Girdleston had turned up in the library, interrupting their confessions. The snoring duke had been hauled away by his valet and Helena had been marched back to the dining room. Declan was given no choice but to follow.
He paused now, rubbing a hand over the horse’s coat. Speaking softly to the gelding, he lifted his hoof to inspect a shoe. Lusk’s horses were meticulously cared for, and this animal was no exception.
Lady Helena will be meticulously cared for, he thought.
Lady Helena is not a horse.
And this was his problem.
He’d not expected to feel sympathy for Lady Helena Lark. She was a client, and a nobleman’s daughter, a class apart. Her unhappiness had nothing to do with himself or his family.
There had been no time for Declan to look in on his father and sisters when he left Newgate. He’d hurried to Lusk House and sent word by private messenger, an expense he could hardly afford. His father would be relieved by his freedom, and Declan prayed his anguish over his son’s incarceration had not damaged his already frail health.
Peter Shaw had served King and Country for forty years in his role of tailor to the Royal Marines. He was a craftsman of the highest order, but years of squinting at a tiny needle in the candlelight had left him nearly blind and riddled with headaches. Lifting heavy bolts of wool and stooping over a worktable had crippled his back. Peter Shaw’s uniforms leant warmth and polish to British soldiers, but tailor services never made anyone rich. Declan’s father’s pension barely kept him in food and fuel. He was old before his time, unwell, and struggling.
This was the year he’d planned to move Peter from London to the countryside. They’d been searching for a cottage, someplace with a warm hearth and a bed on the ground floor. Declan envisioned a temperate, peaceful shire, where he could walk to a nearby village, read in the sunshine, breathe clean air.
The plan would also benefit his two sisters, who would thrive in gentler, slower country lives and have the opportunity to marry decent men away from the crime of London.
All of it had languished when Declan was arrested, and now it could only be realized if he earned Girdleston’s payout. Meanwhile, Helena Lark would enjoy an aristocrat’s life of luxury, whether she married the Duke of Lusk or not.
And yet—
And yet, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. He saw her in his mind’s eye, a series of hot, candlelit flashes. Lady Helena, leaning against a bookshelf, looking up with pale green eyes, her lips slightly parted. Lady Helena, moving through the library as if she was already mistress of the house, beckoning him, disappearing around the next aisle of books.
Declan swore and stepped back from the horse. He was just about to move to the sorrel in the next stall when he heard rustling in the doorway. He glanced up, expecting another groom. “Hello?” he called, stepping into the center aisle.
The door was empty. The night was dark, and he could just make out loose hay and autumn leaves swirling in the alley.
“Hel—”
“Shhh!” someone whispered, cutting him off. The sound was close. Distinctly feminine. Heart-poundingly familiar.
Declan went still.Surely not. Surely,surelynot.
“Who’s there?” he tried.
Instead of answering, Lady Helena Lark stepped from the shadows.
Declan could not have been more shocked if she’d drifted from the rafters like a feather. He blinked twice, took a step forward, stopped. Words tumbled inside his head, too many to choose. His mouth was locked half-open.
She wore white. A night rail so profuse with billowing fabric, the very whiteness and fluffy volume seemed to reflect the moonlight like snow. She appeared almost strangled by the high white neck, her chin tickled by a veritable tide of frothy lace. The hem swamped her feet. Her hair had been braided into a single, thick plait, which hung heavily over her shoulder. She looked young and celestial and a little bit suffocated. She looked—
“Do not be alarmed,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Too late,” he rasped. He spoke haltingly. His voice cracked. “What are you doing?”
“Our conversation was cut short.”
“What are you wearing?”
“A nightgown.”
Declan took a moment to allow the answer to penetrate. Did she wish to shock him? To provoke?
“Fine,” she said, letting out an exasperated sigh. “It is a night rail and robe. My grandmother had it made for me before she died. I pull it out when I require a bit of costumed embellishment. It was exceedingly useful during the madwoman phase of my Resistance.”
“What does that mean?”
