“Oh my God!” the younger woman gasped as she saw Hereford. Her face blanched, and she touched a hand to the wall to steady herself.
“I’m so sorry, Camille,” Helena began, rushing over to her.
Camille dropped to her knees as if all strength had left her body; her hands shook as she brought them up to cover her face. Helena knelt beside her and took her trembling body into her arms. “He’s gone,” Camille whispered. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Then she threw back her head and laughed.
The shock of finding her husband dead and in the bed of his lover must have been too much to bear. Helena helped her get to her feet and kept an arm around her. Thankfully, August and Violet met them in the corridor. “Send for tea,” Helena said, as August took up position on Camille’s other side. Together they got her back to her bedroom as Violet sent a maid for tea. By the time they brought her to the chair near the hearth in her room, she was trembling with sobs.
The rest of the day was overtaken with the aftermath of Hereford’s death. Two physicians came out to the house, both confirming that he likely died from an aneurysm. That didn’t stop vicious rumors from circulating belowstairs that he might have been poisoned. Most of the guests opted to leave that day, so Helena was left to fill the role of hostess as Mama tended to Isabelle. It wasn’t until almost midnight that she returned to her own room alone.
She was so tired that her hands shook with fatigue, but she sat down at her desk and wrote a letter to Max to tell him what had happened. It was hardly necessary. He was on a ship now, and she was certain someone in his family would inform him of what had transpired, but she needed him now. She needed his arms around her and the comfort and security only he could bring her. Writing him was the only way to feel close to him, so she took out a sheet of parchment and relayed the entire terrible affair to him. When she was done, she curled up in bed and hugged the pillow he had slept on. Tears came seemingly without end.
She didn’t cry for Hereford. She cried because life was fragile. She cried because she missed Max. She cried because she might have made the biggest mistake of her life in letting him go, but she didn’t know how to live through his eventual disdain of her. She knew that she wouldn’t. Those last months with Arthur’s coldness had been the worst of her life. She couldn’t bear it from Max.
ONE MONTH LATER
The rain had turned to slush an hour ago, but Helena was on a mission and could not go home until she had finished it, much to the consternation of Ostler. He’d silently endured their morning at the new London Home for Young Women with his typical grace, standing sentry as she had directed a furniture delivery. Their first twenty-five women, along with their children, had been settled into their flats the previous week, with another twenty-five due in two days. There was still much to do before they could be settled properly, but the incessant rain that had started at midday had ensured that another wagon load of furniture would have to wait until tomorrow to be delivered.
She should have returned home, but with a couple of hours to spare, she made a stop she had been wanting to make for weeks. It was probably ill-advised, but here she was stepping into the very masculine shop of Truefitt and Hill on St. James’s. The warm scents of leather and spice greeted her as a man looked up at her from behind the counter. Ostler paused to shake off the umbrella before following her in with a severe expression on his face.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” said the man behind the counter. “How can I help?” His surprised expression had quickly settled into polite inquisitiveness.
“I . . .” She found herself tongue-tied. The store was a barbershop that also traded in cologne and other grooming products for men, so she had never found a reason to come here before today. She was slightly out of her element and at a loss to explain her visit without giving herself away. Her longing for Max had brought her here. “My father, Lord Farthington, is one of your patrons.”
“Oh, why yes, his lordship is here often.” The man straightened, suddenly more interested in her.
“I thought so. I hope you can help me. I am looking for a gift for him and my brother, and I hoped you knew what cologne they both prefer.”
“Of course.” He pulled out a leather-bound ledger from beneath the counter and flipped through some pages. “Here it is. Lord Farthington prefers a bay rum.” He walked across the room to a display case and took out a green bottle. “This, my lady.” He splashed a drop on a small piece of parchment and held it out for her.
The pungent scent had her wrinkling her nose. It was one she didn’t like. “Yes, that’s it.”
He nodded and set it on the counter before moving to consult the book again. As he did, she let her gaze roam over the hundreds of small bottles in the case. One of them had to be the scent Max wore. She could kick herself for not asking him about it, but it was hardly something that came up over polite discussion. The first nights after he left, she had been able to close her eyes and remember his smell. She could feel the warmth of his skin against her and the way butterflies took flight in her stomach when she breathed him in. But that had been fading lately. She had told herself that it was a good thing, that she had to move on with her life. But she hadn’t listened. So here she was in this shop desperately hoping to find him here among the bottles so that she could take him home and sleep with his scent on her pillow tonight. No, she might put it on her skin so that she could close her eyes and pretend that he had touched her.
The scandalous thought had her blushing in the middle of the store. Before she knew what she was doing, she was uncorking bottles and smelling their contents, intent on finding the one that smelled most like Max.
“My lady?” The clerk drew up short as he approached. “Lord Rivendale wears this one.” He picked up a brown bottle. “It’s from Grant and Company with leather base notes.”
She nodded without looking at him. “Yes, I’ll take that one, too.” She wrinkled her nose at one that smelled like licorice and put it back on the shelf. “Do you have something richer? Something like . . .” She bit her lip as she thought of a proper description for her memory of Max’s cologne. “Orange blossom, perhaps, or bergamot with a smoky tinge. Something deep and warm.”
Setting the bottle for her brother beside the one for her father, he said, “You’ll be looking for something in this area.” He indicated a row near the top filled with green and blue bottles. “Bergamot, lemon, orange blossom with a hint of leather.” He selected one and removed the lid, holding it out for her.
Too crisp. It needed more texture. “No, not that one.”
They tried three more before she found it. The unassuming square bottle was made of thick blue glass. As soon as she breathed in, she recalled burying her face in Max’s neck as he moved over her, breathing him in as his groan born of sheer lust filled her ears. She flushed all the way down to the tips of her toes. She was certain her eyes must be dilated with remembered pleasure, so she kept her head tilted downward as she clutched the bottle.