Her Husband's Harlot (21 page)

He
sensed rather than saw the movement from the shadowed interior.

A
blast tore through the night.

He
fell to the ground, a pain like wildfire spreading across his head. Footsteps
neared, and he curled instinctively against the voice that rasped over him.
Blood trickled into his eyes, obscuring the shape looming over him in the
darkness.

"We
could have done this easy, but your lordship had to interfere," came the
low, silky tones. "That's the problem with the peerage—they just can't
follow instructions."

Nicholas
struggled to hold onto consciousness. "B-bugger your instructions. Who are
you? What ... do you want?"

The
laughter shivered down Nicholas' spine. "I'm a ghost from your past, of
course. Come to exact the ultimate price ... unless you do exactly as I say."

"Do
what you will." Pain robbed his voice of emphasis, made his mind weak, but
Nicholas clung on, breathing hard. "I'll not be ... blackmailed by the
likes of you."

"Won't
you now?" Another soft, menacing laugh. "Not even for your wife? To
guarantee the delectable Lady Helena's continued good health?"

"
Keep
her out of this.
" In a blind rage, Nicholas lunged upward. A boot
connected with his wound, and he gasped in agony, the world spinning into pitch.

"Await
my instructions," the voice said.

Dimly,
Nicholas heard a shout in the distance. Another shot fired. Footsteps
approaching. As the darkness closed around him, he felt a fear more suffocating
than death.
Please God, don't let anything happen to her.
His past bore
down upon him, the slick of blood upon his hands again, the sickening coppery
smell of it filling his nostrils. Somehow, he had always known it would end
this way for him: alone, surrounded by the stench and filth of the stews. He
had never escaped, not really. The rookery always claimed its own.

His
other life had been but a mirage, a beautiful dream.

Helena,
my love
.

Then
he felt nothing at all.

"My
lady, you do look a treat," Bessie said, running the brush a final time through
Helena's loose tresses.

Helena
studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. She
thought she did look rather well, with her hair tumbling free over her
shoulders and down her back. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkling with
anticipation. It was nearing midnight; Nicholas would be home at any moment. He
and Mr. Kent had departed on business together this afternoon, and he had left
word with Crikstaff that he would return later tonight.

That
would be her opportunity. It was now or never to try to seduce her hard-headed
husband. She would invite him into her sitting room for refreshment,
conversation ... and wherever else that led. She smiled to herself. Given what
had transpired earlier in the drawing room, she thought her chances of success
rather good.

"The
French do have a way with fashions," Bessie continued, leaning down to
fuss with the tie on Helena's peignoir. "Who would have thought to make a
dressing gown out of chiffon?"

"No
tailor residing in London, that is for sure," Helena agreed, rubbing her
arms.

"Goodness
me, are you chilled my lady?" Bessie asked. "I had thought the fire
warm enough, but here I am in my woolens. I will call Mary to build up the
fire—"

"I
am fine," Helena reassured her. "But perhaps you can check with
Crikstaff to make sure the supper is ready."

"Of
course," Bessie said. "And where would you like it served?"

"Here
in the sitting room will do nicely," Helena said. "Have the footmen
set up a small table by the fire. And do not let Crikstaff forget the
champagne."

"Yes,
my lady," the maid said with a twinkle in her eye. She hurried off.

Helena
got up from the vanity and walked over to the full-length looking glass.
Turning this way and that, she experienced a giddy sense of satisfaction. The
sensual creature in the mirror could not be her—and yet it was. Garbed in a
sheer peignoir that drifted to the floor in hazy bronze swirls, the woman
looked the very picture of seduction. She threw back her shoulders, and the
chiffon slid down her arms, baring the thin straps of a glimmering bronze
negligee.

Madame
Rousseau had assured her that the negligee was all the rage in Paris and worn
by all the fashionable ladies. Clearly, it was a garment designed for the
purposes of
amour
: the neckline plunged daringly between the breasts and
halfway to the navel. Honey lace filled the deep crevice, creating intriguing
peek-a-boo views of her bosom. The body-skimming satin fell to her ankles, and
movement was made possible by the twin slits that began mid-hip. In her whole
life, Helena had never worn anything so scandalous. It was almost like being naked.
More so, in fact, as the satin and chiffon seemed to draw attention to select
parts of her nakedness.

It
felt most daring, most wanton.

She
hoped Nicholas would like it.

Readjusting
her peignoir, she looked at the clock on the mantel. Ten minutes to midnight. Nicholas would surely be home soon. She needed to occupy herself until his
return, or she would burst out of her skin. Settling into one of the wingback
chairs by the fireplace, she draped a blanket over herself and examined the
small stack of books on the side table. She picked up a heavy, well-worn
volume. The book was on loan from Miss Lavinia Haversham, a friendly spinster
she had met through the Misses Berry's weekly salon. The topic at one meeting
had been female philosophers; Miss Lavinia had been quite shocked that Helena
had never heard of Mary Wollstonecraft.

"Goodness
gracious, where
have
you been hiding?" Miss Lavinia had asked.

Helena
had explained that before her marriage she had been allowed to read only the
most genteel of literatures intended to improve the mind of young ladies. Lady
Epplethistle's
Compleat
Guide
, for instance. While she had
managed to pilfer a few volumes of Shakespeare's plays from her father's
library, that had been the extent of it. The good Miss Lavinia had snorted and,
at the following meeting, handed Helena a book. Opening the burgundy leather
cover now, Helena studied the title page.

A
Vindication of the Rights of Women
.

It
sounded promising enough. Within moments, she lost herself in the passionate,
rambling, and altogether mind-altering prose.

When
Helena finally looked up, she blinked fuzzily at the clock. It could not be—
two
hours
had passed? It was nearing two in the morning, and Nicholas had not
yet returned. With a frown, she put down the book and went to the table the
servants had brought in. Thank goodness she had chosen to serve a simple
collation which could be enjoyed at room temperature. The champagne, the only
item that needed to be chilled, rested in a silver bucket filled with melting
ice. She plucked a grape from the artfully arranged platter and bit into the
purple globe.

Nicholas
should have been home by now. What could have detained him?

Pacing
in front of the fire, she tried to calm herself. There must be some good
explanation. Most likely he and Mr. Kent had got caught up in details
surrounding the theft. Or perhaps Nicholas had stopped by his club for a drink.
He'd gotten held up in a game of cards or something of the like.

But
Nicholas did not gaming—he thought it a waste of time. And would he be still
consulting with Mr. Kent at
two in the morning
?

Helena
gnawed on the tip of her thumbnail. Perhaps it was the influence of Miss
Wollstonecraft's writings, but at this moment her capacity to reason seemed
dwarfed by the tides of sensibility washing over her. This behavior was most
unlike her and more like ...
her mother's
.

With
a groan, Helena pushed away that thought. She had enough to worry about without
upending that particular pin drawer. Despite her best efforts to rationally
analyze the situation, she felt a rising panic. Nicholas could be lying injured
somewhere. Beset by footpads. Or, sweet heavens, could he have gone back to the
Nunnery? That possibility shocked her system like icy water. What if even now he
was searching for the mystery nymph? Prowling the bawdy house, ready to select
a substitute if he did not find her ...?

Attempting
to breathe deeply, she pulled on the bell.

Several
minutes later, a sleepy-eyed Bessie came into the room. The maid slanted a look
at the untouched supper service, and her eyes grew large.

"Is
everything alright, my lady?" Bessie asked.

Helena
forced herself to speak calmly. "Lord Harteford has not yet returned. If
you would be so kind as to see if he sent word?"

"Of
course," Bessie said.

But
of course he had not. Crikstaff would have informed her immediately if the
master had sent a note. Helena took up the pacing again. Just as she was
contemplating summoning the carriage and heading to the Nunnery herself, she
heard a sound from below stairs. She went still, her breathing loud in her
ears. Yes, there it was again, the unmistakable sound of a key rattling in the
front door. She hurried toward the bedchamber door, remembering just in time to
throw on a woolen dressing gown. She cracked open the door and peered out. The
hallway was empty save for flickering shadows.

She
could hear murmurs now, coming from below stairs. There was Crikstaff and ... 
yes, Nicholas. She let out the breath she had not realized she'd been holding.
Then her brows puckered. Yes, that was Nicholas' distinctively deep voice, but
his tones were rumbling in a most unusual manner. Good heavens, was he ...
singing
?
And there were other male voices now, quiet and low, voices she could not quite
place.

What
on earth was going on?

She
tied the sash of the robe tightly at the waist and headed to the stairs.
Halfway down, she was met by Bessie coming up.

"Oh,
my lady, I was just coming to fetch you." The maid's lips trembled, and
some of her brown curls had escaped from beneath her mob cap. "Mr. Crikstaff
said to—"

"Whatever
is the matter, Bessie?"

"It's
Lord Harteford," Bessie whispered. "He's been shot."

It
took a moment for the words to register.

Nicholas.
Shot
.

Helena
flew past Bessie and down the stairs. She hurtled toward the voices coming from
the drawing room. She stopped short in the doorway. Nicholas was slumped on the
settee, Mr. Kent standing to one side of him. Another man she did not recognize
was checking on the bandage wrapped around Nicholas' head.

"H-how
badly is he injured?" she asked in a choked voice.

At
her words, Mr. Kent and the other man turned. Nicholas blinked owlishly.

"Lady
Harteford." Mr. Kent bowed, speaking quickly. "Pray do not concern
yourself. Lord Harteford is fine. He has encountered a mere flesh wound and has
been recovering rapidly under Dr. Farraday's care."

"Quite
so." Tall and distinguished-looking, Dr. Farraday appeared to be in his
fifties and spoke with a thick Scottish accent. "'Tis quite fortunate I
arrived when I did. Mr. Morg—, I mean to say Lord Harteford, suffered no great
blood loss. The bullet only grazed the temple. It took but a few stitches to
patch him up. He's right as rain now, aren't you, lad?"

Recovering
her senses, Helena stumbled over to the settee. Kneeling, she looked up at her
husband's ragged face. Beneath the snowy bandage, his forehead was pale. His
jaw was stubbly with a night beard, and lines bracketed his mouth. His hazy grey
eyes appeared blood-shot and slightly unfocused.

To
her, he was the most precious sight in the whole world.

"Thank
God," she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his hand before looking up.
"Does it hurt very much, my darling?"

"Better
bloody believe it," Nicholas agreed cheerfully. "Like 'avin' a flamin'
poker shoved 'tween the ears. Or up the—"

"Dr.
Farraday," Helena said with a frown, "your patient is in
pain
.
Is there nothing you can do?"

Dr.
Farraday smiled wryly. "Your husband already finished a bottle of whiskey.
I would not advise more pain relief than that. After a good night's sleep, he
should be fit as a fiddle."

"Harteford's
got a hard skull," Mr. Kent agreed.

The
two men apparently found that remark humorous as they both stood there with
smirks upon their faces.

Helena
continued to frown at the good doctor as Nicholas picked up her hand and began
to kiss it playfully. "Surely you have instructions for his care, Doctor.
Is there anything specific I am to do?"

"I
'ave some ideas fer you," Nicholas said, with a good-natured leer.

"In
a minute, my love," Helena said soothingly as she extricated her hand. She
stood to face the doctor and Mr. Kent. Her eyes narrowed at the ill-concealed looks
of amusement on the men's faces. "Do you not think you are taking my
husband's injury a bit too lightly, Dr. Farraday?"