He summoned the footman with a single bell.
“Mason,” he said, “these are to be delivered to Lady Fairfax at her residence. Not to her steward, not to her secretary. Directly into her keeping. You will wait for a reply.”
The footman bowed, eyes wide, and took the letters. William watched him go, noting the ripple of unease as the servant passed through the corridor. The house had a way of amplifying secrets; already, the word would be circulating, first among the staff, then to the city.
When the door closed, William allowed himself to collapse onto the desk. His head pressed against the blotter, cold and faintly smelling of ink. He stayed there for a count of sixty, perhaps longer.
William did not permit himself to think of failure or the landscape of loss ahead. Instead, he let the numbness seep in, freezing his thoughts until they flickered at the corners of his mind.
He thought fleetingly of the letter Helena might send in response, the words she would choose—cutting, clinical, or perhaps a single, savage line. He tried to imagine a future in which he was forgiven, or at least understood.
He failed.
He set the pen down and, for the first time, left the page unmarked.
In the silence, the crackle of the dying fire sounded like a judge’s gavel or the slow applause of a ghost.
Chapter 11
Helena sat in her bedchamber, shocked and a little afraid. Candlelight flickered in the room, casting shadows that danced intimately in the silence following a long siege. Heavy curtains were drawn against the dusk, yet the damp city air seeped in at every seam. The candelabra on the writing desk provided the only illumination, its six flames overlapping to create a patchwork of light and dark.
She regarded the desk as one might view sacred relics. Spread before her lay the documents, his handwriting, large and precise, dominating the pages with a sense of authority. She touched the edge of the topmost letter, feeling the slight burr where the quill had pressed too hard. Her name appeared repeatedly, always followed by verbs of command: instruct, command, endow, cede.
Her thumb brushed the signature, half-expecting the ink to smudge. Instead, it felt as though it imprinted itself on her skin, a mark of ink and intent.
A knock, dry and calculated, jolted her from her reverie. She did not turn immediately. Helena closed the ledger, rearranged the papers into a neat fan, then brushed her hands against her skirts to compose herself. Only then did she say, “Enter.”
The door opened with less ceremony than usual and she gasped.
William stood at the threshold, backlit by the corridor’s light. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it several times since leaving his own house. His cravat was hastily knotted, the points of his collar misaligned. His coat, black and severe, showed the impression of a journey spent perched at the edge of his carriage seat.
For once, he did not use an honorific. “You sent for me.”
She nodded. “As my lover. Not my jailer.”
He did not flinch, but something in his face softened, the line of his jaw shifting from hard to almost human.
She stood, the silk of her dressing gown whispering against the carpet. “You have done it, then.”
His mouth twitched. “Done what?”
“Given up your inheritance. The land, the money, the future. Your power over me.” She gestured at the desk. “For this. For me?”
He looked at the documents, then at her. “There was no future in the alternative.”
She considered his words, then shook her head. “You always speak in absolutes, William.”
He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The intimacy of the space tightened around them. “It is not a hardship,” he said quietly. “Not if I have you.”
Helena fell silent, contemplating. “And if you did not?”
He shrugged, the gesture almost elegant. “Then exile would be preferable.”
A line of wax trembled down the side of a candle, pooling on the blotter. She watched as she asked, “Why send the contracts?”
He considered, as if uncertain. “To prove it was not about control. Or power. Or even protection, though God knows I am addicted to the idea of keeping you safe.” He drew a breath, slow and ragged. “It was to show you that I am capable of surrender. Of letting you choose.”
She approached, closing the distance between them. One hand traced the edge of his collar, adjusting it with a flick of her wrist.
