Mary looked away. “I know it, my lady. But I did not wish to raise it. I manage well enough. I have my room here and board.”
“You are too kind to me. I cannot go on relying on your generosity indefinitely.”
The truth was, over the past months she had been forced to sell a great many things. She’d asked for loans from the few people she knew, but she’d grown up in Somerset, and most people she knew there she’d grown apart from during her years in Bath. After her marriage she had tried to establish herself in Bath, but those acquaintances had quietly dissolved once it became apparent that Lady Vale’s circumstances were not what society expected them to be.
There was one exception. Lady Clara Hampshire, whom she had met years ago at finishing school and who had become the truest friend she had ever had. Since her return to London, Clara came to call. Clara took her out. Clara took her duties as Lavinia’s godmother with complete seriousness and showed no sign whatsoever of caring what anyone in society thought of any of it.
She also knew that Clara would occasionally give Mary money to cover expenses, though it was an unaddressed kindness, as Clara knew how hard it would be for Helena to accept that help. It was one thing to ask relations for assistance, quite another when it was a friend whom you saw regularly.
Clara was, in short, a great comfort. But beyond Clara there was nobody.
Now she was alone. She had her Aunt Margaret, who had already given more than she wished to. Her cousin Hazel. And she had Mary.
Her lip wobbled. She set her teeth against it and straightened. She had to keep herself together. Hartwell women did not come apart at the seams over grocery bills.
A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts, and Mary stepped out into the hall. Words were exchanged — low and polite, too quiet for her to make out — though the voice alongside Mary’s was unmistakably male, and one she did not recognize.
She frowned and stepped into the hall.
To her surprise, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in a fine coat and starched cravat stood in the entrance. He had dark blond hair and the kind of easy, self-possessed stance that suggested he had never once in his life felt unwelcome anywhere. The sort of man, Helena thought, who moved through the world as though it had been arranged for his convenience.
She distrusted him immediately on principle.
CHAPTER 3
HELENA
“My lady,” he said, and bowed deeply. “I was just telling your housekeeper that I have come from St. James’ to call on you. As I was just saying to your maid, I am Gideon Blackwell, Duke of Blackthorne.”
She blinked and took a step back. The name rang a bell.
An alarm bell.
“I know who you are, Your Grace. Your reputation precedes you. You were formerly Viscount Ashford, I believe.”
“For a brief while,” he said, with a smirk that lit up his face. He was a handsome man, but he had the air of somebody who knew it. Those, she knew, were the most dangerous sort of men. Huxley had been one of those. The first time she had met him, he had carried himself with a similar air to this gentleman. Confident, charming, and very aware of his own good looks. She was not going to fall for that again.
“I wondered if we might speak,” he said. Mary’s eyes flashed from her to him and back again.
“It is quite all right, Mary. If you could look after Lavinia, I would appreciate it.” Mary departed, but as she passed her, she whispered, “Let me know if you need assistance.”
Helena nodded with a smile. Mary, always her protector.
“We may speak,” she said.
“May I come inside?” he asked. “Only I do not think it would be proper to say what I have come to say while standing in your humble doorway.”
She blinked. “While my doorway is indeed humble, I do not think it would be proper for you to come inside either. Besides, I believe what you have come to say can be resolved in short order.”
“Is that so?” he said. “And why do you think I have come?”
“As I said, your reputation precedes you. Men like you see a woman like me as an easy target. I am young, suddenly widowed, and lacking certain protections. A woman someone might wish to while away the hours with. Well, you are at the wrong door. Might I suggest St. Giles?”
He looked genuinely alarmed. “You have just had a baby,” he said, “and you have been widowed not even a year ago.”
“That is right,” she said, gesturing at her deep purple attire. “I am almost out of mourning, but not quite. Still, that has not stopped certain gentlemen from presenting themselves looking for, shall we say, an addition to their collection.”
She shuddered. She had been most alarmed when, not five months after Huxley’s funeral, a middle-aged Earl had approached her outside a tea shop and implied that he was aware of her situation, and that if she ever needed his assistance, he would be willing to provide it in exchange for certain privileges.
