But his gaze fell to the name she had written . . . Lady Helen Winterborne . . . and that sealed her fate.
“We’ll have a grand wedding,” he said. “So that all of London will know.”
Helen didn’t seem especially taken with the idea, but she offered no objection.
Still staring at the name, he absently stroked her cheek with a gentle fingertip. “Think of our children, cariad. Sturdy Welsh stock with a Ravenel strain. They’ll conquer the world.”
“I rather think you’ll conquer it before they have a chance,” Helen said, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.
After she had written and sealed two notes, Rhys took them to the threshold of the office and called for Mrs. Fernsby.
The secretary answered the summons with unusual haste. Although her manner was professional as usual, the hazel eyes behind her round spectacles were bright with curiosity. Her gaze flickered to the room behind him, but his shoulders blocked her view.
“Yes, Mr. Winterborne?”
He gave her the notes. “Have these taken to the mews and delivered to the driver of the Ravenel carriage. I want them placed directly into his hands.”
The name earned a quick double-blink. “So it is Lady Helen.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not a word to anyone.”
“Certainly not, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Take this to the jeweler.” He dropped the diamond ring into her extended hand.
Mrs. Fernsby gasped at the rich glittering weight in her palm. “Sweet heaven above. I assume you mean the master jeweler, Mr. Sauveterre?”
“Aye, tell him to bring up a tray of rings, in this size, that are suitable for betrothal. I’ll expect him within the half hour.”
“If he isn’t immediately available, shall I ask one of the other—”
“I want Sauveterre,” he repeated, “in my office, within the half hour.”
Mrs. Fernsby responded with a distracted nod, and he could almost see the gears of her sensible brain spinning as she tried to piece together what was happening.
“Also,” Rhys continued, “clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”
The secretary stared at him fixedly. He had never made such a request before, for any reason. “The entire day? How shall I explain it?”
Rhys shrugged impatiently. “Invent something. And tell the household servants that I intend to spend a quiet afternoon at home with a guest. I don’t want a soul in sight unless I ring.” He paused, giving her a hard glance. “Make it clear to the office staff that if I hear so much as a whisper about this, from any quarter, I’ll fire the lot of them without asking a single question.”
“I would dismiss them myself,” she assured him. Having personally supervised the interviewing and hiring of most of the office staff, Mrs. Fernsby took pride in their excellence. “However, their discretion is beyond question.” Closing her fingers over the ring, she regarded him speculatively. “Might I suggest a tea tray? Lady Helen appears rather delicate. Refreshments might be just the thing while she awaits the jeweler.”
Rhys’s brows drew together. “I should have thought of that.”
She couldn’t quite repress a self-satisfied smile. “Not at all, Mr. Winterborne. That is what you employ me for.”
As he watched her depart, Rhys reflected that Mrs. Fernsby could easily be forgiven for a touch of smugness: She was easily the best private secretary in London, performing her job with an efficiency that surpassed any of her male peers.
More than one person had suggested at the time that a male secretary would have been far more suitable for a man of Rhys’s position. But he trusted his instincts in such matters. He could detect the same qualities in others: appetite, determination, vigor, which had driven him on the long, laborious climb from shop-boy to business magnate. It mattered not a whit to him about an employee’s origins, beliefs, culture, or gender. All he cared about was excellence.
Mrs. Fernsby returned soon with a tea tray that had been sent up from the in-store restaurant. Although the secretary tried to remain inconspicuous as she set it on a small round table, Helen spoke to her gently.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fernsby.”
The secretary turned to her with surprised pleasure. “You are quite welcome, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
Helen smiled. “No, this is lovely.”
The secretary lingered in the office, insisting on arranging a plate for Helen as if she were waiting on the Queen. Using a pair of silver tongs, she reached into a small basket adorned with white ribbon, and transferred tiny sandwiches and cakes to the plate.
“Enough fawning, Fernsby,” Rhys said. “You have work to attend to.”
“Of course, Mr. Winterborne.” The secretary sent him a discreet but incinerating glance as she set aside the silver tongs.
Rhys accompanied Mrs. Fernsby to the door, and paused with her just beyond the threshold. They kept their voices low, mindful of being overheard.
“Fair smitten, you are,” Rhys mocked.
The secretary’s expression was utterly devoid of amusement. “Spending a few hours alone with you will destroy her honor. I will have your word, sir, that you intend to redeem it afterward.”
Although Rhys didn’t react outwardly, he was amazed that she would dare make such a demand. Mrs. Fernsby, the most loyal of all his employees, had always turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his past debaucheries. “You’ve never said a bloody word about the women I’ve brought to my house,” he remarked coolly. “Why this sudden fit of scruples?”
“She’s a lady. An innocent. I won’t be party to ruining her.”
Rhys gave her a warning glance. “I’ve asked for a tray of betrothal rings,” he said curtly. “But I can’t redeem her honor unless I ruin it first. Go see to your work.”
Mrs. Fernsby straightened her neck and spine like a belligerent hen, continuing to view him with patent suspicion. “Yes, sir.”
After closing the door, Rhys returned to Helen, who was pouring tea. She was poised on the edge of the chair, her back as straight as a lightning rod.
“Will you take some?” she asked.
He shook his head, watching her intently. Mrs. Fernsby had been right: Helen appeared delicate, more so than he had remembered. Her cameo-pale wrist was so slender, it scarcely seemed able to bear the weight of the teapot. Perhaps she didn’t want to be treated like a hothouse flower, but she hardly seemed to have more substance than one.
Christ, how would she handle the demands he would make of her?
But then her steady gaze met his, and the impression of fragility faded. Whatever Helen might feel for him, it wasn’t fear. She had come to him, sought him out, in an act of will and unexpected boldness.
He knew the ultimatum he’d given her was indecent, a contradiction of everything he aspired to, but he didn’t give a damn. It was the only way he could be sure of her. Otherwise, she might back out of the engagement. He didn’t want to think about what losing her again would turn him into.
Helen stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “How long has Mrs. Fernsby been in your employ?”
“Five years, since she was widowed. Her husband succumbed to a wasting disease.”
Sorrow and concern shadowed her sensitive face. “Poor woman. How did she come to work for you?”