Silas’s instincts kicked in instantly. He moved in front of her, his gaze lifting toward the foyer.
And froze.
A woman stood silhouetted by the sunlight pouring through the doorway, the light catching in the folds of her gown, making her appear almost spectral, wreathed in shadow.
She was tall and statuesque, with golden hair pinned in an artful chignon and striking green eyes. Her features were finely sculpted, in the way of women who are well aware of their own beauty.
Silas had seen sketches of her during the Downfield investigation. But the stillness of ink hadn’t done her justice: it hadn’t conveyed the cold, calculating gleam behind that smile.
There was no doubt. This was Regina Porter, Dowager Countess of Downfield.
Helena’s mother.
A mother who looked nothing like her daughter, save perhaps for the curve of her jaw. Where Helena was dark-haired and sharp-eyed, all tension and fire, the Countess was still and serene, a beautiful mask pulled taut over something much more dangerous.
And she was here. Which meant trouble had arrived with her.
They stared at each other, both waiting for the other to speak.
Silas stepped forward and placed his hand gently against her elbow. “Good afternoon,” he said coolly.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the woman responded, her tone serpentine, hiss-like, as she narrowed her eyes at him, then at her daughter. “Helena. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your husband?”
Helena jerked, as if startled. She made an inarticulate sound in her throat, and he could see the fear in her eyes.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “M-mother. What are you doing here?”
“What a question to ask!” she exclaimed in an affronted-sounding voice, “I had to hear from your uncle that you are married now. Did I not warrant an invitation to the wedding?”
Helena made a choking sound, and Silas turned to her, taking her hand in his. “Shall we take this conversation to the parlor?”
She nodded jerkily and then turned and marched away.
Silas watched her go, before turning back to the Dowager Countess. “If you’d please follow me.”
He turned as well, taking Amelia by the arm, and marched them all to the parlor.
Helena had seated herself in an armchair by the window, as far as possible from the other seats as she could get.
Silas glanced at Lady Downfield, gesturing to the sofa, before reaching down to ring the bell and summon Jeeves.
The butler scuttled into the parlor. He stiffened, sensing the tension of the room.
“Somerefreshment,for our visitor,” Silas told him.
Jeeves bowed. “Right away, Your Grace.”
With an internal sigh, Silas sat down opposite Helena’s mother while Amelia took a seat on the chair beside Helena.
“Forgive us, my lady. We were not expecting visitors.” Silas broke the silence once again.
Lady Downfield straightened up, “I am no mere visitor. I am Helena’s mother.”
Silas’s lips twisted with the irony of that statement.
“Oh, so you remember that, then?” Helena asked, surprising him.
Lady Downfield turned to stare at her daughter haughtily. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
