Lord Trent: Love's Price Part 39

"No. It will be all right. You'll see."

So...that was why he'd been so eager to wed her. He presumed that Trent would give him some money, and like the most gullible fool, she'd fallen for his scheme. What a pitiful, degrading insight.

Why hadn't she been the least bit wary? She'd often reflected that her affair with Westwood had crushed her common sense. Had it rendered her stupid and blind, as well?

"Are your fiscal troubles that dire, Nigel?" she queried.

"We're in a small financial bind. Nothing serious, mind you, but a dowry from Trent would definitely come in handy."

"What's become of your inheritance from your father?"

"We have a lot of bills. Once you've been here awhile, you'll understand what it's like."

"Oh, I understand." She a.s.sessed his fashionable outfit, Barbara's exquisite dress. "I understand all too well."

"You'll help us convince Trent, won't you, Helen?" Barbara urged.

"No, I won't."

She started out, and Nigel rushed over and clasped hold of her arm. She glared at him.

"What do you want?"

"I just wondered where you're going."

"To my room. Why?"

"Because you should stay at Brookhaven where you belong." There was an odd hint of threat in his tone. "We'd worry if you left."

"We'd be panic-stricken," Barbara claimed.

"I'm not going anywhere," Helen responded.

"Well, fine. Good."

Nigel forced another smile, then he peeked over at Barbara, and they shared a furtive, significant exchange.

Helen suffered the strangest perception that she was about to be locked in. Would she to be their prisoner? Would they keep her against her will?

It was all too bizarre.

She yanked away and headed for the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Helen knocked on the door to the one place she'd a.s.sumed she would never see again: James Harcourt's London home. Footsteps sounded, and the butler answered.

On observing her, his brows rose, and she wondered what he thought. No doubt Miranda Wilson had spread dreadful stories about her, so his opinion was likely to be very low, but she didn't care.

"Miss Stewart, this is a surprise."

"I apologize for bothering you-"

"It's no bother."

"-but I would like to speak with Lord Westwood."

"He's not here."

"When do you expect him back?"

"He's out on business, so I really can't say."

The man flushed, giving evidence that Westwood was probably gambling. It was an accepted, but never mentioned household fact.

"I suppose he's in the middle of a card game."

"Actually, he's arranging a very important one." The butler was being much too indiscreet. "I'm told it's a game he's been seeking for many years."

Helen was curious as to who Westwood's mark would be. Who did he plan to swindle?

"I've traveled from the country," she explained, "specifically to talk to him. May I wait?"

He considered, and when it looked as if he would refuse, she said, "Please? I'll just sit quietly in a parlor. No one will know I'm here."

"Well..."

She had no qualms about playing on his sympathies, and she retrieved her tattered copy of Bentley Struthers's flyer and stuck it under his nose.

"Have you seen this?" she asked.

"Yes. Over the summer, they were posted all over the city."

"She's my twin sister. Lord Westwood promised he'd help me find her, but he never did anything. She's been captured, and she's in grave danger."

He debated, then sighed. "All right, come in. I'll inform you the minute he arrives."

"Thank you."

Helen entered the foyer, and when he offered to take her cloak and hat, she declined. If Westwood ordered her out, or if they fought, she wanted to be able to leave immediately without dawdling as her belongings were produced.

She was running on instinct, once again on the streets and terrified over what would happen next.

After learning what Nigel and Barbara had done to Harriet, Helen had fled in the dark of night. She'd skipped supper, claiming a headache and huddling in her room until everyone was abed, then she'd sneaked out. By the time the sun had risen, she'd been three villages away.

She'd used the last of Westwood's severance money to purchase a seat on the mail coach, and she'd been on her way to London before anyone at Brookhaven would have noticed that she hadn't joined them for breakfast.

After she talked to Westwood, after she demanded the a.s.sistance he'd sworn he would provide, she couldn't guess what would become of her. She was focused on one goal and one goal only: saving Harriet.

Helen had had enough of Westwood's egregious conduct, and if he rebuffed her request for aid, she was perfectly willing to blackmail him by threatening to tell the entire world that he was a cheat. He could deny it and call her a liar, but the charge would be out there. People would always watch him. People would always speculate.

She'd just started after the butler when-to her dismay-Miranda clomped down the stairs.

"Miss Stewart!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see Lord Westwood."

"You shall not see him!" She glared at the butler. "Show her out. At once."

"I'm sorry, Miss Wilson, but I won't. The earl was very fond of her, and I'm sure he will welcome the meeting."

Miranda gasped again. "You will not disobey me, or I'll have your job!"

The butler was imperturbable, his dislike of Miranda very clear.

"Perhaps you should discuss the matter with you fiance."

Helen frowned. Wasn't Westwood her fiance? On the journey to town, Helen had wondered if their speedy wedding hadn't already occurred. But no. The butler had specifically referred to Miranda as Miss Wilson.

"If you suppose," Miranda fumed, "that I have to fetch Mr. Harcourt to make you behave as you ought, you will be sorely disappointed."

The butler snorted with disdain. "Pardon the interruption, Miss Stewart. If you'll come with me...?"

He started walking again, ignoring Miranda, and she shrieked with outrage and grabbed Helen by the arm.

"Get out, you pathetic hussy!"

Her voice was rising, the situation escalating, when suddenly, a man appeared at the end of the hall.

For the briefest instant, Helen froze, certain it was Westwood, but then she noted the differences. He had many of the same features, but he wasn't James Harcourt.

Was he Tristan Harcourt? Miranda had said he was dead.

"Harriet?" he breathed. "Is it really you?"

He knew Harriet? As he hurried toward her, Helen was even more confused.

"No, I'm not Harriet."

"Not...Harriet? Gad, you look exactly like her."

He staggered to a halt, a.s.sessing her, scowling and touchingly crushed that Helen was the wrong sister.

"You're Helen Stewart, aren't you?"

"Yes. Are you Captain Harcourt?"

"I am. What's going on? Who was shouting?"

The butler answered. "We're having a dispute, sir. Miss Stewart wishes to speak with your brother, but Miss Wilson is insisting that she can deny the earl a visitor."

"Honestly, Miranda," Mr. Harcourt said. "You know better."

"How are you acquainted with Harriet?" Helen queried.

"How?" Mr. Harcourt inquired. "My goodness, Miss Stewart, have you been living in a cave?"

"What do you mean?"

"He means," Miranda bit out, "that your sister is a wh.o.r.e-just like you."

"Miranda!" Mr. Harcourt scolded as she burst into tears and fled up the stairs.

The butler raced off too, so Helen and Harcourt were alone.

"I'm sorry to stare"-Helen was gawking at him-"but Miss Wilson had informed me that you'd perished."

He sighed. "As you can see, I'm very much alive."

He held out his arms and spun from side to side, letting her examine him.

"She also claimed that-since you were deceased-she was about to marry Lord Westwood."

"Yes, there have been rumors to that effect."

"So...they didn't wed?"

"She's still Miss Wilson to all of us."

"Yet you're proceeding with your betrothal?"

"As of this moment-yes."

Helen couldn't decide if he was crazy or extremely foolish-though he didn't seem to be either. She pondered whether she should warn him about Miranda, but she didn't.

The Harcourts and their marriages were none of her business.

"You mentioned Harriet, Captain Harcourt."

"Do you truly not know about her and me?"

"No, but I've been in the country, so I wouldn't have heard any gossip. How are you connected?"