Cold-Hearted Rake
Page 102

“Yes?”
Helen hesitated, and made a revolted little sound. “He wanted me to part my lips. During.”
“Oh.”
“Is it because he’s Welsh?”
A mixture of sympathy and amusement swept through Kathleen. She replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t believe that manner of kissing is limited to the Welsh, dear. Perhaps the idea isn’t appealing at first. But if you try it a time or two, you might find it pleasant.”
“How could I? How could anyone?”
“There are many kinds of kisses,” Kathleen said. “Had Mr. Winterborne introduced you to it gradually, you may have been more disposed to like it.”
“I don’t think I like kisses at all.”
Kathleen dampened a fresh white cloth, folded it, and laid it across Helen’s forehead. “You will. With the right man, kissing is wonderful. Like falling into a long, sweet dream. You’ll see.”
“I don’t think so,” Helen whispered, her fingers plucking at the counterpane and twitching with agitation.
Staying by the bedside, Kathleen watched as Helen relaxed and drowsed.
She knew that the cause of Helen’s problems would have to be addressed before her condition would truly improve. Having suffered from nervous distress in the weeks after Theo’s death, Kathleen could recognize the signs in someone else. It made her heart ache to see Helen’s cheerful nature crumbling beneath the weight of anxiety.
If it went on for too long, Kathleen was afraid that Helen might descend into a deep melancholy.
She had to do something. Driven by intense worry, she left Helen’s bedside and went to ring for Clara.
As soon as the maid reached her room, Kathleen told her briskly, “I need a pair of walking boots, a veil, and my hooded cloak. I must go on an errand, and I need you to accompany me.”
Clara looked disconcerted. “I can run the errand, milady, if you tell me what you need.”
“Thank you, but I’m the only one who can do it.”
“Shall I tell the butler to have the coach readied?”
Kathleen shook her head. “It would be much easier and simpler to walk. It’s a short distance, less than a half mile. We’ll be on our way back before they’ve even finished harnessing the team.”
“A half mile?” Clara, who wasn’t fond of walking, looked aghast. “Through London at night?”
“It’s still light outside. We’ll be walking through gardens and along a promenade. Now hurry.” Before I lose my nerve, she thought.
The errand would have to be carried out before anyone had time to object or delay them. With luck, they would return home before dinner.
Once she was warmly dressed and ready to leave, Kathleen went to the upstairs parlor where Cassandra was reading and Pandora was cutting pictures out of periodicals and gluing them into a scrapbook.
“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked in surprise.
“Out for an errand. Clara and I will return soon.”
“Yes, but —”
“In the meantime,” Kathleen said, “I would appreciate it if one of you would make certain that Helen’s dinner tray is brought up to her. Sit with her and see that she eats something. But don’t ask questions. It’s better to stay quiet unless she wants you to talk.”
“But what about you?” Pandora asked, frowning. “What is this errand, and when will you come back?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Whenever someone says that,” Pandora said, “it always means the opposite. Along with ‘It’s only a scratch’ or ‘Worse things happen at sea.’”
“Or,” Clara added glumly, ‘I’m only going out for a pint.’”
After a brisk walk, during which Kathleen and Clara merged with the mainstream of pedestrian traffic and were carried along in its momentum, they soon arrived at Cork Street.
“Winterborne’s!” Clara exclaimed, her face brightening. “I didn’t know it was a shopping errand, milady.”
“Unfortunately it’s not.” Kathleen walked to the end of the serried façades, stopping at a grand house that somehow managed to blend tastefully with the department store. “Clara, will you go to the door and say that Lady Trenear wishes to see Mr. Winterborne?”
The girl obeyed reluctantly, taking no pleasure in performing a task that was usually handled by a footman.
As Kathleen waited on the lowest step, Clara twisted the mechanical doorbell and rapped the ornate bronze knocker until the door opened. An unsmiling butler glanced at the pair of visitors, exchanged a few words with Clara, and closed the door again.
Turning toward Kathleen, Clara said with a long-suffering expression, “He’s going to see if Mr. Winterborne is at home.”
Kathleen nodded and folded her arms at her chest, shivering as a chilling breeze whipped the folds of her cloak. Ignoring the curious glances of a few passersby, she waited with determined patience.
A short, broadly built man with white hair walked past the steps, pausing to glance at the maid. He stared at her with undue attention.
“Clara?” he asked in bemusement.
Her eyes widened with relief and gladness. “Mr. Quincy!”
The valet turned to Kathleen, recognizing her even with the veil shrouding her face. “Lady Trenear,” he said reverently. “How does it happen that you are standing out here?”
“It’s good to see you, Quincy,” Kathleen said, smiling. “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Winterborne about a private matter. The butler said he would see if he was at home.”