Twenty-eight
This is a mistake. As the Marquess of St. Ambrose’s butler permitted Helena and Fergus into the marquess’s Park Street town house, she knew she had misjudged the man. No one who resided in such luxury would be in the business of blackmail, unless blackmail supported his love of beautiful things.
She was actually breathless for a moment, gawking like a country lass on her first trip to Town.
The butler placed her card in a shallow Limoges bowl to carry to his employer. “Would you like to wait in the receiving room, my lady, while I inquire into whether Lord St. Ambrose is in?”
“Yes, please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as her gaze locked on the enormous colored glass chandelier dangling from the center of an ivory dome set in the ceiling. Plush crimson carpet cushioned their footfalls so they moved silently past ivory columns, two on each side of the entry, and passed through a polished oak paneled door and into another richly appointed room.
Fergus’s thick eyebrows shot up when they were left alone. He had opposed her coming to see the marquess, but forever loyal, he had done as she wished. She nodded, acknowledging her folly, and swallowed against the sickness rising at the back of her throat. For an instant, she considered dashing for the door, but the butler had her card. Lord St. Ambrose would know she had been here.
She couldn’t bear to sit on either of the masculine leather chairs flanking the massive marble fireplace. That would require her to be still, and she couldn’t when she felt like she might crawl out of her skin.
When the marquess entered the room several minutes later, he was smiling. “Lady Prestwick, what a delightful surprise.” But one look at her cringing, and his expression changed to alarm. “Has something happened to Lavinia?” The slight break in his voice tugged at her heart.
“Oh, no, my lord. Lavinia is well.” She came forward to offer comfort then thought better of it. One did not act familiar with a marquess, even if he did love one’s sister. And she could see Sebastian had been correct. That momentary glimmer of fear in St. Ambrose’s eyes said it all. He wouldn’t hurt Lavinia or the family she loved.
Helena sensed the blood rising in her cheeks. “I apologize for coming, sir. I should not have thought to bother you. Good day.”
Before she could whisk past, he put out an arm to stop her. Fergus took a step forward, giving the marquess pause. He dropped his arm so he was no longer blocking her path. “You could never be a bother, madam. Please stay. There must be a reason you sought me out.” He sketched a bow. “I am at your service.”
Helena bit her lip, running through plausible tales in her mind to account for her barging in on him. There were none. She cleared her throat. “I received a letter today. A threatening letter from an anonymous source.”
Lord St. Ambrose stared at her in stony silence. His blank expression made her stomach quiver. “You’ve been threatened with bodily harm?”
“N-no.” She fidgeted with the lace on her sleeve. There was something intimidating about him, a hardness she hadn’t noticed in their previous encounter. “The sender is demanding money, or he will sell my secrets to the gossip rags.”
His jaw twitched, but his hazel eyes remained shuttered. “And what leads you to believe I could be of assistance?”
Her mouth was too dry all of a sudden. His guardedness stirred her unease, and she inched toward Fergus for security. Perhaps she hadn’t been wrong after all. “The threat was toward Lavinia, too. I—I thought you should know.”
His nostrils flared, and his glare skewered her. Even Fergus sensed the animosity. His chest puffed out as he squared his shoulders.
St. Ambrose’s dispassionate gaze flicked toward him then just as quickly returned to her. “You came to me for the money. How much do you want?”
“No!” It had never occurred to her that he might think any such thing. “I have money. More than I can spend in my lifetime, but Lord Thorne insists I will not give in to the demands of a blackmailer. I just thought…”
“You just thought what, Lady Prestwick?”