offering another and another.

It was a night made for wooing, still and cool but not cold. Thousands of stars glittered overhead and the silvery crescent of the moon rode high. As he led Zephyr away from Bramble Cottage and into the hills, the sounds of the forest became more noticeable to Joshua. He could not longer detect the scent of the fire from the chimney at Lady Dalhousie's abode, and the distant road was devoid of traffic. The sound of the horse's footfalls were muted by the grasses underfoot. The forest and its shadows pressed closer on either side, the rustlings of wild creatures more readily detected. He spotted a fox trotting about its business with purpose and pointed it out to Miss Emerson.

She caught her breath and Joshua was certain the fox heard her. It glanced their way then redoubled its pace, vanishing into the shadows of a copse of trees. The silhouette of an owl passed overhead, gliding silently through the night as it hunted, and when the stallion shook his head, the jingle of his trap seemed overly loud.

"We might be the sole occupants of the world," Miss Emerson whispered with an awe Joshua shared. He could have walked all night, content in the knowledge that the venture made her happy. He liked that she had shown some caution and strove to change her impulsiveness. He would see her safe, no matter what.

"What is that?" she demanded suddenly and he glanced over his shoulder to find her pointing to a small rise ahead.

It was the ruin of the original Haynesdale keep, and all that was left of the old motte-and-bailey medieval structure. Thinking it made as good a destination as any, he led the horse toward it with purpose.

"A ruin!" she whispered with delight. "Are they standing stones placed by the ancients?"

Joshua smiled as he shook his head.

"An abbey, then, or a church, left in shambles after the dissolution of the monasteries," she guessed and he was impressed that she had been granted so much of an education. He knew that some families did not see their daughters tutored in more than the domestic arts.

"You are surprised," she said proudly. "I had a tutor when I was younger, though I did not excel at my studies. I did learn a little French, but I liked history very much. Can you imagine what it was like to live at the Tudor court? I should love to visit Hampton Palace one day above all things. Aunt promised to take me to the Tower to see the crown jewels but she never did." She sighed. "I doubt I shall ever see them now, much less Anne Boleyn's grave."

If ever he had the opportunity, Joshua would ensure she had that excursion.

He was glad of the silence necessitated by his ruse, or he might have promised her more than was appropriate.

He had no sooner thought as much than he caught a whiff of woodsmoke. He stopped and Zephyr halted behind him, taking the opportunity to nibble at the shoulder of his cloak. Joshua remained utterly still and listened.

Yes. There was movement within the ruins and he could just barely discern a ribbon of smoke rising from it. Someone had taken refuge there. He recalled that there was still a structure of a sort, though the roof was only partial, it would provide some shelter from the elements. The keep had been built on a mound and would originally have had a wooden palisade around the central tower. The wood was gone, of course, but the deep ditch dug outside those walls was still a furrow in the ground. It was impossible to see much at this hour and this distance, but the hair prickled on the back of his neck in warning.

He knew there were numerous soldiers returned from the war, decommissioned and unable to find paid positions. He had hired as many as possible at Addersley Manor, but there was a limit to his own resources. The less fortunate of such men turned to banditry and lived rough.

This was no place for Miss Emerson.

He pivoted smartly and led the horse back in the direction they had come.

"I thought we would explore the ruins," Miss Emerson protested just as Joshua heard a sound from that very location. He swung into the saddle behind her with purpose, thinking only of her safety, catching her around the waist as he gave Zephyr his heels. The stallion was more than happy to break into a canter and then a gallop, tossing his head as he raced back toward Bramble Cottage.

"Oh!" Miss Emerson had been seated side-saddle, but she turned toward him now, as she had that previous time. Her hand landed upon his waistcoat, the feel of her exploring caress sufficiently to make Joshua's heart leap. When she leaned her cheek against him, her trust complete, he once again felt that dizzying tide of desire. He could smell her scent, that of her skin mingled with a touch of lavender, a feminine combination that prompted him to spread his hand across her back and draw her closer.

Another lady might have been shocked or dismayed, but Miss Emerson laughed lightly. She wound an arm around his waist, pressing herself against Joshua in a way that made him forget everything but the lady who was virtually in his arms. "Oh, sir, I fail utterly in denying temptation," she whispered, but Joshua did not care.

He could be wicked for her, and she might be as impulsive as she liked in his company.

Bramble Cottage appeared all too soon and Zephyr apparently knew their destination. He halted of his own volition in the shadow of the surrounding hedges, exhaled mightily and shook his head, then reached to nibble at the budding flowers.

Joshua did not chastise the creature in this moment. There was only Miss Emerson and his relief that she was safely home again. He touched her chin with a fingertip, lifting her face, and bent to capture her lips beneath his own.

The lady, perhaps predictably, responded with an enthusiasm that could not be denied.

He had taken her to his refuge.

Helena readily guessed the truth, and loved that his impulse had been to share his secret with her. It made perfect sense that he had changed his mind in the last moment, but she had divined the truth.

She had to learn more about the ruins, whatever they were.

For the moment, though, there was only his wondrous kiss. This time, his caress was more confident and demanding, as if he was encouraged by her response. Helena had no inclination to be reserved. She had never felt such pleasure or such surety of a man's honor. This time, he cupped her nape in one broad palm, the leather of his glove smooth against her skin. This time, his kiss was deeper, as if he would sear her very soul with his touch.

Or make it impossible for her to even notice another man, now that they had met.

Helena leaned against him, surrendering fully, trying to show his victory with her response. He made a little growl that she found satisfying beyond all, then tore his lips from hers. She felt him looking down at her and wished she could pierce the shadows of his hood. She reached for the edge of the fabric, but he moved away, leaping from the saddle.

"Helena!" Aunt called from the house and Helena winced. "Where are you, girl?" She looked up at her own window and spotted her aunt in that chamber, where she had left the lamp burning, and grimaced.

Her champion locked his hands around her waist and lifted her down, retreating a step to kiss her hand. Such a salute would not suffice, not now.

Helena flung herself against him, moving with speed that he could not be noble and turn her aside. She reached up and slipped her fingers into his hair, pulling his head down that she might kiss him again. Again, he made a low sound of capitulation, as if he could not resist the temptation she offered, then his arms were around her and his mouth closed over hers once more.

Helena closed her eyes, wishing Aunt a thousand miles away, as her lover lifted her from the ground to hold her captive against his chest. She wanted his kiss to last forever. She wanted him to lift her back into the saddle and ride away with her. She wanted to learn more of all that could pass between man and wife, and she wanted to do it with him. Impulse, she was certain, could not steer her false when her heart clamored to be with this man.

But he set her on her feet again, a small sound revealing his reluctance to do as much, then escorted her to the opening in the hedge as if she was a queen. He bowed low, just as Aunt shouted again, and kissed her hand.

Then he lifted his head, as if he would study her, though she could not see his face. He turned her hand over and she felt the warmth of his lips against her palm as he planted a kiss there. He closed her fingers over the imprint, as if he would advise her to hold fast to that invisible token, and Helena knew she could love this man with all her heart and soul.

Lord Addersley said she had need of a protector, but Helena was certain she had found one.

He kissed his own fingertips and might have backed away, but Helena closed the distance between them hastily. She needed to know. He caught her one hand in his when she reached for him. Her one hand was held captive against that fine waistcoat, but she reached boldly into the shadows of the hood with the other.

He inhaled sharply and retreated, but she had felt the cleft in his chin.

It could not be. She knew only one man with a cleft in his chin, one of a height and breadth with this one, one who rode with assurance but otherwise did not share this man's élan.

How could her champion be Lord Addersley?

His manner was so different. His very nature had to be different. Lord Addersley could not have an increment of romance within him. Doubtless he had fallen asleep with the company of a serious book by this hour.

"Helena!" Aunt shouted again, the sound stirring her companion to action. He pointed to the opening and Helena slipped through it reluctantly, yearning to accompany him instead—wherever he might ride. The horse did not move, and she knew he waited for her to be safely within the house. She crossed the yard, then lingered in the shadows of the kitchen doorway. She heard the horse stamp as he mounted, then he rode past the opening, revealing himself one last time.

He raised a hand in farewell and Helena blew him a kiss. He feigned catching it and crushing it against his heart, a whimsical gesture that proved once and for all that he could not be Lord Addersley.

Only when she opened the door did he turn the horse. Helena would not have been the girl she was if she had not remained in the doorway, listening to the sound of his horse's retreat.

She sighed at the romance of it all, then Aunt Fanny appeared in her dressing gown, her expression furious. "Where have you been, child? Why would you be in the yard at this hour of the night?" Aunt peered at her closely. "There is a glimmer in your eye that hints at mischief."

"I cannot imagine how that might be, Aunt. I simply went out to look at the stars." Helena slipped past her aunt, knowing she was incapable of disguising her satisfaction. Her aunt made a sound of disbelief and followed her up the stairs, as if to be certain that Helena retired to her chamber.

She stood at the window, looking into the night. How could she reconcile her need to be with her mysterious stranger and her awareness that she had to be more prudent in her choices? Her heart told her to trust him, but she had trusted Mr. Melbourne, too. Helena sat down on her bed and frowned at the floor.

There was only one possible solution. She must do all in her power to unveil the identity of her mysterious stranger, and that before their rendezvous at the folly.

Late that night, Joshua dreamed.

He stirred restlessly, but his eyes did not open. The nightmare that had become so infrequent as to be forgotten was upon him again. Try as he might, he could not compel himself to awaken—even though he knew the horror he would relive.

He was on the field at Wimbledon again, the weight of the revolver in his hand. The moon was but a sliver of light above, clouds flitting across it so that even its meagre light vanished at intervals. Gerald was fairly vibrating in anticipation, but Joshua felt the usual cold stillness within him.

There was a task before him, one at which he would succeed. There was no room for emotion, much less excitement, when brandishing a weapon.

They had argued all evening about Joshua's intentions. Gerald was certain that his opponent should be killed outright. Joshua had no intention of committing such an act. As was so often the case, Joshua took Gerald's place, assuming his part for the challenge he had issued. Not for the first time, Joshua felt he had assumed a habit that he did not like.

Gerald should pay the price of his own deeds.

But Gerald did not practice and he was not a good shot as a result. Gerald preferred to drink and dance and gamble, to issue challenges for duels that he would never be compelled to fight.

Because he had Joshua.

"This will be the last time," Joshua said quietly as the other men arrived. They were no more than silhouettes in the darkness, distinctive by the shape of their hats and the flare of their great coats. Their boots made no sound on the grass, and they might have been specters come to claim another for their company.

"Of course," Gerald agreed easily, but there was no conviction in his words.

They had exchanged clothes, as had become their custom, Joshua wearing one of Gerald's more flamboyant silk waistcoats, richly embroidered in green and gold. He wore his brother's favored frockcoat of emerald green wool with the velvet collar, and the great silver and malachite pin in his cravat that was as distinctive as a signature. The brim of his hat shielded his face from view, but Gerald stood behind him in his own more conservative garments. Yet again, Joshua was struck at how the change in garments altered their stances. He stood with legs braced against the ground, one hand on his hip, as he never did. Gerald seemed to become smaller in stature and quieter in Joshua's clothes.

There was no question of their deception being discovered in the shadows.

The combatants shook hands in silence. Gerald loaded the revolvers and handed the other one to his opponent's second. The weapons were checked, their readiness verified by all parties, then Joshua stood back-to-back with Gerald's rival.

His pulse did not even accelerate in these duels he had no desire to fight. They were calculations, no more and no less. He had noticed the other man's grim manner and guessed he would aim to kill. How good a marksman was he? The rumors were not favorable, but any man could be fortunate with a single shot. Joshua intended to graze his opponent's shoulder. It would be a warning, resulting in an injury that would cause some discomfort but not maim, much less kill. Gerald's honor would be defended and no one would be seriously hurt. It was the best compromise he knew.

They counted together, pacing off the distance, the night seeming overly silent around them.

As Joshua pivoted and raised the revolver, he had a sudden and unwelcome portent of doom. The shadows seemed overly thick, the moon claimed by those clouds in the wrong moment, and he hesitated. The clouds cleared, revealing his opponent in the distance. The other revolver was fired, the sound cracking against the night. Joshua fired then was assaulted from one side. The weight of some person collided with him, sending him off-balance. He recognized a woman's perfume, but could make no sense of it before she screamed, almost deafening him.

"No!" she cried and he recognized Charlotte's voice, even as her weight took him to the ground. He felt the blood of his betrothed spread warmly over him, he heard her gasp in pain – and he could make no sense of her presence there.

"Charlotte!" Gerald shouted but Joshua's blood had already gone cold.

For the lady sprawled atop him was dead.

She might have been his betrothed, but it was his brother she had been intent upon saving.

Joshua awakened suddenly, sitting bolt upright in the bed. His breath was coming quickly, his heart racing, his skin damp with perspiration. He felt the full sting of betrayal again, the cold conviction that Gerald had betrayed him, that his brother's connection with his own fiancé was more than intimate. He knew, too, that Charlotte had chosen Gerald over him, for he had heard the anguish in her voice.

He gripped the linens, took a breath, and rose to stare out the window at the first glimmer of dawn's light. Once again, he felt a that painful sense of betrayal.

Neither Gerald nor Charlotte had given any sign of their apparent affection before that night. Neither had confessed the truth to him, which meant they were both willing for Joshua to wed Charlotte as arranged. He knew without doubt that their relations would continue after his own nuptial vows were exchanged with the lady. Gerald never surrendered a pleasure for the sake of propriety. He could not imagine that Charlotte would be able to resist the invitations of the man she truly loved.

Would the infants presented as his sons truly have been Gerald's sons? The notion was sickening. Joshua paced his room, heartsick once again. He had lost a betrothed and a brother in that night, as well as any inclination to trust another.

He had not been able to mourn Charlotte, not knowing of her deception. He had never loved her, though he had been fond of her. If he had loved her, he would have been destroyed by her deceit.

He remembered now his resolve on that morning that he would never risk loving a woman.

He stared out at this morning, the sky turning pink above the forest that sheltered his mother's garden folly. His heart clenched at even the thought of Miss Emerson and her enticing kisses. Her enthusiasm was seductive—and dangerous. Who knew how many kisses she had returned with such ardor? Who knew how many men would capture her attention in future?

Who might have guessed that she could persuade him to abandon his promise to his father in so short a time? Miss Emerson was perilous to his convictions, and worse, the price of his surrender to temptation might be the lady herself.

All could have gone awry the night before and readily so. He should not have taken her for a ride in the moonlight. He should not have taken such a risk.

No, the lady was right in her refusal of him: they would not suit. If he ignored what had to be a fleeting and thus unreliable desire and considered the matter with his usual logic, he could see that any joy Helena might bring him would be short-lived.

He could be a good husband to her, but he would not make her happy—thus she would not be a good wife to him. Captain Emerson had been right and he knew his sister far better than Joshua ever would.

He was fortunate that she had refused him, although on this particular morning, Joshua Hargood did not feel lucky in the least.

First thing that next morning, Joshua rode toward the ruins of the medieval keep with a small party of men. If someone had taken up occupation there, he should see them routed in the duke's absence. He was accompanied by half a dozen men from Addersley Manor and they rode in silence down the road and past Bramble Cottage.

He did not so much as glance toward that structure.

They found no one in the ruins, though there were indications that someone had sheltered there in the cellar. There had been a fire kindled near the door recently, given the ashes left behind. Joshua found some refuse, perhaps the remains of a meal, tossed in a corner of the cellar. It had not decomposed or been eaten by wild creatures, hinting that it had not been there long. There were boot prints in the dirt, and he guessed that it had been one man alone.

One of the men with him spied boot prints dried in the mud. It had not rained for several days, but the prints in the dirt hinted that the visitor had been here after the mud had dried. He sent his men into the woods surrounding the ruin but they found little more.

There was no one to rout. It was not possible for him to keep a watch upon the place from the distance of Addersley Manor and the ruins were not his to monitor.

He could only hope that the man, whoever he was, did not become more bold and trouble those at Bramble Cottage. It was the closest residence, a fact that Joshua heartily disliked. Perhaps Miss Emerson would remain inside at night, showing some uncharacteristic temperance.

He shook his head at the very notion. At least she could not venture far with her injured ankle.

Joshua summoned his men and turned toward home, resolving to tell the duke of this as soon as that man returned.

In the meantime, it was his obligation to warn the residents of Bramble Cottage. He would keep his visit brief—even though his anticipation rose with every step closer.

Becky, it seemed, was to be Helena's constant companion in future.

She argued against this edict from her aunt, citing her injured ankle as evidence that she could not find much trouble. Aunt Fanny only snorted, making it clear that no one believed Helena's tale of looking at the stars.

Her aunt left the two of them in the garden, Helena's embroidery at the ready. Becky dutifully did some mending for Helena's aunt, her stitches so small and neat that Helena saw no point in even attempting to echo them.

The sound of a party of horses was a welcome distraction.

The appearance of Lord Addersley sent a surprising surge of pleasure through Helena. She told herself that she was simply glad of a diversion but it was more than that. When his gaze slid over her with an appreciation he quickly disguised, she tingled to her very toes, feeling that she had glimpsed a secret he would have preferred to hide.

Greetings were exchanged, though he did not take a seat. "I wished to ensure that you have not been troubled here at Bramble Cottage of late," he said, his manner particularly formal.

"Troubled by whom?" Helena asked.

He frowned into the distance, clearly distracted. "There have been reports of men in the ruins, so in the duke's absence, I felt obliged to see if there was truth in the rumor."

"The ruins?"

"The ruins of old Haynesdale castle," Becky provided. "They have been there since the time of King Arthur."

Helena looked to the viscount for affirmation of this, but he was watching Becky with some amusement. "I think not so long as that, Becky," he said. "The motte-and-bailey was likely a twelfth century structure. When it finally burned several hundred years later, the lords of Haynesdale moved their abode to its current location."

"Motte-and-bailey?" Helena asked.

The viscount drew a circle in the dirt, with another inside it and a dot in the middle. "That is the design of a medieval fortification. First there are earthworks around the perimeter, a hill and a moat or both, then there would have been a wooden palisade encircling the residence itself. Originally, it would have all been of wood, but this one evidently was partly constructed of stone at some point. The foundation walls and a cellar remain reasonably intact."

"It was the dungeon," Becky said with enthusiasm. "Where villains were left to die. They say as the ghosts of those who did end their days there haunt the hills around the ruins." She nodded with authority at this confession.

The viscount almost smiled, his eyes glimmering in that way Helena could only admire. "There have been more than ghosts in residence, unless the specters have developed earthly appetites. We found remnants of a fire and a small collection of discarded foodstuffs."

Helena feared then for her champion. "Did you rout whoever was there?"

He shrugged, much to her relief. "We saw no one, just signs of occupation." He frowned again. "I would suggest, Miss Emerson, that no one from your household venture out at night until this situation is resolved, which may not occur before the duke's return." He fixed her with a steady look. "Men driven to desperation may be unpredictable, even dangerous."

"But who are they?" Becky demanded.

The viscount was somber. "There are many men who served valiantly during the war who now find themselves decommissioned and without pay. They may or may not have homes to which they can return after such a long absence, or there may be reasons they choose not to do as much. Not every wife welcomes the return of an injured man, or even one beset by nightmares."

"How terrible for them!" Helena said. She thought of her champion, denied a spot at his own hearth, turned out into the night, after years of loyal service to the crown, and her heart tore in two.

"It is unjust, in my view, but I can only do so much." Lord Addersley was rueful. "I have employed as many returning soldiers as possible, as has the duke."

"I will ask Nicholas if he might have a post for one or two in his stables," Helena said with vigor.

The viscount nodded approval. "That is a fine sentiment, Miss Emerson, whether your brother has that capacity or not."

"What can you tell me of the ruins?" she asked. "There must be some tale of its history."

The viscount considered her query for a moment, then took a seat. He appeared to only perch on the chair, as if pressing matters awaited his attention, and she appreciated that he took the time to answer her question. She had to gather information wherever she could if she was to aid her champion.

"There is a tale, of course, and one of which you may well approve, Miss Emerson," he said. "For it is a sage of romance, even with a measure of danger."

"Oh!" she said with delight.

He smiled, very quickly, and she wished he had not sobered so soon. "I am no storyteller, but the gist of the tale is this. There was a Lord Haynesdale whose first son was born when he was in his winter years. There was treachery in his household, for he had become frail and many men of ambition surrounded him. His wife feared for her son, so she marked his skin with his father's signet ring, heating it in the fire so that its emblem would be burned into his flesh."

"Oh!" Helena gasped.

"In that way, there would always be indisputable proof of the boy's identity."

"How barbaric."

"But effective, Miss Emerson. For the infant was sent away with a trusty servant to defend him, and that guardian fled to France with the lord's heir. When that person died some years later, the young boy knew his legacy but could do little to recover it himself. He had the good fortune to be adopted by a knight in search of a squire, a younger son who had joined the Templars and departed upon crusade. And so it was that the boy traveled to Palestine in the care of the knight and trained as a knight himself. By the time the knight returned to France, the young boy had become a man, and when he was granted his spurs, he decided to seek out his own legacy. He returned to Haynesdale with a companion, only to find that all had gone awry in his father's holding in his absence."

"I think you do not do yourself justice, sir," Helena said when he paused for breath. "You tell a fine tale. I am enraptured."

The viscount's eyes gleamed. "I believe it is the tale itself that holds you enthralled, Miss Emerson, but I will take such compliments as they come."

Becky giggled, but Helena was aware only of the viscount's gaze fixed upon her. "It is true," she confessed, feeling a little discomfited by his attention. "I do love a romantic tale."

"Then you will be heartened to know the rest. The knight's companion was robbed by a pair of urchins in the forest near the keep of Haynesdale and the knight gave chase. He discovered when he caught one of them that she was a maiden, a pretty young woman with flashing eyes and a sharp tongue. He knew, with the conviction that some men possess, that this was the lady who would claim his heart."

"Oh!" Helena and Becky sighed together.

"The lady, however, was unconvinced. She had little regard for knights, given her experience of those who had laid claim to Haynesdale—who were, by all accounts, a disreputable and untrustworthy lot. The maiden confided in the knight, telling him that those who held Haynesdale were not the rightful lord or his son, but usurpers, and further, that their demands upon the villagers had been so excessive that those common people had taken to the forests. They waited only for the return of the rightful heir to rise up and fight for justice."

"This is much like the tale of Robin Hood," Helena said with approval.

"The heir concocted a scheme with the defiant maiden. He suggested that they should pretend to be wed, and further, disguise themselves as an aristocratic couple on a journey. In this way, they might gain access to the keep and learn the weakness of those who had seized control. He did not tell her that he was the rightful heir himself, for he had kept the secret all his life and could not confess it readily."

"But she saw the mark on his flesh and knew who he had to be," Helena guessed.

The viscount granted her an intent look. "She did, indeed, and so his secret was revealed, even as her alliance to him became complete."

"Did she see it when he took a bath?" Becky asked. "Or when he slept?"

The viscount chuckled. "I wager she might have seen it as a result of their guise of being man and wife." His gaze slid to meet Helena's and she felt herself flush, even though she could not look away.

She was thinking of those passages of amorous advice and wishing she might read them again. She halfway thought the viscount knew as much and was amused by her curiosity.

Though he was not surprised by it. Helena was certain he expected her to be audacious and perhaps even awaited her to be so.

"And the rest, sir?" Becky prompted in the tone of one who knew the tale already.

Helena could guess. "And they fought the usurpers along with the villagers, won back the holding, and he reclaimed his legacy in triumph," she said with satisfaction.

"I believe they even lived happily ever after," the viscount added, giving a little bow.

"Is it true, though?" Helena had to ask.

"As far as I know. It is the tale that is frequently told of the ruins, and I understand the duke does trace his lineage at least as far back as Bartholomew and Anna."

Becky nodded with enthusiasm. "The first time I heard the tale, your brother sang it, sir. It was in the common room at the inn in Haynesdale village, and he scarce stopped for breath." She shook her head. "There must have been a hundred verses!"

"There is a version in rhyming verse," the viscount said. "And my brother knew it all." He shook his head in recollection. "Our tutor was most annoyed that Gerald could sing the entire lay of Bartholomew's Return , but could not recite a list of the monarchs of England." He smiled, a little sadly to Helena's thinking, and made to rise to his feet. "We used to play in the ruins as boys, though I had nigh forgotten as much. He loved that place beyond all."

Becky sighed and shook her head. "God bless his soul, sir," she murmured and the viscount nodded in acknowledgement of that.

"Perhaps it is your brother who occupies the ruins," Helena suggested before she could keep the words from springing to her lips.

Indeed, it made perfect sense that her champion might be the notorious and charming Gerald. There might be space in that ruin for his horse to have shelter and he might have taken refuge in a familiar ruin. That would also explain the similarities and the differences between Lord Addersley and Helena's champion.

Did brothers not often share a height and build? Might they both have a cleft in their chins? Yet one was dashing and one was sedate, their respective natures distinguishing them from each other despite their physical similarities.

But the viscount shook his head and his tone was severe. "That cannot be, Miss Emerson. My brother died in the battle of Waterloo."

"But are you certain?" Helena asked. "There might have been an error."

"Miss!" Becky said, sounding as horrified as Aunt might have done.

The viscount only studied her, his gaze colder than she had ever seen it. "Impossible, Miss Emerson," he said curtly. "Your affection for tales leads you astray in this matter." He touched the brim of his hat and bowed so precisely that she knew he was annoyed with her. "Good day."

"Oh miss," Becky whispered. "You have offended him in truth. Why would you ask him such a thing? To suggest that a dead man yet lives is impertinent beyond all."

But Helena could only wonder. Her notion made good sense, to her thinking. She knew, though, that no one wished to give it consideration.

Why not? Were people glad that Master Gerald had died?

There was a tale and one she intended to uncover, though she could not do as much with Becky by her side. Her ankle had to mend and quickly! Surely then she would be able to evade Becky and meet her champion at the folly as planned.

And she would know the truth of his name.

That happy situation could not be contrived too soon for Helena.