“Take care inside the dark house,” he called in a whisper. “Go immediately to bed. This never happened.”
Helena ignored him. She crept through the moonlit garden and around the side of the terrace. Her mind was full. Her chest felt uneven; corners and crevices were rearranging themselves inside her heart. The cellar steps descended behind a stone ledge, and she hit them at a run, not looking back. She felt Declan Shaw’s gaze on her until the heavy cellar door closed out the night.
What she did not know, what even Declan Shaw did not know, was that they were not alone. He was not the only one who watched her. A third person lurked in the garden that night, unseen to Helena or Declan or the squirrels burrowing in the ivy. A cloaked figure, shoulders down, face obscured, quietly took in the impetuous heiress and the surly groom-spy and their fraught, silent, longing-filled good-bye.
Chapter Six
Declan waited all night to be sacked.
When morning dawned with no summons, he waited to be hauled to jail.
What in God’s name have I done?The question beat in time to his breath, his footsteps, his heartbeat.
He’d left the stable in a haze, worried about Helena’s progress and cagey with unsated desire. After the worry and the desire, regret slowly dawned—like misty cliffs seen from the deck of a boat. By the time the haze burned away, he was colliding with rock.
What. Have. I. Done?
He’d put his hands on a client. As violations went, it was previously unthinkable. He’d never once dallied with the provocative daughters of out-of-town merchants, nor the bored, aggressive wives of negligent dignitaries. Oh no, he’d waited until he was guarding the daughter of a bloody earl, and his job was to marry her off. And then he’d—
What have I done?
Gone and gotten yourself sacked, that’s what.
Putting his hands on a client was a violation oftrust and safety and the opposite of his objective on this job.
When morning dawned with no termination, Declan embarked on the new day like a man who’d taken a dram of poison. At any moment, the deadly effects would hit.
But then breakfast came and went, morning chores—no accusations. Girdleston called for three carriages to muster in front of the house, with feathers and silks for the horses, dress livery for the grooms.
When they convened in Park Lane and the doors to Lusk House swung wide, family members spilled onto the stoop completely oblivious to him. He was indiscriminate groom Declan Shaw.
No one knew.
It felt like he’d somehow slipped from the hangman’s noose. Actually, it felt like the noose held, but the gallows had splintered and he’d scrambled away. Now he ran through the streets with a rope around his neck.
But then Lady Helena emerged, stepping into the bright autumn sun, raising a gloved hand to shade her eyes, and all the rumination and regret drained away. Her family milled on the steps fussing over a dog, and she wound her way to the street like a bright petal dropped into a moving stream. Declan held his breath, watching her. His eyes burned and the broken-off thing in his chest sank lower, digging into his side. He reached for his metaphorical noose and tugged.
She’d worn indigo, a dark purple meant to be regal and majestic, something befitting a duchess, but it put Declan in mind of a mythical creature. A fairy, perhaps. Or a good witch. It was the color of the innermost petal of a wild iris. Her hair was loosely swept up and her posture was upright but languid. She did not appear violated or traumatized; she appeared . . . serene. She waited pleasantly in the street, allowing her family to precede her.
Declan forced himself not to look. He busied himself loading the women into a carriage, supporting elbows and holding parasols. He restrained the wolfhounds. Loading women into a carriage was like shoving flapping birds into a small box.
Suddenly there she was. She turned and raised her pale-green gaze to his. Their eyes locked.
If he thought she would ignore him or scowl, he was wrong. If he thought he would see outrage or fear, he was also wrong.
Lady Helena fastened him with a look so familiar, so knowing and expectant, Declan glanced around to see if anyone else had seen.
But then the moment passed, and she affected a sort of exaggerated whirl of ruffled pelisse, and slinging reticule, and bobbing hat feather. When she was on the step, she managed to press a leather satchel into Declan’s hands.
He shot her a questioning look. She cocked one eyebrow, another expression of emphasized familiarity. If no one noticed the first time, certainly they would now. He was given little choice but to stow the satchel on his shoulder and hand her up into the carriage.
A fellow groom offered to unburden him ofthe satchel, but Declan grunted some excuse. He slipped behind the carriage, heart in his throat, and opened the brass buckles.
It would contain a letter, he thought, condemning him for assault. It would be a warrant for his arrest. It would be some equestrian item from the stable that had tangled in her nightdress or stuck to her boot.
Instead, he found five pieces of parchment, an inkpot, and a quill. And a note.
Shaw,
