As soon as Helen had entered the ballroom, she knew that she needed to be alone to gather her muddled thoughts together. Ralph had entered a couple of minutes before her and had made his way immediately to the dining-room. As the host, he needed to be seen by the other guests. A prolonged absence would only cause speculation.
Even though most of the guests were enjoying the lavish supper laid out in the dining-room, there were still a few groups dotted around the ballroom. She deftly avoided all eye contact and made her way swiftly towards the exit without drawing too much attention to herself. She would have gone to her bedchamber if she had not relinquished it that very afternoon, so she decided the best place to go was the ladies' withdrawing room. At least when she was there, she could make sure that her appearance was still acceptable. She had a suspicion that her dress had been horribly crumpled in the rose arbour, and she could also feel an errant lock of hair tickling the side of her neck.
She dashed up the stairs, hoping that no one would notice her. A smartly dressed maid, who had been standing to attention outside the door of the withdrawing room, opened it as she approached and ushered her in. Helen was relieved to find the place almost deserted. Only a couple of very young ladies, who were more interested in their appearance than Helen's entrance, were giggling in the corner.
Helen crossed over to a long mirror and looked critically at her reflection. She was glad that not many of the guests had seen her, as her appearance was decidedly dishevelled. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips were red and swollen from Ralph's kisses, and the skirts of her dress were hopelessly crumpled. She tried to smooth out the creases in her skirts but to no avail.
'Here, madam,' she heard a maid say behind her, 'let me help you with that.'
The maid rearranged her skirts and with deft fingers tucked the errant lock of hair back into its restraints.
'Thank you,' Helen said, as the maid finished. Apart from the odd crease, the maid could not smooth, she looked far more presentable.
Helen sat down on a chair to rest. She did not want to go back downstairs just yet. She was tired and needed a little more time to order her scattered thoughts. She could still not shake off that sense of foreboding that had disturbed her in the garden and had spoilt the perfect moment between her and Ralph.
'Madam,' the maid said, cutting through her thoughts, 'Mr Hodgson asked me to tell you that you have a visitor.'
Helen sat up. 'A visitor,' she said, looking at the girl in disbelief, 'Are you sure you have the right person?'
'You are Mrs Wakefield, are you not?' the maid said.
'Yes, but...' Her first thought was that something had happened to her son. She felt panic overwhelm her when she thought of Georgie in danger. 'Who is it?' she asked urgently.
'I don't know,' the maid replied, 'but Mr Hodgson is waiting outside for you.'
Hodgson was Ralph's dour-looking butler. Since Helen had been at Belmont Hall, he had barely acknowledged her existence. As the companion of Lady Helford, she was far below his consequence. Helen's mind raced. Her visitor had to be important if Hodgson deemed it necessary to inform her himself.
She sprang towards the door. It had to be Lord Brentford, who else could it be.
The austere butler stood expressionless outside the door of the ladies withdrawing room. 'Mrs Wakefield,' he said, 'you have visitors. I put the gentlemen in the library to await you. They gave me this.'
Hodgson held out a silver salver that had a white calling card resting on it. Helen was momentarily taken aback. She looked at the card that had been carefully placed in the middle of the salver. Her father-in-law, Lord Brentford, did not usually bother with the formality of a calling card. She gingerly took it and slowly turned it over. One word had been printed in the middle of the card in a plain Romanesque font. Her initial relief that it was not Lord Brentford soon vanished when she read the name.
Haverstock.
No title, no direction; nothing. Only his name.
Helen's hand hovered over the handle of the library door. The last time she had seen Haverstock was seven years ago in 1812. She had known then that when he had temporarily released her from her contract that he would be back. However, she had hoped that with the passage of time, he would have forgotten the promise she had made.
She took a deep breath, opened the door and walked purposefully into the library.
He was standing by the fireplace leaning against the mantlepiece with his usual look of nonchalance. He had a few more grey hairs that made him look distinguished, and the lines around his eyes had become a little more pronounced. However, despite of these, he had changed very little over the past seven years. His highly polished booted foot was propped up on the grate, and he looked like he was the master of all he surveyed. He was dressed in his usual elegance in plain riding clothes. Even in the heat of battle, he always looked immaculate.
She had to muster all her reserves of strength to walk towards him. Showing him any fear would only be seen by him as a sign of weakness.
As she approached, he straightened and bowed. 'My dear, Helena,' he drawled as he took her hand to his lips.
It had been many years since she had been called by that name. When he had first met her when she was still only eighteen years old, he had insisted on calling her Helena. He had told her that the name suited her better than just plain Helen. It brought back bittersweet memories of a time when she was in his employ.
'You look positively radiant, my dear,' he said, as he let go of her hand.
'I want none of your flattery,' she answered sharply, looking directly at him. She did not want him to know that she found him intimidating. He had a habit of being able to discompose even the most confident person with just one look. 'Why have you come here?' she said boldly.
'I think you already know the answer to that question,' he said smoothly, 'I require your help.'
She stood with her shoulders back and her spine straight, trying not to betray the myriad of emotions that were whirling around her, as the realisation that her checkered past was coming back to haunt her.
'I have forgotten my manners,' he said, as he turned around to the far end of the library, where another gentleman stood making a careful examination of the books on the shelves. 'May I introduce Lieutenant Everard Deveraux.'
The gentleman turned around and bowed. 'Mrs Wakefield, ma'am, at your service.' Helen was struck by how incredibly youthful and handsome he looked. He was much younger than her, perhaps even as young as one and twenty. Far too young to be involved with the likes of Haverstock. However, there was a familiarity about him that she found a little disturbing. 'Lieutenant,' she said, as she examined his perfect features, 'have we met before?'
He did not answer. Instead, he smiled and returned to his study of the books.
'Please, Helena,' Haverstock said smoothly, 'sit down. Would you like a drink?'
Helen nodded and sat down on a leather chair positioned close to the fireplace. She watched him as he crossed the room to a sideboard that contained several decanters. He selected one and poured two large measures into beautifully cut crystal glasses.
Once she had taken the glass from him, she sipped and then held it in her lap with both hands.
'Helena,' he said, as he lowered himself into the chair opposite. 'I will cut to the chase; Le Renard Ruse is back.'
'The cunning fox,' she repeated in English, 'but was he not killed in 1812?' She sat forward holding the glass in both hands, as the shock of his news began to sink in.
'As his name suggests,' he said, with a wry smile, 'he is very cunning. He made us believe that he was dead, but I now know that he is still very much alive.'
'But how?' she said incredulously, 'nobody knew who he was. He was just a name to us. A phantom.'
'A phantom who caused me a lot of trouble,' Haverstock said. 'One of my contacts has told me that there is a rumour that Le Renard is back.'
'But, it is only a rumour,' she said dismissively, 'your world is full of them. Le Renard died in Spain.'
Haverstock shook his head. 'I never believed for one moment that he was dead,' he said. 'I've always suspected that he disappeared to America when it got too dangerous for him.'
'I am sorry, Haverstock,' she said, shrugging her shoulders, 'but I fail to see what Le Renard has to do with me. I, like everyone else, do not know who he is.'
'Ah! But, my dear, you have the advantage over me and everyone else I know,' he said, his voice as smooth as velvet, 'not only have you heard his voice, you have also seen a letter written by his hand.'
'That was seven years ago,' Helen said with incredulity. 'I described him to you then. He's definitely English of noble birth, medium height but well built, late middle-aged. I cannot see what else I can tell you about him that will help you further. It was a dark night, and he was in the shadows, wearing a mask.'
'But you met him,' Haverstock replied, still steepling his fingers together, 'and, after the familiar nature of your encounter, I'm sure you would recognise him again.'
'Possibly,' Helen said dismissively. 'But, I still do not see how I can help you.'
'I remember you telling me once, that a man's kiss and the way they made love was as unique as their handwriting,' he said, a smile playing on his lips.
Helen would rather not remember her meeting with Le Renard. She had known from the outset, when he had cornered her late one night in the stables of the house, she had lived in while she was in Spain as Lavorel's mistress, that he was a dangerous man. A man used to having his own way.
'I still do not see how I can possibly help you,' Helen said disdainfully. 'How can I go about finding Le Renard, I cannot simply kiss and then make love to every man I meet.'
Haverstock gave her a rare smile. 'No, Helena, I do not expect you to do that.'
'Then please enlighten me,' she said theatrically.
'Lavorel,' Haverstock said coolly, as though the name meant nothing to her, 'he is in Paris and is soon to arrive in London.'
'Lavorel,' she whispered back. It had been years since she had heard that name. She had foolishly thought that time would erase some of the guilt she felt for what she had done, but it was still there. It was like a festering wound that refused to heal. Betrayal, even if it was for a supposedly righteous cause, was a difficult thing to do.
'My sources have reported to me that he is once again in league with Le Renard,' Haverstock said.
Helen took another sip of her drink to steady her nerves but said nothing.
'I need you to make contact with Lavorel and then find the identity of Le Renard,' Haverstock said as a though it was the easiest thing in the world to do.
Helen looked at him; her eyes flashing with anger. What he was asking her to do was not only fraught with danger; it was degrading. 'I am not your whore anymore,' she said as she stood up, sending her glass flying to the floor.
'Now, Helena,' he said soothingly, in a patronising tone, 'you know I do not like you using that word.'
'Go to hell,' she said furiously, 'you patronising bastard.' She knew full well that he had often used that word to describe her to others.
'Helena,' he said, his voice calm and seemingly unruffled by her outburst, 'please sit down and let me explain.'
She obeyed. He still had the power to command her even after all these years.
'You are an exceptionally clever and talented woman. You speak four languages fluently and understand three more, you have an uncanny ability to remember conversations word for word long after they have taken place and you only have to see a document once, and you remember every word. These are exceptionally rare skills in my world, and not many of my agents have your extraordinary abilities. Coupled to the fact that you have an allure that men find hard to resist and you can draw out their secrets in the bedchamber, you make a valuable asset to me.'
'Remember, when I found you in the gutter after that fool of a husband mistreated you and let you go your own way, I gave your life purpose.'
It was true. After she had left Harry without a penny to her name, she had found it difficult to survive. She had tried to find work, but no one had wanted to employ the disgraced wife of an officer. When Haverstock had discovered her, she had already resorted to prostitution to support herself. She was just eighteen years old in a foreign country with no friends and no money. She could not have possibly sunk any lower.
Haverstock had also been right when he had said that he had given her life a sense of purpose. Initially, she had found working for him thrilling. When she had first become Lavorel's mistress, she had found it easy to betray her enemies confidence. However, over time she had grown to like the Frenchman. He was a clever man, and he was able to engage her intellectually in a way she had never experienced before. He also had a ruthless streak and showed no mercy to his enemies, especially those of France. She had played a dangerous game. One careless move or throwaway comment could have led to her death.
'I want you to go to Paris,' Haverstock said, after a long silence, 'and find Lavorel. I want you to infiltrate his inner circle and get close to him and become his mistress again.'
'If I know anything about Lavorel,' Helen replied calmly, 'he already has that position filled.'
'You underestimate your power over men like Lavorel,' he said. 'Believe me, Helena, you have lost none of your charms.'
'But how will you account for my sudden disappearance from his life seven years ago,' she said, 'I left without any warning.'
'That is of no consequence. I have already begun to concoct a story. You left him to travel to Italy, where you married an old rich Italian count. He recently died, leaving you his vast fortune. You are now a wealthy widow and have been travelling across Europe for the past year. With your incredible memory, you will find it easy.'
Helen could feel the trap closing around her. All her objections had been batted away. 'I don't know,' she said, after another long silence, 'it sounds very far fetched and extremely risky. Anyway, I told you seven years ago that I was no longer your whore.'
'But you will be Huntingdon's,' he said coolly.
Helen looked up sharply. 'How do you know?'
'You should know by now, my dear, I have eyes and ears everywhere.'
She looked over at Deveraux, who was still looking at the books apparently oblivious to their conversation. Then a sudden realisation came to her, and she felt angry again. 'It's him, isn't it,' she said furiously, 'he's been spying on me.' She now remembered seeing him before in the kitchen of Lady Helford's house, flirting outrageously with Marie.
Haverstock nodded. 'He has been following you for about a month and reporting back to me. He's very good, isn't he? You had not noticed him had you?'
'If he's so good, why don't you send him to Lavorel,' she said bitterly.
Haverstock gave a rare laugh. 'Believe me, if I could, I would. But, unfortunately, he is not to Lavorel's taste.' He steepled his fingers again. 'I will make it worth your while,' he said, after a long silence, 'I have some information that may be of interest to you.' He leaned back on his chair, still steepling his long, elegant fingers. 'Brentford is dying,' he said nonchalantly, as he looked up at the ceiling.
'Dying,' Helen said, surprised that her voice was steady, 'are you certain?'
'Oh yes, my dear, he has been ill for some time, ' he replied, as he turned his gaze to her, 'and as you well know, I am never wrong. And, after the death of Brentford's eldest son last year in a riding accident, your son will inherit all the titles and his vast fortune.'
'Yes,' Helen said, still trying to take in the news of her father-in-law's impending demise, 'Georgie has been Brentford's heir for the past year.'
'The problem for you,' Haverstock continued, 'is that Brentford has written a will naming his grandson's guardians. It will probably not surprise you to learn that you are not within their number.'
'Why would I be,' Helen said gloomily, 'it is common knowledge that he disproves of me. Do you know who they are?'
'Of course,' Haverstock said coolly. 'They would not have been my first choice to put in charge of a wealthy boy. A more disreputable bunch of crooks, I have never seen. They will, at the very least, be a corrupting influence on him.'
'Oh,' Helen said, a cold fear had now gripped her. Her son's welfare would be decided by strangers. These men, chosen by her father-in-law, may even stop her brief visits with her son. 'Is there anything I can do?' Helen said in desperation, not caring that she had fallen into Haverstock's trap.
He sat forward and looked at her. 'Helena,' he said, a smile playing on his lips, 'I propose that we make a deal. In return for helping me flush out Le Renard, I will have Brentford's will changed, and you will become your son's sole guardian. You and you alone will have full control over your son's future, as well as the Brentford estates.'
'Full control,' she said, as she felt the trap spring, 'no other interference from anyone else.'
'None, I promise you,' he replied gravely.
Helen knew that she was making a pact with the devil himself. However, she also knew that Haverstock was a man of his word.
'I will except, on one condition,' she said, 'when this is all over, you will release me from my contract.'