The client is more than I can handle.
The client may send me back to prison, and I don’t even care.
The client needs me.
The client may deliver us all.
He could hardly write any of these.
He settled on:
The client is a spirited young woman who requires my full attention. I’m sorry there’s not been a spare afternoon that I may visit you.
Before I post this, there is one more thing. Imayhave managed a new situation for you and the girls. It is a forest cottage in Somerset. There is a village nearby and a river. I’ve not visited the site, but I’ve been to Somerset, and it’s lovely.
We cannot rely upon it, and I only mention it because you must be prepared to relocate quickly if I can make it come to pass.
Tell the girls. I know Somerset would be a significant change, but we’ve been over this. The good reasons far outweigh the bad.
I am sorry to tell you this by letter instead of a visit from me, which is long overdue. You are never far from my mind, and I have enclosed money for firewood and lantern oil and meat. It is more than usual, so please take care not to squander it. It is important that you keep some savings, Da. The next bundle is not guaranteed. Provision for the winter, buy the girls some frivolous treat, butration. I’m sorry it is not more. I’m sorry for everything that has happened these last nine months.
Your son,
Declan
The mere act of writing the words imbued Declan with a new sense of purpose and a fresh stab of guilt.
Yes, Helena’s family was shackling her to a future she did not want, but what of the future of his family? Where had his loyalties gone?
She’d made him so angry at the medical office. He’d felt like a passenger, watching a reckless coachman steer his team along the crumbling edge of a high cliff. And she expected him to enjoy the ride.
Tomorrow, he would speak with her. He would remind her that decisions about these women were madetogether. And that,always, they were discreet. With everyone. The intimacy they shared was not on display. In fact, the intimacy that they shared must stop. He was not her London diversion.
He would not touch her again—not tomorrow, not ever.
Chapter Sixteen
Helena was slated to visit the British Museum in Bloomsbury the next day. She would tour the exhibits, sketch the artifacts, and speak to a docent about becoming a patron. It was Thursday, and there were no scheduled family outings; this visit was purely for herself.
And to scout the next potential duchess.
The candidate was Miss Jessica Marten, a young woman who was said to haunt the museum most days, assisting her father with research and transcription.
Despite the coldness of the morning, Helena elected to walk from Lusk House to the museum. She’d known Declan was out of sorts when they’d left Miss Keep the day before, and she’d worried about it all night. She would not ride in anxious solitude inside the carriage while he glowered outside, not when they could walk and talk.
She took care with her appearance, wearing a crimson dress with burgundy trim. She chose mauve gloves and hat, and Meg plaited her hair and pinned the braids in looping coils at the back of her head. She had a faint matador-ishlook when she descended the stairs for breakfast. Considering Declan’s mood, this felt appropriate.
She sent for Shaw immediately after breakfast. Girdleston hovered in the grand hall, peppering her with questions about where she intended to go on foot with no proper chaperone. Helena cheerfully informed him that she wished to research fossilized plants at the British Museum. She’d asked Lusk to escort her, she reported regretfully, but alas, the duke declined.
When Declan appeared, she stacked his arms with sketch pads, reference books, drawing materials, and a living specimen ofMalus domesticain a clay pot. The final touch was admitting to Girdleston that she had (begrudgingly) begun to rely upon his groom—and they set off.
“You’re angry,” she said, striding in the direction of Cumberland Gate.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I am angry.”
They made the corner at Oxford Street, walking east. The cold air stung her eyes, but she did not feel chilled. She felt only him, his silence and rigid displeasure. A sharp animosity crackled with everyclip, clip, clipof his steps. He radiated frustration.
“Should I begin to toss out guesses?” she asked.
