Helena raced to the tent door, her heart in her throat. Peering out, she saw two liveried footmen in royal blue standing sentry outside of a deep stall. Their smart uniforms stood out like toy soldiers in the crowd of tan wool. Beside the tent was a sign that read “Herbal Remedies and Cure-Alls.”
Helena snatched Declan’s hand, strumming with excitement. Oh, to leave the market with the connection they’d come for. Squeezing his hand, she examined the tent, waiting for some sign of a lady to match the liveried servants.
He was just about to engage one of the footmen when a sallow young woman emerged from the tent with a full basket over her arm. She spoke briefly to one of the footmen, handed off the basket, and pulled a heavy linen kerchief from her pocket. She glanced at the sky, holding the kerchief to her face.
“Oh,” said Helena. The excitement draining away.
Declan said, “That’s her?”
Helena stepped outside the textile booth, staring at the girl. Her thin hair was pulled tightly from her face. A hat designed for warmth (not fashion) obscured her profile. Thick gloves turned her hands into woolly mitts. A heavy wrap swallowed her shoulders, and she shrugged deeply, burrowing within heavy folds.
She was wrong. Entirely. This couldn’t be the correct girl.
Helena was just about to step up and ask some innocuous question when a footman said, “Very good, Lady Moira,” and retreated inside theherbalist’s tent. The young woman embarked on a sneezing fit, clutching her kerchief like a holy shroud.
Helena blinked. It was her. She was exactly the girl they’d come to find, but she was all wrong. Helena started to shake. She was chilled to the bone. The warm buzz of her encounter with Declan was a distant memory. Fatigue and disappointment pressed in. Her wet garments weighed a stone.
“She’s all wrong,” she said hollowly.
“Probably.” Declan stepped beside her.
“Too thin,” she said. “Too hesitant. Is her complexion... gray?”
She glanced at Declan. “Lusk has a clear preference for milkmaids. He wants robust and supple. This girl needs a doctor, not a husband. We... we should go.”
“Yes,” Declan said. He was looking right and left, scanning the crowd.
But Helena couldn’t move. Lady Genevieve, the young heiress in New Bond Street, had been so perfect. Pert and flashy and ambitious. When Helena had given her a candid review of Lusk’s many perceived shortcomings, the girl had been unfazed.
This young woman’s wheezing could be heard across the row and over the thrum of shoppers.
“I cannot remember which gossip thought Lady Moira was on the hunt for a wealthy duke,” Helena said. “They were wrong. I would never subject her to Lusk.”
“If you’re certain . . .” Declan said, but he’d already moved on. He took her by the hand andpulled her down the row, walking quickly, head down, eyes everywhere.
A figure in a dark velvet cloak nearly collided with them and Declan paused, studying the person.
“I think I saw that same black cloak in Lady Canning’s street,” he said. He turned to watch the figure scuttle away. “Did you see them?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Helena, barely noticing. “I don’t care. I’m so disappointed. Please, can we go?”
“Aye,” Declan said, watching the cloaked figure disappear into the crowd. “Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Seven Duchesses (Potential)
Happy ?
Sneezy
A day later, Declan stalked the length of Wimpole Street, waiting for Helena to finish her mother’s morning call. He had but one thought.I need a day off.
Actually, that was inaccurate. What he really needed was to banish the damnable Knightly Snow situation from his life.
He wanted to see his father. He wanted to look in on his horse and impress upon the hostler that he would, one day, buy the stallion back. He needed to see his lawyers.
He wanted freedom from Girdleston’s frequent summons to the green salon, where he made vague threats about money and Newgate as he piddled with his toy village.
