Warily Kathleen broke the silence. “He’s Lord Berwick’s nephew, actually. Since the Berwicks never had a son, Mr. Vance is the heir presumptive to the estate. When Lord Berwick passes away, everything will go to Mr. Vance, and Lady Berwick and her daughters will be dependent on his goodwill. So, they’ve always tried to be hospitable to him. I’ve met Mr. Vance on a few occasions.”
“What is your opinion of him?” Devon asked.
Kathleen made a face. “A loathsome man. Petty, cruel, and self-important. Always in debt, but he believes himself to be a financial wizard of the age. In the past he tried more than once to borrow against his future inheritance. Lord Berwick was livid.”
Helen glanced at Rhys, troubled by the bleakness of his expression. His friend’s actions seemed to have cut deeply. “Are you certain,” she asked hesitantly, “that Mr. Severin understood the extent of your dislike for Mr. Vance?”
“He understood,” Rhys said shortly, and took a swallow of cognac.
“Then why did he do it?”
Rhys shook his head, remaining silent.
In a moment, Devon answered pensively. “Severin can be callous in pursuit of a goal. He has an extraordinary mind, it’s no exaggeration to call him a genius. However, such ability often comes at the expense of—” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Decency?” West suggested dryly.
Looking rueful, Devon nodded. “When dealing with Severin, one must never forget that above all, he’s an opportunist. His brain is so busy trying to engineer a certain outcome that he doesn’t bother to consider anyone’s feelings, including his own. That being said, there have been times when I’ve seen Severin go to great lengths to help other people. He’s not all bad.” He shrugged. “It seems a pity to give up the friendship entirely.”
“I’d give up anyone or anything,” Rhys retorted, “to make certain I never have any connection to Albion Vance.”
Chapter 16
HELEN LOWERED HER HEAD as if to concentrate on the mending in her lap. A sickening, strange, stomach-dropping feeling came over her. Somehow her hands continued the familiar task of sewing, jerkily stabbing the needle through the torn seam of a shirt. Panicked thoughts became ensnarled in her head, and she worked to pull them apart and make sense of them.
Albion was an uncommon name, but not entirely out of the ordinary. It could be a coincidence.
Please, God, please let it be a coincidence.
Oh that look on Rhys’s face. The kind of hatred a man would take to his grave.
Anxiety seethed inside her, making it the effort to remain outwardly calm excruciating. She had to leave the room. She had to go somewhere private, and take a few deep breaths . . . and she had to find Quincy.
He had come to the estate with Rhys. Quincy knew more of her family’s secrets than anyone. She would insist that he tell her the truth.
While the conversation continued, Helen tied off the thread of her mending and slowly reached into the sewing box near her foot. She felt for the pair of tiny sewing scissors in the top compartment, and nudged the wickedly sharp blades apart. Deliberately she ran the side of her forefinger against the blade until she felt a pinching sensation and a hot sting. Drawing her hand back quickly, she glanced with feigned dismay at the drop of bright red blood welling from the cut.
Rhys noticed immediately. He made a Welsh sound of disgruntlement, a flick of breath pushed between the edge of teeth and lower lip. “Wfft.” Tugging a handkerchief from inside his coat, he came to her in a few strides. Wordlessly he sank to his haunches in front of her and clamped the folded cloth around her finger.
“I should have looked before reaching for the scissors,” Helen said sheepishly.
His eyes had lost that chilling hardness and were now filled with concern. Carefully, he lifted the handkerchief to look at the cut on her finger. “It’s not deep. But you need a plaster.”
Kathleen spoke from the settee. “Shall I ring for Mrs. Church, dear?”
“I’d rather go to her room,” Helen said lightly. “It will be easier there, with all her supplies at hand.”
Rhys rose to his feet, pulling Helen up with him. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, do stay,” Helen said quickly, holding the handkerchief around her finger. “You haven’t finished your cognac.” She stepped back from him. Avoiding his searching gaze, she sent a quick smile to the room in general. “The hour is late,” she said. “It’s time for me to retire. Good night, everyone.”
After the family responded in kind, Helen left the parlor with measured steps, fighting the urge to break into a run. She continued down the grand staircase, crossed through the main hall, and descended the servants’ stairs. In contrast to the quiet emptiness of the first floor, belowstairs bustled with activity. The servants had finished their dinner and were clearing away dishes and flatware, while the cook supervised advance preparations for the next day’s meals.
A burst of laughter came from the servants’ hall. Inching closer to the doorway, Helen saw Quincy sitting at the long table with a group of footmen and maids. He appeared to be regaling them with stories of his new life in London. Quincy had always been a well-liked member of the staff, and he had surely been missed since he had been hired away by Rhys.
As Helen wondered how she might attract his attention without causing a scene, she heard the housekeeper’s voice behind her.
“Lady Helen?”
She turned to face Mrs. Church, whose plump face was trestled with concern.
“What brings you belowstairs, my lady? You have only to ring, and I’ll send someone up to you.”
With a rueful smile, Helen held up her injured finger. “A slight mishap with the sewing scissors,” she explained. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”
Mrs. Church clucked over the little wound, and led her to the housekeeper’s room, just two doors away. It served as both a sitting room and a place where Mrs. Church conducted the business of household management. From the earliest time Helen could remember, Mrs. Church had kept a large medicine chest there. Whenever Theo, Helen, or the twins had injured themselves or had felt ill, they had gone to the housekeeper’s room to be bandaged, dosed, and comforted.
Sitting at the small table, Helen remarked, “Everyone seems merry tonight.”
Mrs. Church opened the medicine chest. “Yes, they’re fair tickled to have Quincy back for a visit. They’ve asked a thousand questions, mostly about the department store. Quincy brought a catalog for everyone to marvel over. None of us can imagine so many goods to be found under one roof.”
“Winterborne’s is very grand,” Helen said. “Like a palace.”
“So Quincy says.” After dabbing tincture of benzoin onto the cut, Mrs. Church cut a small strip from a piece of white sarcenet imbued with isinglass, and moistened it with lavender water solution. Deftly she wrapped the plaster around Helen’s finger. “Quincy seems to have been invigorated by working for your Mr. Winterborne. I haven’t seen him so spry in years.”
“I’m glad to hear it. As a matter of fact . . .” Helen tried to make her tone casual. “. . . I would like to speak privately with Quincy, if you would bring him here.”