Sir Marcus saw her though, bowing to her from across the dining room before sitting beside Lady Sydney.
Helen wore the evening gown Lady Cecily had given her, so at least she did not feel too overwhelmingly dowdy among the glittering guests. She was seated beside the local vicar, who made conversation for them both, giving her time to observe her fellow diners. She noticed Anne beside Julius Moore, laughing and clearly enjoying his company. She saw Phoebe pointing out to her neighbor—Lord Verne, the duke’s brother-in-law—what a charming young couple they made.
After dinner, formality collapsed. The ladies could withdraw if they wished. The gentleman could stay and drink port if they wished. But everyone was invited to view the pictures in the gallery, to attend poetry readings, or musical recitals in various salons, or dancing in the great hall which would begin in half an hour.
Since the gallery was on her way back to the bedchamber, where she meant to make sure the girls were asleep, Helen paused to examine some of the pictures. A rather wild landscape caught her attention, perhaps because of the shadowy yet splendid building that seemed to be tumbling down as one looked at it. Far in the background lurked a watching figure.
“I like that one, too,” Mr. Carluke said behind her. “Very atmospheric.”
“Who is the artist?”
Mr. Carluke pointed at the scrawl on the bottom right, which looked like Tamar. “I heard a rumor he’s the long-lost Marquis of Tamar.”
“How is he lost?”
“Well, no one ever sees him. He and his siblings ran feral after their father died, leaving them with nothing but a pile of debts. Last I heard, they were all dead, though I hope not. Do you think my wife would like this?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but was distracted by a feeling of being observed. Glancing around, she found Philip staring at her from only a few feet away.
“You!” he uttered in disbelief.
She tilted her chin in defiance. After what he had done, he had no right to look at her with such contempt.
Mr. Carluke turned to him in his vague, amiable way, as though expecting an introduction. Philip’s spiteful eyes flickered, assessing the relationship between them, and guessed correctly.
At least he spoke quietly, confidentially. “Sir, I hope you have not employed this creature as your children’s governess. You should know that she is no better than she should be and quite unfit to associate with a gentleman’s children. There is a reason she has no reference from her previous employer.”
It seemed he was going to ruin her life for a third time, and from sheer spite. There was just no need, no reason for him to say such a thing to her new employer. Except that she had rejected him and thwarted his plans. This man she had once loved.
She felt her shoulders droop, waited helplessly for Mr. Carluke to demand details, but determined she would not run away.
“Actually,” Mr. Carluke said. “I prefer my own eyes and the word of friends to that of complete strangers.”
Helen gazed at him in astonishment.
“Also,” Mr. Carluke added in his mild manner, “I’ll thank you not to slander the lady.” He moved away, ushering Helen before him.
“Sir, you are kind,” Helen said intensely, “and with no explanation from me!”
“I had Alvan’s before I ever met you,” Mr. Carluke said.
Helen glanced back over her shoulder at the vanishing figure of Philip. “He did not even argue with you.”
“I should think he’s in awe of my brother—Lord Gantry, you know,” Carluke said carelessly. “I believe Gantry is quite a leader of polite society, though I barely notice such things myself.”
Helen closed her mouth.
“Best see to the children then,” he advised and grinned. “Before the fun begins.”
*
In a house of this size, with such easy-going hosts, it had not been difficult for Marcus to avoid the Marshalls, beyond distant bows when they found themselves in the same room for breakfast or dinner.
Only Anne had taken the trouble to come up to him and say bluntly, “You should know I don’t believe these rumors that Miss Milsom ran away with you.”
“Nor should you,” he replied, “for she didn’t. And wouldn’t.”
She beamed at him with approval. “That’s just what I said! And though I still don’t want to marry you, I don’t believe, either, that you would do such a thing.”
“Why, thank you. I am much moved.”
“No, you’re not. Society wouldn’t care much if it were true. It’s women who suffer from such vile rumors.”
“You are quite right,” he said, impressed again by this unexpected perception in the daughter of Philip and Phoebe Marshall.
For an instant, he was tempted to tell her that Miss Milsom’s friends were about to scotch any such rumors with the truth. But he didn’t want her blabbing anything to her parents that might warn them of the forces against them.
Surreptitiously, he watched Phoebe as she left the dining room, but she was too smart to purloin any cutlery or other silver at the moment. There were too many people, and she only had a reticule in which to hide anything.
Strolling into the gallery, he was in time to see Marshall notice Helen for the first time. From sheer instinct, he sped his pace toward them, but fortunately Carluke was with her and appeared to give Marshall a flea in his ear—judging by the older man’s dropping jaw.
Marcus turned in the opposite direction. He should not show Helen any undue attention in case it fed the Marshalls’ rumors. He wanted nothing to compel Helen into marriage, for he knew her well enough now to realize that such compulsion would always stand in his way. He had to be free to choose her for no other aim than love. And she had to choose him for the same reason. If there was reason to any of this.
It was a pity in some ways that the duchess’s entertainment was so scattered. At a ball, there would have been but one room in which to observe Phoebe’s light fingers. Here, she could flit from salon to salon to ballroom to gallery. Fortunately, there were enough conspirators to keep watch wherever she went without drawing attention by trailing after her.
In the musical salon, the duchess stood beside the pianoforte, twisting an ornate and probably uncomfortably heavy ring on her finger. Gracefully, she introduced the wonderful new soprano who was about to become the rage of London and left her ring on the edge of the pianoforte when she stood aside.
Phoebe was patient. She waited until the rapt audience all but mobbed the talented young singer before she brushed against the instrument and swept up the ring as she passed. If anyone noticed, she could claim she was keeping it safe for whoever it belonged to.
Over the heads of the gushing crowd, Marcus caught the duchess’s eye and nodded. She didn’t even glance where the ring had been, merely carried on talking a few minutes more before slipping out of the room.
Marcus strolled out of the salon a little later and lingered in the gallery, wondering whether to buy one of Tamar’s paintings. He didn’t know if he was the mysterious young marquis, but he liked the artist’s work. At the door of the poetry salon, he encountered Sydney Cromarty.
“She’s not in there anymore,” Cromarty murmured. “But she swiped my loosened cufflink before it even fell off my cuff. She’s as good as any pickpocket.”