What if her championwasthe viscount?
What if the viscount had a secret identity, like the highwayman or Robin Hood?
She sat up abruptly in bed, her thoughts spinning.
He would have to have a good reason for undertaking such a disguise, of course, one that required a secrecy that was outside his nature. It was not difficult to imagine him perpetuating a disguise with good cause, or even being evasive about the truth. He was honest, to be sure, and trustworthy, but he was also honorable.
What was the cause?
She could not ask him outright, of course, for if the viscount kept a secret, there must be good cause. He was not a frivolous man or one inclined to jests. Had someone not implied that he had worked as a spy during the war? Did his quest have anything to do with the men who had occupied the ruins?
Helena dared not even hope that his ruse was for her sake. No, she had simply witnessed the truth by accident, by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and his gallantry had demanded that he see her safe.
There was so much more to the viscount than met the eye!
And Helena wanted to know every detail.
Would he keep their rendezvous at the folly, when her ankle was healed and the weather was finer? Helena wished for that outcome with all her might as the rain fell, pounding upon the roof and ensuring her captivity at the cottage was complete.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of the thawing of a taciturn viscount with a dimple—and in her dream, the viscount kissed with all the beguiling assurance of a highwayman.
Nicholas sentthe carriage to Bramble Cottage on Sunday morning, and the family all went to church together in Haynesdale Hollow. Helena spent the service surveying all the young men present, but failed to find one who might be her champion.
The viscount, she could not fail to note, was not there. She supposed there was a church at Addersley village and he was obliged to attend services there, but found herself disappointed in his absence all the same.
The dowager came to Aunt Fanny when they were leaving the church, her delight obvious to all. The reason soon became clear. “I have had a letter from Damien,” she confided in Aunt Fanny, her words sufficiently loud to carry to others. “He will arrive in time for the ball, though I had no such expectation.”
“How wonderful,” Aunt said, granting Helena a significant glance.
Helena sighed, finding herself with little interest of the duke’s doings.
“You may have your dance after all, Helena,” Nicholas teased but Lady Haynesdale laughed.
“Oh, Damien does not dance. You must know as much Captain Haynesdale. He did not even dance before his leg was injured and now—” she made a sweeping gesture with one hand. She then leaned closer to Aunt Fanny. “The most interesting detail is that he is bringing his ward, a Mademoiselle Sylvie LaFleur.”
“I was not aware that Haynesdale had a ward,” Nicholas said.
“Nor I!” agreed Lady Constance with a laugh. “But his adventures are legion. Doubtless he will have a tale of it to sharewhen he arrives. He is expecting another guest as well, an elderly lady called Mrs. Oliver.”
Mrs. Oliver? Was that not the name of the author of that scandalous advice Helena had found in Eliza’s possession? Helena cast a quick sidelong glance at Eliza, whose eyes had widened in alarm. Even Nicholas developed a sudden fascination with the ground before his boots.
Helena was not mistaken then. It was the same Mrs. Oliver. Who was she and why was she coming to Haynesdale at all? She listened avidly, hoping to learn as much as possible of these promising tidings, but the subject was changed all too swiftly.
The dowager said her farewells and hastened away, even as Aunt Fanny watched her go. “Award,” Aunt said under her breath. “The duke unexpectedly has a ward, who is French.” She shook her head primly. “I wager she is young and lovely and of no blood relation at all.”
Nicholas laughed. “And you think he plans to wed her?”
“I think the situation utterly obvious, Nicholas,” Aunt said primly. Nicholas handed them all into the carriage.
“Then I will take your wager, Aunt, for I know Damien has no intent to marry at all. I am certain that if ever he did take a wife, it would be a lady close to his own age. He has little patience with young ladies.”
Helena assumed this was a warning targeted for her ears, but she was less interested in the duke’s inclinations than before. Indeed, she could only recall how very elderly he was, and reliant upon his cane. He made no effort to be charming, in her recollection, or even to be polite. The viscount was a much more agreeable companion and much more attractive, as well.
“A pretty young chit might change his thinking,” Aunt insisted. “It has happened before.”
“Not Damien.”
“It is his duty to wed and father at least one son.”
