Page 38 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
She had made her peace with the fact that their friendship — or whatever this was — would end once she married again, that she would only speak to him politely at balls or dinners once or twice a year thereafter. She had not relished the thought, but she had accepted it. This was something else altogether.
Another thing that troubled her was that she did not know who had sent the letter. Who had started the rumours.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and Mary went to answer it. She heard Gideon’s voice and quickly scooped up Lavinia. They made their way to the back of the house, to the little kitchen.
“Oh no, Your Grace,” she heard Mary say. “She is still too unwell. She cannot receive visitors.”
Bless Mary, she thought. It wasn’t right to make her lie, but in a way it wasn’t really a lie — not entirely.
She took a slow breath. Lavinia squealed in her arms.
“Giddy-on?”
“No,” Helena said, and shook her head. She placed a finger against her own lips, then held it in front of Lavinia, which only made the little girl laugh. “Not today,” she whispered. “Not Gideon today.”
The front door closed. She waited a few minutes longer — she did not want to walk back into the drawing room only to have him pass by the window and perhaps see her.
She leaned against the kitchen counter. Buns were cooking in the oven, filling the air with the warm yeasty scent that had been absent from their home for some time, because they had not been able to afford all the ingredients for fresh bread regularly. She took a slow breath and was just about to make her way back to the drawing room when the door opened behind her.
“Mary, you frightened—” She stopped. “Gideon.”
He stepped through the door.
“There you are. I could scarcely believe it when Mary told me you were hiding in the kitchen.”
“She should not have done that,” Helena said, and an unusual wave of irritation toward her maid washed over her.
“She absolutely should have. You should not have been hiding from me.” He looked at her steadily. “I take it you have not been ill at all.”
“I have been unwell,” she said. “Perhaps not in the way I led you to believe.”
“I see. Then why are you hiding from me?”
She shifted Lavinia to her other arm. The little girl immediately reached out toward Gideon. He took her, but crossed to the door. “Mary — will you take the child?”
Mary appeared and took Lavinia, who protested loudly at being carried away.
Gideon turned back and pointed at the kitchen chair. “I will not leave until you tell me.”
“There is nothing to tell. I have changed my mind. I do not think you ought to find me a husband. I think I ought to leave London. I cannot simply take French leave of the whole business, I know — but London has not brought me much fortune. We have not found a single eligible gentleman. I ought to relocate.”
“Did you not just pay your rent in advance for another few months?”
“I can speak to the landlord. I am certain he will return it.” She was, of course, not certain of any such thing — in fact she was almost certain he would not return a single penny. And exactly how she was intending to relocate she did not know. But she knew she had to leave London.
“Has something happened?”
“I just told you what has happened. We have had no luck. We must admit defeat.”
“I do not admit defeat quite so quickly. And I know you well enough by now to understand that something else is the matter. What is it?”
She looked at him, then looked away, and crossed her arms. “There are rumours afoot. About me. Or there will be. I believe they already are, and they will only get worse.”
He looked at her steadily. He did not seem suspicious or confused — not yet.
She reached into the drawer where she had placed the letter earlier and held it out to him. He read it.
“I see,” he said. “And you understand what it is they are speaking of?”
