“He won’t have the chance,” Helen said dully. “I’m going to tell Mr. Winterborne myself.”
Lady Berwick’s eyes enlarged until the whites were fully visible. “You’re not so foolish as to believe that he would still want you if he knew.”
“No, he won’t want me. But I owe him the truth.”
After swallowing the rest of her brandy in an impatient gulp, the countess set the glass aside and spoke with irritated conviction. “Good heavens, child, I want you to mind every word I’m about to say.” She waited until Helen’s tormented gaze had met hers. “The world is unkind to women. Our futures are founded on sand. I am a countess, Helen, and yet in the winter of life I am likely to become a poor widow, a mere nullity. You must do whatever is necessary to marry Mr. Winterborne, because there is one thing a woman needs above all else: security. Even if you should lose your husband’s affections, the smallest splinter of his fortune will guarantee that you will never suffer degradation or poverty. Better still if you should bear a son—there is the source of a woman’s true power and influence.”
“Mr. Winterborne won’t want a child who is descended from Albion Vance.”
“There’s nothing he can do about it after it happens, is there?”
Helen’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t deceive him that way.”
“My dear,” Lady Berwick said crisply, “you are naïve. Do you think there aren’t parts of his life, past and present, which he keeps secret from you? Husbands and wives are never completely honest with each other—no marriage could survive it.”
Becoming aware of a throbbing at her temples, and a gathering nausea in her stomach, Helen wondered desperately if a migraine were coming on. “I feel ill,” she whispered.
“Finish your brandy.” The countess went to the window and pushed a fold of the curtain aside to take in the outside view. “Vance wants to meet with you tomorrow. If you refuse, he’ll go to Mr. Winterborne before the day is out.”
“I won’t refuse,” Helen said, thinking grimly that she would tell Rhys the truth at a time she chose, on her own terms.
“I’ll send word for him to meet us on neutral territory. It won’t do to have him call at Ravenel House again.”
Helen thought for a moment. “The British Museum,” she suggested. “The twins have been asking to see the Zoological Galleries. He and I could exchange a few words there without anyone noticing.”
“Yes, I think that would do. What should I suggest as a meeting-place?”
Helen paused in the act of lifting the glass to her lips. “The poisonous serpents exhibit,” she said, and took another sip.
Lady Berwick smiled slightly, and then looked grim. “I already know the way Vance will present the situation to you, as I am all too familiar with the way his mind works. He won’t like the word blackmail; he’ll frame it as something like an annual tax, in return for allowing you to find happiness with Mr. Winterborne.”
“There’s no such thing as a tax on happiness,” Helen said, rubbing her forehead.
The countess regarded her with rueful sympathy. “My poor girl . . . it certainly can’t be had for free.”
Chapter 24
“HELEN, ARE YOU CERTAIN there’s nothing wrong?” Cassandra asked, after they had descended from the family carriage. “You’ve been so quiet, and your eyes are glazed.”
“My head aches a little, that’s all.”
“Oh I’m sorry. Should we go to the museum another day?”
“No, I won’t feel any better for being at home. Perhaps some walking will set me to rights.”
They linked arms and proceeded together, while far ahead of them, Pandora hurried toward the imposing stone portico of the British Museum.
Lady Berwick puffed impatiently as she hastened after the girl. “Pandora, do not gallop like a chaise-horse!”
The British Museum, a Grecian-styled quadrangle with a two-acre courtyard, was so large that despite a half-dozen visits in the past, they still had seen only a third of its exhibits. Last night, when Lady Berwick had casually suggested a jaunt to the museum, the twins had been overjoyed. Helen, knowing the real reason for the visit, had been far more subdued.
After purchasing tickets and collecting printed maps in the Hall, the group proceeded toward the principal staircase that led to the upper floors. A trio of towering giraffes had been artfully arranged at the top of the staircase, at the entrance of the Zoological Galleries. The front legs of the largest animal were even taller than Lady Berwick. A little wooden railing had been erected in front of the giraffes to keep the public at bay.
The women paused to regard the taxidermied creatures with awe.
Predictably, Pandora went forward with her hand outstretched.
“Pandora,” Lady Berwick snapped, “if you molest the exhibits, we will not be returning to the museum.”
Turning, Pandora gave her a pleading glance. “A giraffe is right there—it once roamed the African savannah—don’t you want to know how it feels?”
“Indeed not.”
“There’s no sign that says we can’t.”
“The railing implies it.”
“But the giraffe is so close,” Pandora said woefully. “If you would look the other way for five seconds, I could reach out and touch it so easily . . . and then I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.”
Sighing and scowling, Lady Berwick glanced at their surroundings to make certain they were unobserved. “Be quick about it,” she said tersely.