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My beloved Helen,
I have not known which news to pray for these last days. I cannot bear for you to leave, nor to snare you against your will.
It goes against almost everything I feel to let go of you, but you said if I respect you, I must respect your wishes. And you are right. I will not bend you to my will. Above all else, it is freedom you have sought, and freedom you shall have.
The funds are yours. You alone can access them. If I’m truthful, this gift is selfish. I could not live with myself without at least knowing that wherever you are, you have means. It is torture to imagine you marrying another only out of need. My greatest wish for you is that, being free, you may accept love and family when you find them again.
Helen couldn’t keep her eyes open to finish reading; she clutched the letter above her heart and cried.
For so long, she had believed only the tea profits would free her and allow her to trust. She had convinced herself that the sole circumstances that would permit her to choose Nicholas willingly were if she didn’t need him—if she didn’t need to marry anyone at all.
Even before his gift, she had finally realized, however, that being on secure financial footing couldn’t prevent her from being hurt one day. Most importantly, she learned that what truly earned her trust—more than any dollar or pound could—were his consistent acts of love and generosity.
He hadn’t hidden his frustration and hurt about her decision to leave if she wasn’t increasing, but he hadn’t taken his anger out on her. He wanted her to be happy and was willing to sacrifice to make it so.
I must do the same for him!
All that was left to do was find the man! After folding the letter carefully and putting it away in the desk with the banking documents, she ordered the carriage readied and set off for nearby Mayfair. Thinking it unlikely that Nicholas would stay under his father’s roof at the moment, she hoped to find him at David Chadbourne’s residence.
The townhouse was smaller than the Siderises’s mansion, but sat like a diamond in a row of gemstones in a royal crown. Though not a tremendous physical distance from her own borrowed townhouse, this neighborhood was distinctly affluent and prestigious.
The butler looked her up and down before deigning to greet her in a manner so reserved it felt frosty.
“Yes, good day. I’m here looking for Nicholas Irons. Is he staying here?”
The man stared, his eyes widening slightly.
She sighed, wondering if it was her accent. “My name is Helen Gray, and Nicholas and I are betrothed.” She lifted her chin. “If he’s not here at the moment, perhaps I might have a word with the Earl of…Lord…”
“Lord Anterleigh,” he droned.
“That’s it! Thank you.”
When the Earl found her in the entryway, she was gazing upon a huge painting. Nearly life-sized, the family portrait showed his parents sitting together, with Clara as a full-cheeked young girl under ten, and David a young adolescent. The children sat on the carpet in front of their parents, along with three dogs sitting as tall and regally as the family.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gray.”
She forced her eyes away from the captivating image of a beautiful family, one warmer than she could imagine giving rise to this reserved man. “Good afternoon, Lord Anterleigh.” She nearly smiled at how fluently she pronounced his title, at last.
His eyes flicked to the painting, but only for a split second. “Sirena’s work.”
“I recognize her style,” she said softly, turning back to it.
The boy in the painting had not yet filled out his large frame; he looked almost gangly. His posture looked more relaxed than she could have imagined of him; even at the Sideris home, where he obviously felt welcome and familiar, he comported himself entirely formally. In the painting, he looked…content. He sat with his back along one of his father’s legs, and his arm was draped around one of the canines, whose fur was cream-colored except for the rich brown of its spots and soft ears.
“Do you have any dogs now?”
“No.”
She faced him, startled by the difference in atmosphere between the painting and the remoteness in his seafoam-green eyes. “You loved those dogs, didn’t you?”
As if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze moved slowly to the portrait, and before her eyes, pain swept through him. His posture didn’t change, but he looked upon the image of his family with unchecked pining. “Yes.”
So many of the noblemen she’d seen about town traveled with multiple dogs of all sizes in tow. Those pets were adored and lived a quality of life far exceeding that of most who dwelled in London. If not for the painting and the earl’s reaction to it, she could have easily believed that, unlike his peers, he wouldn’t want an animal in his home. It was easy to imagine his disdain for the filth and tumult.
“Why don’t you have a dog now, then?”
He blinked once, slowly; an aristocratic air of blandness replaced all emotion in his expression. “I presume, Mrs. Gray, that whatever America’s innovations in building wooden ships, you’ve yet to find a way to lengthen canine lifespans?”
