The muddy crush of the Wandsworth market came into view, and Helena was caught up in distant music and bursts of laughter, the smell of smoke and pasties. She craned to see over horses and carts, her face happy and curious. He stared at her pretty profile, gratified by her open delight. She’d shown disdain for so many things—the garden party, the trousseau, Lusk House in general. But the market captivated her. The broken-off thing in his chest lost another sharp, heavy chunk.
“Our best chance of finding the herbalist is walking up and down every row,” he said, tugging her between a carriage and a pen of goats.
The market’s outer perimeter was a large circle of wagons and tents. Once inside, rows and rows of vendors stretched over the muddy field. A dark, smoky forest loomed in the distanceand a crude bandstand and musicians dominated the far end. In the center, a bonfire puffed smoke. The booths spilled over with autumn vegetables, chopped wood, candles, loaves of fresh bread.
Helena pulled free of Declan’s hand and spun in a slow circle, drinking in the swirl of colors and aromas. Children darted around her, chasing a dog.
Declan cleared his throat. “We’re looking at every booth for an herbalist,” he reminded her, pointing to the first row. “We’re searching every person for signs of wealth and privilege. An heiress will be far easier to spot in a country market than New Bond Street.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, following him at a slow pace.
“But we must look,” he reminded.
“Iamlooking,” she insisted, but she was staring at a table piled high with chunks of soap, each bar pressed with a sprig of lavender.
He hustled her along and they rounded first one row, then another. When they rounded the third row, Declan heard himself say, “My last client was also a young woman.”
Helena stopped walking. “I beg your pardon?”
He didn’t look at her. The words were out before he’d considered them.
“I was hired by the palace to escort her from England to France,” he said. “I want you to feel fully informed. After what your sister said. You should not fear betrayal from me, Helena.”
“I’ve not felt betrayed,” she said quietly, walking again. “But I have wanted to know more.”
They rounded the corner of the next row. He wondered if he’d said enough.
“By ‘palace,’ do you mean St. James’s Palace?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The girl wasn’t... one of the royal princesses?”
“No. She was the daughter of a viscount from Cornwall. She’d entered into a courtship with one of the king’s sons. William, Duke of Clarence and St. Andrews.”
“William?” marveled Helena. “It’s said that one day he will be king.”
“Yes. That is what is said. And his brothers, the other royal dukes, did not feel this girl was the correct consort for the future king. They’ve someone else in mind. When his brothers could not dissuade him of the courtship to this woman, they hired me to... deliver her to a holiday in the South of France. She had an aunt with a villa near Nice. The French seaside was meant to be far enough away to allow the royal duke to consider some other girl.”
“The brothers tore the duke and his lady apart?”
“I cannot say how everyone felt or what hearts were broken or otherwise. The girl—her name was Knightly Snow—”
“Nightly Snow?” laughed Helena.
“With aK, as in Knight. Miss Knightly Snow. She knew full well she was being extracted from the duke so that some other woman could be installed.” Declan thought of Knightly Snow and his stomach curdled.
He sighed, continuing. “She was a . . . provocative,mercurial sort of woman. She loved parties and society and adventure. From what I could gather during our very short time together, she was excited about the prospect of a holiday in France. She had a volatile bent—I saw her behave with outrageous temper to both staff and strangers on more than one occasion. Not to mention, I believe she and the royal duke quarreled quite a bit, before she took her leave. I also believe they paid her.”
“Who paid her?”
“The royal dukes.”
“Paid her for what?”
“To go away.”
“And you were her escort.”
