Silas sighed. “I suppose we’ll just have to look everywhere.”
Helena gave him a look. “It did sound as iftheyknew where it was. This diadem. Perhaps that’s why my father was killed. For the information.”
“If that was so, they would not need you now because they had you right there, then.”
She nodded. “True.”
He straightened up. “In any case, we have to get you out of London as fast as possible. Just in case they saw you or someone recognizes you. I prefer you to be somewhere where these people are not. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. We can sort this out at home.”
“Must we?” Benedict interjected casually from the front seat. “It’s her last day in London. She should see at least a little of it. Let me take you both to my favorite tea shop—one of the quieter ones. No gossiping matrons or blabbering baronesses, I promise.”
Silas gave him a sharp look. “That’s not a good idea.”
“We’ll be with her,” Benedict said smoothly, glancing back at Helena with a smile. “What could possibly happen with the both of us there?”
Helena leaned forward slightly. “I’d like that,” she said softly. “Just one hour?”
Silas’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.
“It’s broad daylight,” Benedict added, a faint teasing lilt to his voice. “Surely even villains take tea at home.”
Silas sighed through his nose, eyes flicking at Helena, who now looked at him with such hopeful brightness it nearly disarmed him.
“…Fine,” he muttered at last. “But only for a short while. And no wandering.”
Helena beamed. “Of course not.”
She didn’t say anything else, but Silas could feel her delight radiating beside him. He hated how much he liked that.
“Whatever you say, husband,” she replied softly.
The tea shop smelled of orange zest and sugar, with the warm hum of genteel conversation rising over the clink of fine porcelain.
Helena stirred her tea carefully, aware of her every movement. She was not used to places like this, where the women wore silk gloves in pale pastels and spoke in quiet, practiced tones as though the mere thought of raising one’s voice was vulgar.
Silas, sprawled far too comfortably in a chair meant to tame posture, looked terribly out of place. His coat was dark, his presence darker still. Yet Helena was more aware of him than the polished mahogany tables or the ivory-patterned wallpaper. She could feel the heat of his gaze even when he wasn’t looking at her.
Benedict leaned forward. “Try the lemon tarts, Helena. They’re the only thing worth suffering society for.”
“I’m partial to the cinnamon rolls,” Silas muttered.
“You’re partial to anything with sugar,” Benedict smirked.
Before Helena could reply, the bell over the entrance tinkled, and a woman swept in as though she had invented grace.
“The Countess of Fairfax,” Benedict said under his breath.
The lady spotted them at once, her eyes lighting up with familiarity and calculation. She approached in a rustle of dove-grey silk and embroidered gloves, her hair styled with the sort of precision that demanded a maid and a mirror angled just so.
“My dear Lord Richmont!” she trilled. “I had no idea you were back in town.”
He rose to greet her, bowing over her hand. “Only briefly. Lady Imogen Fairfax, may I introduce my companions. The Duke of Highcliff, and his wife, the Duchess of Highcliff.”
Helena inclined her head politely. Imogen’s eyes lingered, assessing, then dismissive.
“The Duke, of course,” Lady Fairfax said, offering Silas a smile of restrained admiration. “It’s been an age, Your Grace.”
“Longer than that, I hope,” Silas replied, his tone edged with amusement.
