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And he was a master at the hunt.

Twenty-four

Come, Come, Come to the Ball!

She and Rees had worked on the score until morning light started to creep into the music room; by then her headache was already in full force. At some point Saunders had crept into the bedroom and enquired whether she wished to rise, but Helene had waved her off with a groan. “Not until this evening,” she’d said, wondering whether she would ever rise from the bed again without feeling the ground lurch under her feet.

When the door to her chamber opened at two o’clock, and brisk footsteps approached the bed, Helene wearily opened her eyes again. But it wasn’t Saunders; it was Rees, standing next to her bed looking disgustingly healthy.

“Go away,” she moaned, putting her hand to her brow like any self-respecting heroine in a melodrama.

“Time for you to get up,” he said cheerfully. “I heard from Leke that you’re not in the pink of health, so I’ve brought you Cook’s remedy for a bad head.”

Helene eyed the glass he held with great suspicion. “Thank you, but no. I never drink things that foam,” she said with a shudder.

“Today you do,” Rees announced, and without further ado, he grabbed her around the shoulders, hoisted her into a sitting position and stuck the glass to her lips.

“How dare you!” Helene protested, rather feebly as her head was reeling from the sudden movement. She tasted the drink. It was as vile as it looked.

“Drink every drop,” Rees commanded.

“Why are you plaguing me?” she moaned.

“I’ve a new idea for the second act,” he said.

Some women might think his excitement was adorable, the way his eyes were gleaming with exhilaration.

“It came from something you said last night, about the tenor aria in The White Elephant.”

Helene had given up the battle and was struggling her way through the glass. At the end she pushed him away and flopped back onto her bed. She felt worse, if that was possible. “Go away,” she said. “Please.”

A footman staggered in carrying pails of steaming water, followed by a second with a tin hipbath. “Bit of a pity having to carry it all the way up here,” Rees remarked. “I’ve had water piped into the water closet off my bedchamber, Helene. You’ll have to take a look.”

Helene covered her eyes and wondered whether she could have slipped into a long bad dream, without noticing. How could her husband think that she would overlook the presence of his mistress in her bedchamber and merrily investigate the plumbing arrangements? Maybe she was dreaming all of this, and she would wake up back in her own bed. But if it was a dream, why was her head hurting so?

Although…she had to admit…the pain seemed to be receding slightly.

“Do you need some help getting into the bath?” Rees said, looking perfectly prepared to jerk her from her covers and toss her into a steaming tub of water.

“No,” she said wearily, managing to get her feet on the ground. “Get out of here, Rees.”

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he said.

“I refuse to work on your score. I need fresh air.”

“Where are you going to get that? You do remember that this house hasn’t a garden to speak of, don’t you?”

“I’ll go to Hyde Park in a closed carriage,” Helene said, abruptly remembering that all of London thought she was in Bath, taking the waters. “But I’m not sitting down at the piano, Rees, so you can just forget that idea.”

“We’ll go for a walk then,” he said with unimpaired good humor. “Excellent notion. I can sing you the aria while we’re strolling.”

Helene put her head in her hands. “Out,” she said hollowly. “Out, out, out!”

“I like your hair this morning,” her husband said, giving her a wicked smile. “Especially the bit on top. The rooster crest is a nice effect.”

“Out!” Helene said, lurching to her feet and glaring at him.

An hour later she trailed down the stairs, still feeling like a despairing heroine from one of Rees’s operas, albeit one dressed in an exquisite blue walking costume that likely cost as much as a whole chorus’s worth of Quaker costumes.