Wild Lavender Read online

  They would what? “So our new ambitions include wives?”

  “They have to,” the duke said.

  “What about you?”

  “I have done my duty. If I marry again, it will be for entirely personal reasons. But believe me, I will not marry to disadvantage. I would rather not.”

  “You married for love the first time.” Tom remembered his father in gentler times, when the duke had smiled more and laughed often.

  “I did. I was fortunate.” He reeled off a few names. “They are comely lasses and ripe for the picking. They have fortunes and useful alliances.” He glared at Tom, his eyes sharp. “For your latest trick, you owe me.”

  The names omitted the one he was most interested in. “What about the Emperors?” he asked mildly.

  His father burst into gales of shocked laughter. “The Emperors of London? You are jesting, are you not?”

  “There are not many more influential families in the country. Together they encompass all the seats of power.”

  The duke shook his head sadly. “The optimism of youth sometimes astounds me. They are and always will be our enemies. Too much bad blood lies between us for us to reconcile. One marriage will not accomplish that. They hate us, and the sentiment is heartily reciprocated.”

  “But you were just saying we should let our history go.”

  The duke’s mouth tightened. “Not that history. That remains an open book. Do not even consider it.”

  Will stepped forward, waving his hand, his abundant ruffles punctuating the conversation. “We could discommode them. We could court them and then not come up to scratch.”

  “No!” The emphasis was more than Tom would have expected from political rivals. “You will not go near them. The Duke of Kirkburton, his sisters, their husbands, and their families. I will not have that poison infecting my family. Do you hear me?”

  Tom’s dreams of courting Helena openly faded into nothing. He rarely heard his father give edicts, but this was most definitely one. Something other than allegiances had fired that denial. His father was nothing if not devious, and he rarely laid down the law, preferring to make the choice obvious or denying all other choices so that the object of his attention had no other way to move forward.

  His father was perfectly capable of arranging matters so that Tom and Helena would never be together.

  He could not tell the duke. He would have to find another way.

  “Why are you so against the Emperors, when you do not mind us marrying a Cavendish or a Holles?” Both names were on his father’s list of potential brides, and both families were as against the Stuart cause as the Emperors were.

  His father shot him a calculating look. “The Duke of Kirkburton cut me to the bone once, but I will not tell you why.”

  Despite all Tom’s protests, he refused to say a word. Tom would have to do some investigating of his own.

  Chapter 6

  Helena sat at the breakfast table and beamed at her family. The last two weeks had been the most glorious of her life. She’d met her lover several times more in the house, and she’d seen him once in the theater and been forced to take no notice of him. Her cheeks had burned the whole time. Her mother had commented that perhaps London was too much for her, and she was going down with a cold. She had replied that Sharman had tightened her stays far too much, and that had given her the excuse to dispose of her mother’s spy and ask Julius to find her a replacement.

  That was until today. She found her appetite healthy, made even more so because she had an appointment at the mantua-makers in Change later today. She would have two hours to love and talk with Tom. Although Tom still refused to take their intimacy any further, buoyancy still filled Helena.

  Her mother jarred her out of her daydream. “Helena, pay attention!”

  Not willing to admit she had not heard a word her mother had said, Helena lowered the strength of her smile and did as she was bid. “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Then you agree?”

  Cautiously, she said, “Could we go over the details again, please, Mother?”

  The duchess’s already thin lips tightened, making a harsh slit in her face. “Why do you never listen? I was talking of Sir George Seward, who is finally out of mourning. If you marry him before April, you would not even have to go through another season.”

  It took Helena a moment to process her mother’s calm statement. Sir George Seward was their neighbor in Derbyshire, a middle-aged man who’d lost his wife to smallpox a year ago. He’d come to town a few days ago and paid them a duty visit, but Helena had done no more than greet him and smile. He was built on comfortable lines, had a fondness for sweet things, which meant he had few of his own teeth, and assumed women only had two functions in life—to bear children and to make him happy.

  He spoke to her parents but not to her? For Sir George had never said a peep to Helena about his ambitions.

  A marriage between them could not happen. Must not. “I do not agree, Mother.”

  Her mother shrugged, her lace shawl dropping off her shoulders. “We will discuss the settlement before we go home. That should not be too long.”

  “I do not agree.” That was all she could say. Sir George was not love’s young dream.

  Horror built quietly but surely in Helena’s breast. Her mother was a woman of determination and guile. She would make Helena’s life miserable if she set her heart on her daughter marrying Sir George. She could accomplish it in myriad ways, from removing the books Helena preferred to read to refusing to allow her out of the house.

  Helena could oppose her all she wanted to, but her mother held most of the cards in this hand. And if Helena refused outright, the duchess would take it in her head to compel her, so that Helena’s life would be not worth living. Her new maid would be dismissed and another spy put in her place, one that would turn Helena into a marionette for every ball, would do her best to ensure Helena never appeared to advantage.

  Rather than suffer that fate, Helena would seek employment as a governess or a kitchen maid. A romantical notion, to be sure, and one that was unlikely to come to fruition. What did she know about service, and how could she possibly expect to remain hidden? In her world, everybody knew everybody else or was related to them. Networks fed in to other networks, a room full of spiders’ webs that nobody could negotiate without making a disturbance.

  But what else could she do?

  Julius. He had enough power to stand up to their mother, and while Helena could be as stubborn as the next person, she needed more armor to effectively fight back.

  Except—was it fair to expect Julius to help her? He was busy with his wife, and soon he’d be busy with his heir. Caroline had become more volatile than ever with her advancing pregnancy, and Julius was forced to dance attendance on her to assure she did not do anything reprehensible. She had tried to take his phaeton out last week, and Julius’s house was still reverberating from his furious displeasure.

  She would do as much as possible to dodge her fate until she could obtain Julius’s help. With Augustus planning to leave soon, she could only count on his help for a few weeks. He was not here this morning, but she’d tell him as soon as she had the opportunity. Together they might contrive a scheme to keep their mother busy until Julius could attend to the matter.

  She picked up her spoon and stirred her tea. Round and round, turning the tan-colored liquid into a small maelstrom. Her mind raced, while she forced her face to calm tranquility.

  “Helena, I do wish you would pay attention!” Her mother’s voice rang around her head.

  Helena jerked up her head. “Of course, Mother.” Her face was as perfect as she could make it, smooth and calm. “I beg your pardon.”

  She listened as closely as she could, because she might need the details. “You may tell Sir George that you accept his kind proposal on certain conditions. I want you in our house, of course. His is too small to contain a duke’s daughter—”


  Would her life always be one of service and obedience? She firmed her resolve. It would not.

  The door opened to admit a footman with a silver salver. On it rested a letter which, whatever it was, bore Helena’s salvation.

  The duchess snatched up the note. It bore no seal, so must be hand delivered.

  “My goodness,” the duchess said, groping for her magnifying glass. “This writing is almost incomprehensible. Dear me, what does it say?” Knowing she had everyone’s attention, she trained her glass on the note and peered again, taking her time adjusting it.

  “Oh, I see.” She glanced around the table. “Caroline is currently giving birth.”

  The metaphorical stone dropped into the imaginary pool, but the effect was far more dynamic. The duke leaped to his feet. “Good God, I will call the carriage immediately!”

  The duchess gave him an indulgent smile, or as much as her face-paint would allow without cracking. She wore a skim of the stuff today, but Helena could not remember a time when she had faced London bare. “My dear, it could take Caroline days to deliver. Truly, there is no hurry.”

  “Nevertheless,” the duke said. “I will pay a visit to Brook Street.” He glanced at Helena. “You will come too, my dear.”

  With relief surging through her, Helena recognized her father’s tactic to get her out of the firing line and rose from her chair to curtsey to her mother. “Indeed, sir.”

  * * * *

  The baby was born within four hours, a shockingly fast time for a first child. As Caroline strained and swore, Julius paced downstairs, and Helena had little time to think of anything except making sure Julius had company and Caroline did not work too hard trying to get the baby out.

  As soon as he was allowed into the bedchamber Julius strode in, only to reappear an hour later, beaming. “Caro is asleep,” he said to his family. “Exhausted. The baby is beautiful, everything I could wish for.”

  “Except it’s a girl,” their mother pointed out.

  Julius waved her concerns away. Helena thought she saw relief on his features and understood. If the baby was Lord William’s child, Julius might have been forced to reject it if it was a boy. But a girl couldn’t inherit the dukedom. “Caroline and daughter are well and recovering. We will have others, no doubt.” He paused. “Caroline wants the baby named for her. I have no objection.”

  Typical of Caroline to insist on that, however much confusion it would cause everyone else.

  Her mother got to her feet and dusted crumbs of cake from her lap. “We will leave you now.”

  Helena wanted to see the baby, but how could she ask that?

  Julius must have seen her disappointment and caught her hand in his. “Come and see,” he said softly.

  The baby was in the powder room next to her mother’s. “Her ladyship complained that the child cried too much,” the nurse said. “I would like to take her to the nursery.”

  Julius glanced at the closed door. “I thought Caroline was feeding the baby herself.”

  “She’s changed her mind.” The nurse’s mouth tightened and she smoothed her neat skirts, although they did not need it. “We have a wet nurse, my lord, and with your permission, I’ll put her to work when the baby wakes.”

  “Do that.” Julius did not seem surprised. Carefully, he lifted the baby and put her in Helena’s arms.

  Such a tiny weight! The sweet creature’s lips pursed, as if seeking the nipple, but she would find nothing with Helena. Her breath caught. This child was so beautiful, so precious.

  “I love her,” Julius said softly, his voice packed with emotion.

  “Of course you do.” How could anyone not love her?

  * * * *

  Unfortunately, someone failed to love the baby. Her mother. Since she had given birth, Caroline had refused to see her daughter. Complaining that her figure was ruined and her love life nonexistent, Caroline had concentrated on her own recovery. Julius bore his wife’s temperament patiently, but unlike her, he visited his daughter every day. As did Helena, when she could, except for tonight, when her mother had commanded her presence at the theatre.

  The play wasn’t holding Helena’s attention. Not surprising, really, because sitting next to her was Sir George Seward. He was firmly attached to her and driving her mad. He opened every door for her, seated her carefully, and behaved as if she were already his. Not as in “his wife” but “his possession.” And his constant toadying to the duchess put Helena’s teeth on edge. He’d try to kiss Helena soon, and that would be the end.

  But her mother was determined she should have him. George was young enough, handsome enough, well born enough, but nowhere near enough for Helena. She knew what she wanted. If anything was needed to compel her further toward the unthinkable, Sir George Seward was it.

  Currently, he was sitting so close to her that his breath gusted against her cheek, and the odor of a man who loved sweets and cleaned his teeth infrequently made her long to turn her head away. If she had, her mother would have accused her of being rude, and indeed she would have been. So she kept her face clear and her posture rigid, and mildly complained of a headache, preparing for her speedy exit once they went home. She could excuse herself after the play. Accordingly, she spread her fan and closed her eyes, as if in pain. When she opened them, her attention landed on Tom. He was sitting in his family’s box, opposite her family’s. Her mother always claimed they’d hired that box deliberately, and considering the nature of the Duke of Kirkburton, they may well have, but the box only held one occupant now.

  The contrast between his lean, handsome features and Sir George’s softer ones was cruel and pointed up the difference between them. Why would she want one and not the other?

  One answer came to her. Tom’s eyes gleamed with intelligence. By contrast, Sir George was a dull dog. He knew little about current affairs, only what interested him in his little part of Derbyshire, and then with a particular emphasis on land and rights.

  “Antony was a fool,” he murmured, reminding her they were watching a version of Antony and Cleopatra. Not an enormously popular play, but this was far from the height of the season. “He should have kept Cleopatra as a lover. What man in his right mind gives up his possessions for a woman?”

  “Who indeed?” she murmured, glancing over the top of her fan at her lover. Even though they had not shared the ultimate intimacy, he was still her lover and, she feared, the only one she would ever want. Their clandestine meetings had done nothing to ease the tension and excitement every time they met, the sheer hunger for him that invaded her every moment. If she had decided on the risky affair to get rid of the emotions, she was failing significantly.

  She yearned to reach out to him, to call him.

  Sir George was still talking, but she had lost the train of what he was saying. That was unforgivably rude, but she could get by with a few gentle agreements.

  “So you would agree to a wedding in November, then, ma’am?”

  That brought her back to earth. She opened her eyes wide, alarmed at what she had so nearly agreed to. “No indeed, sir!” Forgetting all attempts to mollify her mother or the man next to her, she got to her feet. “If you will excuse me, I will be but a moment.”

  Gathering her skirts, ignoring her mother’s fierce glare, she left the box. The footman guarding the door, ostensibly there to see to their needs, stood before it, but she glared at him, and he gave in. At least she still had that power, even if the footman was a favorite of her mother’s. All the footmen were, and the maids.

  She swept past him, head high, tears misting her vision. No doubt her mother would send someone after her, so to go into one of the retirement rooms set to one side would be to imprison herself. Even without Tom she could not marry Sir George. He had driven her demented over the last day. A lifetime of the droning sycophant would send her to an early grave.

  Outside, the hallway was deserted. They were on the level where only the moneyed sectors of society
had sway. Since this was not a popular time for visitors to London, very few of her sort had attended the play tonight. Perhaps she should risk ducking into one of the unoccupied boxes. But she could hardly climb over them to the others. No, she needed to get away.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. “My lady!”

  The footman’s voice was sharp, commanding. Helena took no notice, except to quicken her step. She would not stay, could not listen to any more. Whatever it cost her, she would leave now, even if she had to walk the streets on her own.

  That prospect made her pause. Her heart beat hard, but she refused to go back.

  “Helena!”

  “No!” Wildly she glanced behind her. The footman was some way back, but gaining ground fast. She could not see Tom, but that was his voice.

  “Turn left.”

  She did so, and someone dragged her into a dark place.

  A door closed quietly behind her and she was in his arms. He released her quickly. “Come.”

  “What is this?” They were in a narrow corridor, with only a few oil lamps to guide their way.

  “Theaters have servants’ quarters, too,” he said briefly and caught her hand. He pulled her along the passage and then turned into another. From the direction, she guessed they were moving to his side of the theater.

  “Do you want me to go into your box?”