“The exercise will be good for you,” Mrs. Robinov pronounced, almost like a blessing.
So, when she had finished eating, Helen was glad to fetch her cloak and walk by Marcus’s side into the cool winter sunshine. They passed several people collecting firewood from the forest or busy about other business, but Helen didn’t mind. Sir Marcus made no effort to take her deeper into the woods or to steal kisses.
Nor did they talk of love or the future. It was as if, now that their barriers were down at last, they needed this time to get to know each other, to talk of impersonal things and just grow used to the love, acknowledged and growing between them.
Helen adored the novelty of walking so primly by his side, while her whole being tingled with awareness of his presence, with the knowledge that he shared this awareness.
Only when they returned to the inn did the pleasant enchantment break into an odd feeling of anxiety, for a carriage had halted in the yard, and Philip and Phoebe Marshall were emerging from it with regal dignity.
“Oh, no,” Helen blurted. “This will cut up our comfort.”
“Only if we let it,” Marcus said. “They have probably come to take Anne back with them to wherever they’re going. I can’t imagine Overton putting up with them much longer.”
“I expect so.” Nevertheless, the twinge of dread remained with her.
*
As Philip handed his wife down from the carriage at the Hart, she swore beneath her breath.
He sighed. “What now, my angel?”
Her gaze flickered beyond him, and he turned, following it to the couple crossing the yard toward them. Dain and Helen.
“Well, it’s not Anne,” Philip murmured. “But at least it is not the Robinov woman!”
Phoebe smiled at the approaching couple. “Are you blind?” she demanded between her teeth.
Philip had no idea what she meant and no time to ask. In truth, his wife’s skewed view of the world frequently annoyed him and led to his discomfort. So, he was glad to walk forward and bask in Helen’s uncomplicated calm.
“How is your patient?” he asked after shaking hands most cordially with both her and Dain.
“The doctor has not seen her again yet, but we believe her to be much improved,” Helen replied. “Of course, her mother will not want to move her for a few days, but I believe I can return to Audley Park without causing Mrs. Robinov much hardship.”
“Excellent,” Phoebe said. “Then we can take you back with us. Lady Overton will be delighted.”
Helen’s unexpected lack of delight was not lost on Philip. Neither was her quick, almost instinctive glance at Dain. Was that what bothered Phoebe? Seeing them together? His wife was a fool sometimes. Governess Helen Milsom was no more a rival to Anne than Dain was to himself. Sir Marcus was a wealthy landowner, of course, but the fellow was hardly handsome and certainly had no address. Abrupt and frequently sardonic, he clearly had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex.
“Let us go in,” Philip suggested. “I hope my Anne has been of assistance to you?” Although he addressed the words to Helen, it was Dain’s answer he wished to hear. Surely Anne’s soft heart and delicacy would have penetrated his notice by now?
“Of course,” Helen said.
Dain said nothing, merely held open the door for everyone to enter the house, then strode across the passage to the parlor door. Philip noted that he knocked before he entered, though he didn’t hear what he said.
To his annoyance, Anne was again in the company of the Robinov boy. Clearly, the discovery that he was a thief—which had seemed a splendid plan of Phoebe’s at the time—had not been enough to give either Anne or Dain a disgust of him. The daughter’s illness was a piece of bad luck, of course, preventing the family from leaving the scene of their disgrace. But he did not like to see his daughter so happy in the boy’s company. Nor did he care for the way she more or less ignored Sir Marcus as she jumped up to greet her parents.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a quick exchange of glances between Dain and Mrs. Robinov before the woman welcomed them civilly and asked the maid who had followed them in to bring tea and luncheon.
As they made polite conversation, ate and drank, Philip realized it had been a mistake to leave Anne here, for while she certainly seemed to have lost her terror of Sir Marcus, she treated him now much like a familiar uncle. She even made the odd joke with him, but the bulk of her attention and her smiles were for the damned thief, Kenneth Robinov.
Well, honesty compelled Philip to admit to himself that Kenneth was not a thief. But Anne did not know that. In truth, Philip was tired of the affair. There had to be easier ways of extracting money from people. Phoebe could find another wealthy man who wished for a young bride, and they would simply marry Anne to him. This plan of waiting for Dain to propose had failed from the outset, and Philip did not fancy his chances of forcing Dain to anything, let alone marriage. No, this had been Phoebe’s idea, so she could sort it out. He needed a different sort of comfort.
Helen.
During and after the informal luncheon, everyone popped in and out of the parlor for various reasons—to look after the invalid, or speak to the innkeeper, or take a turn around the yard—so it was easy enough to catch Helen alone.
He contrived to meet her at the foot of the stairs after she had taken something or other to the Robinov girl. Oh, yes, there was something about this older, more independent Helen that fired his blood. She had a quiet, intense beauty he had been foolish to pass over in his youth, and as she descended the stairs, still unaware of his observation, she seemed almost to glow with life, with happiness. He hoped his presence had something to do with that.
His confidence took a slight knock when her gaze finally fell on him, for her foot faltered for an instant and a flash of something that looked like dismay crossed her face. However, this might merely have been maidenly modesty, for the expression vanished in an instant, and she said calmly, “Mr. Marshall. Might I help you?”
“Yes, as it happens,” he replied smoothly. “I need to talk to you. In private.”
She hesitated, no doubt thinking of her position with Lord and Lady Overton. It was sweet, really.
“Look, the coffee room is empty, and we’ll leave the door open,” he said to reassure her.
She glanced at him, then walked briskly across to the coffee room. “Very well, but just for a minute.”
Following her, he admired her neat figure, the alluring movement of her hips beneath the drab gowns she always wore now. She had not been drab at the Steynings ball, though. Her beauty that night had been a revelation to him, the seed from which this idea, this new life, had grown.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked distantly.
“You could begin by calling me by name. However,” he added, holding up his hand in surrender as she opened her mouth in clear objection, “we shall not quarrel over your preferences at this stage. No, the point is, Helen, I wish to help you.”
She regarded him warily as she sat on the edge of the chair he indicated, her back ramrod straight. “I was not aware I needed help.”
“Perhaps not need. But certainly deserve.” He threw himself down on the chair next to hers. “My dear, it pains me to see you as drudge to someone else’s children, at the beck and call of other people, a mere servant to them and their friends.”