“Oh, she wouldn’t,” he said as he offered her an arm and led her to the dancefloor. But as they began the intricate steps of the jig the orchestra played next, Helena couldn’t help but think once more of Baldwin’s face when he left the ballroom.
And wish that she could find a way to help him. Even though that wasn’t her place.
Baldwin stared at the letter that had been left on his desk for what had to be the tenth time in a half hour. The words swam, just as they had from the first moment he read them. Now he could hardly see them, but it didn’t matter.
They were seared onto his soul, statements he would never forget even if he tried with all his might.
“‘The missing debts have been found,’” he said out loud, flinching as his hands began to shake. “‘Or their previous whereabouts were discovered, held by three gentlemen.’”
He swallowed as he got up and tossed the letter aside. He’d been waiting to hear this, to know who held his fate in their hands, who could drop the guillotine on his neck.
Only the men who had owned those debts no longer did. They’d sold them, all on the same day, all through the same solicitor.
Which meant that one man probably held them now. Someone who had discovered and purchased the debts in a calculated way and protected his identity through the solicitor, who refused to give Baldwin’s man any further information, including terms of repayment.
It turned his stomach to think of what the intentions of such a man might be. To think of the nightmares he could create with a flick of his wrist.
Baldwin paced to the sideboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He didn’t bother with a glass, but slung himself into the seat before the fire and took a long swig. He should go back to his party, but right now he couldn’t even think of roaming around amongst prospects and friends, pretending to be well when his head was spinning and his heart hurting.
Right now he wanted to forget. And this was the best way he knew how.
Helena crept up the quiet hallway, her skirt fisted in her hand as she looked from one closed door to the next, trying to find some hint as to where she should go.
It had been hours since Baldwin’s departure from the ballroom, his face pinched and pained. She’d waited for him to come back, trying to pretend like his whereabouts meant nothing to her. It became harder and harder as the whispers started. The questions as to why their host had abandoned the party so abruptly.
She’d seen the worry on Charlotte’s face and on the Duchess of Sheffield’s as they made excuses and exchanged looks. With every moment, Helena’s desire to help Baldwin grew. And now, with the party winding to a close and her cousin returning to their room to be helped to bed by her maid, Helena knew this was her only chance to do so.
She turned another corner in the endless hallway and stopped. While most of the rooms were dark, there was a small sliver of light coming from under one door at the end of this hall. Her heart began to pound as she moved toward it, hoping she’d found Baldwin. Fearful she had. Totally lost as to what she’d do if he was behind that door.
She knocked, but there was no answer. Her shoulders slumped. The room was likely empty. She moved to go, but before she could step away there was the clatter of something hitting the ground and a muffled curse from behind the door.
She reached out and pushed the door open.
If there had been a lamp lighting the room, it had long since burned out. The fire was all that remained, and it flickered and sent long shadows throughout the chamber. It was a study, much like the one in Baldwin’s London home.
When she turned to look at the fire, there he was. He had been seated in front of the mantel, but now he rose, rather awkwardly and stared at her.
He gripped a bottle in his hand. A half-empty bottle, at that. His jacket was gone, his cravat was gone and his shirt was half undone, revealing a shocking expanse of skin peppered with wiry chest hair that a lady should not see. Not when she had such wicked thoughts about a gentleman, at any rate.
She caught her breath and stared at him. He stared right back, unblinking, unmoving, unreadable.
“Are you a dream?” he finally asked, his words just ever so slightly slurred.
She glanced over her shoulder. He would not want others to find him this way. She stepped into the room and pulled it shut behind her. For a moment she hesitated, and then she turned the key in the lock, granting them privacy and a heavy dose of inappropriate aloneness.
“No,” she whispered when she could find her voice.
“That’s worse, actually,” he muttered, and collapsed back into the chair with a grunt. The bottle in his fingers slid free and rolled away, spilling the remainder of its contents on the carpet. “If you were a dream, I could have what I want.”
She moved forward, confused and driven and attracted and terrified all at once. “You left your party, Baldwin,” she said gently. “I was worried when you didn’t return.”
“Everyone else gets what they want,” he said, ignoring what she was saying. “Have you ever noticed that?”
She eased into the chair beside his and leaned forward, examining his face carefully. She’d thought him unreadable, but that was wrong. No, emotions were there. There were just so many that it was hard to parse them all out.
“Some people are lucky,” she conceded.
He laughed, but there was no pleasure in the sound. No light. No happiness. It was harsh and cold. “Oh yes, so many. My friends arelucky. Half of them are married and oh-so happy.”
