My Pleasure (8 page)

Her pleasure dimmed by the distasteful episode, she made her way to the centerpiece of the gardens, called the Grove, and from there to Lovers Walk. With any luck, Oswald would be there tonight. She fervently hoped so. Flora’s constant tears were mildewing her pillow shams.

“My dear, my exquisite, my kind and generous Miss Nash!” The harlequin raised Helena’s hands to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss upon her knuckles. Helena gazed sardonically at the tinkling bells decorating the foolscap bent over her hands; Oswald Goodwin could not have found a more fitting disguise. At least this time Flora’s husband had been waiting for her at the shadowy end of Lovers Walk.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Oswald continued. “I cannot apologize enough for my failure to meet with you last week—”

Helena pulled her hands free of his and wordlessly withdrew Flora’s note from inside her velvet jacket. She handed it to him, glad to be rid of the thing; it was so drenched in perfume that carrying it had given her a headache.

His face alighting with joy, Oswald took the note, held it to his nose, and inhaled, his eyes slitting in a delirium of bliss. Grudgingly Helena felt her ire fading to simple exasperation when she saw the unfeigned pleasure with which he broke the seal. Whatever was to become of Flora and him? She did not doubt his love was real—but how deep was it? Would it survive years of separation? Poverty? Hardship? Social banishment?

He read for a few seconds and looked up, holding the paper to his heart. “She is well!” he breathed rapturously.

Helena refrained from pointing out that if Flora had been ailing, Helena would hardly be here delivering love notes.

He read a little more and once again clutched the paper to his breast. “She misses me!”

“So she has informed me,” Helena answered dryly. “Many times.”

His large hazel eyes filled with tears. “I miss her, too.”

“Yes, yes,” Helena said impatiently. “It will be grand when you can be together again. And speaking of this, at the risk of sounding meddlesome, what exactly are you doing by way of hastening that happy day’s arrival?”

She could barely believe it was herself speaking to him this way. She was always most circumspect, never sarcastic. But, drat all, it felt good—no, it felt
wonderful
—to give vent to her frustration over the lovers’ inability to do something for themselves. If they insisted on involving her, then they would have to put up with the consequences.

It must be the mask again.

“You could never overstep yourself, Miss Nash!” Oswald declared, once more grabbing her hand and raising it to his lips. “Our angel! You, who facilitated our joyous union—”

“I did not!” Helena snatched her hand back, aghast. “I facilitated a meeting—not a union!”

“Whatever term you prefer.” Oswald waved her protest away. “We are together now, and it is all because of you.”

She wanted to be reminded of this about as much as she wanted to be reminded that Mrs. Winebarger’s cat had had fleas. She glared at him from behind the black silk mask.

“And as such,” he said, “you can never be too presumptuous. Never! We are in your hands. Utterly and confidently.”

And that was just what Helena feared and did not want and refused to allow. She might be partially to blame, but she was not entirely at fault. Oswald and Flora would have to make some attempt to remedy their current plight.

“Most affecting,” she said with determined brightness. “Now that we have established my culpability for your marriage and further determined that nothing I do can possibly free me from the obligations implicit in such a charge, tell me, Mr. Goodwin, what are
your
plans to become one, in fact as well as spirit, with your bride?”

Oswald Goodwin, not the brightest luminary in anyone’s sky, blinked in a puzzled manner. “Ah…I have a plan.”

“So far, so good.”

He looked around. “A failure-proof plan.”

“Better yet.” Helena smiled encouragingly.

His restless gaze settled on her and grew thoughtful. “You know, Miss Nash, I am loath to say so, but I doubt anyone could possibly mistake you for a lad, even dressed as you are. You’re too deuced curvy. In fact, I might suggest that you eschew masculine attire in the future as being too conspicuous.”

At this patent attempt to turn the conversation, Helena released a sigh. “I expect you are correct. Believe me, I have no plans to wear it again. Now, what is your plan?”

“Well,” he rubbed his hands together, “I have come into possession of a bit of information that, if acted upon in a timely fashion, will enable me to magnify a small sum of money—as yet to be secured—into considerable wealth.”

Helena stared at him. “I pray you undeceive me, but I could have sworn you just announced that, having been provided with a tip, you plan to bet money—money you do not have—upon something whose outcome is so uncertain others are willing to wager even larger amounts on the exact opposite result,” Helena translated. “Tell me this is not so.”

He shuffled, and his foolscap bells tinkled. “I can’t.”

“How
could
you, Mr. Goodwin?”

“Could I what?” Oswald blinked innocently.

“Gamble!” Helena said in a furious whisper. “In case you have neglected to notice, you have already lost everything you own!”

Oswald’s pleasant face turned crimson. “This is different, Miss Nash,” he said miserably, earnestly. “This is an Absolute Certainty.”

She threw up her hands. “Oh, Mr. Goodwin—”

“Please, Miss Nash,” Oswald broke in. “In just a few weeks’ time, I swear I shall be as rich as a nabob, with plenty of the ready and then some to spare. Enough to buy off the moneylenders and still furnish Florie with all the fripperies and whatnots her dear little heart desires!”

“Because of a wager.”

“Not a wager. An investment. An investment in a very sound commodity that will enable Florie and me to live like Midas for the rest of our days, and I swear on my honor,” he stated sententiously, “that afterward I shall never gamble again.”

“Hm.”

“Really.”

“Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you from digging yourself deeper into the hole into which you have purposefully flung yourself and into which you are now attempting to drag Flora, too?”

He winced, but met her eyes bravely enough. “No. Sorry.”

“Ach!” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and turned on her heels so she wouldn’t have to look at his stubborn, lovesick, genial face.

“Miss Nash?”

“And when,” she asked tightly, “is this great plan to come to fruition?”

“Within the month,” he chirped at once. “By then, I shall have collected my monies, paid those sums I owe various people,” he hesitated sheepishly, “and still have plenty remaining to take Flora from her aunt’s house and set her up in her own home. Our own home.”

She turned back. He was beaming, and she realized that nothing she could say would dissuade him. “And if you lose this bet?”

“I won’t.”

“But, say, the world stops spinning and the heavens fall and you do lose? What then?”

“Then?” His face fell into such abject misery that for an instant Helena felt every bit a blackguard. He blew out a lengthy breath. “Then I shall have no recourse but to present myself to Lady Tilpot and ask her aid.”

“And in response she will do everything in her power to see that your marriage is annulled,” she said with ruthless candor.

“That is a chance I will have to take.” Tears sprang to Oswald’s eyes. “I can’t ask Flora to live alone under Lady Tilpot’s tyranny until she comes into her inheritance. If this does not work, I shall throw myself on her mercy…”

And end up in debtors’ prison, Helena thought morosely. At least until Flora could bail him out four years hence. If her affection for the young miscreant lasted that long. Which wasn’t very likely, given that Flora’s commitment to her conjugal vows hadn’t even stood the test of a few bedbugs.

No, Helena was not confident about the couple’s future. Not at all. But, she reminded herself, there was little she could do about it. God willing, maybe this latest havey-cavey plan of Oswald’s would actually bear fruit. Miracles did happen, and they say that God watches out for children and fools, and as far as Helena was concerned, Flora and Oswald qualified on both counts.

“Have I convinced you of my sincerity?” Oswald asked.

“Oh, yes,” Helena said because there was nothing else to say. “I believe you are utterly sincere.”

“And you will support my decision? Because Flora holds your opinion in the highest regard, and she will feel so much better if I can write and tell her I have your full blessing.”

“Full blessing” is hardly how Helena would have phrased it, but she supposed that anything that might help the couple out of their current predicament was worth commending.

“I suppose—”

“Oh!”

“What is it?” Helena asked, swinging around. Midway down the path from where they stood, a pair of men in friars’ robes had stopped, their heads close together. Even from this distance and in the gloom of the poorly lit lane, their interest in Oswald was apparent.

“I…have to go!” Oswald declared, edging backwards. The men on the path stilled like hounds on point. “I will send word through the London Post where next we are to meet.”

“Next we meet? Next we meet! There will be no—”

“Look in the advertisements for one from ‘Harlequin,’ ” he cut in. “And remember, no boy’s clothing! A dress. A pink dress!” he shouted, and bolted.

The men raced after him, passing Helena on a dead run. Within a minute she was alone on the path, the sound of receding footsteps beating away into the darkness.

“Wretched dunners,” Helena muttered, because as she hadn’t secured the all-important love letter from Oswald to Flora, she would be obliged to find Oswald next week or risk having her furnishings ruined by Flora’s torrents of tears. And where, pray tell, was she to find a pink fancy dress?

Perhaps, she mused as she started down the dim path, she could forge a love letter from Oswald that would satisfy Flora. What would one write in a love letter?
Dearest one, I long to see you again.

Frowning, she paused beside a rail separating the path from a Greek folly. That wouldn’t do. Far too tame. She tried again.

My darling, last night I dreamt I gazed into your eyes and…

No, no, no. She had to put herself in a lover’s place, try to imagine what she would write—

My Sin, My Transgression, My Pleasure,

How ardently I yearn to see you. How desperately I fear I will never do so again. I dream of you and wake to find myself alone but for the memory of your brilliant eyes and wicked smile, inspiring wanton feelings within me that I cannot imagine owning. But I am unrepentant. I long for your touch, your kiss—

“Hello, Corie.”

CONVERSATION:

the back-and-forth play of the blades in a fencing match

“NOT A VERY LOYAL SWAIN you have there.”

Helena swung around, backing into the rail. Ramsey Munro strolled toward her out of the gloaming, a conjuration of that magical time betwixt day and night. He was dressed again in the dark, conservative style she realized was typical for him, the gold rose pin at his throat his only embellishment. His eyes were soft and brilliant, his smile wry. A frisson of fear awoke in Helena’s blood like an opiate, piercing and disturbingly pleasurable.

“That wasn’t the much ballyhooed married man, was it?”

“Yes,” she said a little breathlessly. She must remember to keep her voice disguised. Her normal accents might prod the memory of a man like Ramsey Munro. There were not all that many Yorkshire women in London.

He shook his head sadly. “Not a terribly impressive specimen. Despite all that ardent hand-kissing.”

“You think not?” she asked, trying to find her equilibrium. He was so devastatingly elegant and wicked-looking.

“No, indeed. He lacks address.” He stopped only when he was almost upon her, coming far too close, unacceptably close. She could feel him, a tingling that disturbed the air between them, a magnetism that drew her.

“Perhaps his address is not important to me.”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“Perhaps I only require that he be slavishly devoted,” she suggested archly, warming to this unfamiliar but fascinating role.

He smiled. “Ah. I see. You desire a sycophant.”

“No, no,” she said glibly, her confidence growing as the conversation continued. “That implies falseness. I desire to be worshipped in a most sincere fashion.”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll certainly find sincerity amongst the young. It is one of the few qualities that, owning in abundance, they insist on distributing in excess.”

“Spoken from the vantage of one in his dotage, no doubt?”

His eyes glittered in the dusk of approaching twilight. “Darlin’ lass, there is more than one way to count age. Experience being but one of them, and in that I proclaim myself positively venerable.

“That being so,” he continued, falling back a step and leaning casually with one hand on the rail, “tell me, how is it a fresh-faced youth like yon boy has managed to secure the affections of not one but two ladies? To marry one girl and then seduce another all by…what? Twenty? Twenty-one? I confess, I am all wonder.”

She did not want his curiosity about Oswald piqued to any degree. And that meant she would need to deflect it. A task, she acknowledged, with which she would have no trouble proceeding.

“First,” she said smoothly, “you assume
he
was the seducer.”

Aye. That had startled him.

“And second,” she continued, infusing her voice with the same liquid velvet he’d employed, “not everyone finds experience as appealing as, say, artless energy.” She smiled, and his smile flashed in answer.

Merciful heavens, this was intoxicating! She felt drunk on their wordplay, as if they were fencing, parrying, nicking and retreating.

“Miss,” he said in a low, vibrant voice, “I could scarce live with myself if I were to leave you doubting my vigor. In the name of all the underappreciated experienced men in the world, how then might I convince you to test me?”