The viscount granted her an intent look. “She did, indeed, and so his secret was revealed, even as her alliance to him became complete.”
“Did she see it when he took a bath?” Becky asked. “Or when he slept?”
The viscount chuckled. “I wager she might have seen it as a result of their guise of being man and wife.” His gaze slid to meet Helena’s and she felt herself flush, even though she could not look away.
She was thinking of those passages of amorous advice and wishing she might read them again. She halfway thought the viscount knew as much and was amused by her curiosity.
Though he was not surprised by it. Helena was certain he expected her to be audacious and perhaps even awaited her to be so.
“And the rest, sir?” Becky prompted in the tone of one who knew the tale already.
Helena could guess. “And they fought the usurpers along with the villagers, won back the holding, and he reclaimed his legacy in triumph,” she said with satisfaction.
“I believe they even lived happily ever after,” the viscount added, giving a little bow.
“Is it true, though?” Helena had to ask.
“As far as I know. It is the tale that is frequently told of the ruins, and I understand the duke does trace his lineage at least as far back as Bartholomew and Anna.”
Becky nodded with enthusiasm. “The first time I heard the tale, your brother sang it, sir. It was in the common room at the inn in Haynesdale village, and he scarce stopped for breath.” She shook her head. “There must have been a hundred verses!”
“There is a version in rhyming verse,” the viscount said. “And my brother knew it all.” He shook his head in recollection. “Our tutor was most annoyed that Gerald could sing the entire lay ofBartholomew’s Return, but could not recite a list of the monarchs of England.” He smiled, a little sadly to Helena’s thinking, and made to rise to his feet. “We used to play in the ruins as boys, though I had nigh forgotten as much. He loved that place beyond all.”
Becky sighed and shook her head. “God bless his soul, sir,” she murmured and the viscount nodded in acknowledgement of that.
“Perhaps it is your brother who occupies the ruins,” Helena suggested before she could keep the words from springing to her lips.
Indeed, it made perfect sense that her champion might be the notorious and charming Gerald. There might be space in that ruin for his horse to have shelter and he might have taken refugein a familiar ruin. That would also explain the similarities and the differences between Lord Addersley and Helena’s champion.
Did brothers not often share a height and build? Might they both have a cleft in their chins? Yet one was dashing and one was sedate, their respective natures distinguishing them from each other despite their physical similarities.
But the viscount shook his head and his tone was severe. “That cannot be, Miss Emerson. My brother died in the battle of Waterloo.”
“But are you certain?” Helena asked. “There might have been an error.”
“Miss!” Becky said, sounding as horrified as Aunt might have done.
The viscount only studied her, his gaze colder than she had ever seen it. “Impossible, Miss Emerson,” he said curtly. “Your affection for tales leads you astray in this matter.” He touched the brim of his hat and bowed so precisely that she knew he was annoyed with her. “Good day.”
“Oh miss,” Becky whispered. “You have offended him in truth. Why would you ask him such a thing? To suggest that a dead man yet lives is impertinent beyond all.”
But Helena could only wonder. Her notion made good sense, to her thinking. She knew, though, that no one wished to give it consideration.
Why not? Were people glad that Master Gerald had died?
There was a tale and one she intended to uncover, though she could not do as much with Becky by her side. Her ankle had to mend and quickly! Surely then she would be able to evade Becky and meet her champion at the folly as planned.
And she would know the truth of his name.
That happy situation could not be contrived too soon for Helena.
CHAPTER 9
Gerald alive.
Impossible!
And yet…and yet. As much as Joshua was inclined to discard the possibility, he had to consider it. Therewasthe official document delivering the news of Gerald’s demise, which should be utterly trustworthy. Joshua had to wonder about battlefields, though, about the difficulty of accurate identification. He could not dismiss the fact that Gerald had not returned home in any form. His brother’s remains, such as they were, must be interred near Waterloo. Joshua did not even know if there was a stone to mark the place.
