Marrying Winterborne
Page 77
“P-pardon me,” Helen sputtered, struggling to be quiet. “But it didn’t take much effort on your part, did it? Other than a . . . a timely spasm of the loins.”
Mr. Vance glared at her with frosty dignity. “Don’t demean the relationship I had with your mother.”
“Oh yes. She ‘meant something’ to you.” The wild, mirthless giggles faded, and Helen took an unsteady breath. “I suppose Peggy Crewe did as well.”
His cold gaze fixed on hers. “So Winterborne told you about that. I thought he might.”
Becoming aware of a woman and three children coming to view the lizard display, Helen was forestalled from replying. She affected interest in a glass case of turtles and tortoises, and wandered to it slowly, while Mr. Vance accompanied her.
“There’s no reason for Winterborne to harbor everlasting hatred toward me,” Vance said, “for doing something that most men have done. I’m not the first to sleep with a married woman, nor will I be the last.”
“Because of you,” Helen pointed out, “Mrs. Crewe died in her childbed, and her husband—a man whom Mr. Winterborne loved like a brother—ended up dead as well.”
“Is it my fault that the husband was so weak-minded as to commit suicide? Is it my fault if a woman hasn’t the constitution for childbirth? The entire situation could have been avoided had Peggy chosen not to spread her legs in the first place. I only took what was eagerly offered.”
His callousness stole Helen’s breath away. He seemed to have no more conscience than a shark. What had made him this way? She stared at him, searching for any hint of humanity, any flicker of guilt, regret, or sadness. There was nothing.
“What did you do with the baby?” she asked.
The question seemed to surprise him. “I found a woman to look after her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I’ve never seen her. Nor do I intend to.” Mr. Vance looked impatient. “That has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”
“You have no interest in her welfare?”
“Why should I, when her mother’s family doesn’t? No one wants the misbegotten bastard.”
No doubt he had thought the same thing about her. Helen felt a nagging, anxious, rapidly increasing concern for the little girl, her half-sister. Was the child being nurtured and educated? Neglected? Abused?
“What is the name of the woman who takes care of her?” she asked. “Where does she live?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Apparently it’s none of yours,” Helen shot back, “but I would like to know.”
Mr. Vance smirked. “So you can use her against me in some way? Attempt to embarrass me?”
“Why would I try to embarrass you? It’s in my interest to avoid scandal just as much as it is yours.”
“Then I advise you to forget the child.”
“Shame on you,” Helen said quietly. “Not only have you rejected responsibility for your own child, you’re also trying to prevent someone else from helping her.”
“I’ve paid for her upkeep these past four years—what else would you have me do? Personally spoon-feed the brat?”
Helen tried to think above a rush of inchoate rage. She wouldn’t be able to find out about her half sister’s welfare unless she could pry the information from Mr. Vance. Racking her brains, she recalled what Rhys had once told her about business negotiations.
“You’ve demanded a large sum of money and will expect more in the future,” she said, “but all you’ve offered in return is to let me keep something I already have. I won’t agree to a bargain without a concession from you. A small one: It will cost you nothing to tell me who has your daughter.”
A long silence passed before Mr. Vance replied. “Ada Tapley. She’s a charwoman for my solicitor’s relations in Welling.”
“Where—”
“It’s a village on the main road from London to Kent.”
“What is the child’s name?”
“I have no idea.”
Of course you don’t, Helen thought, writhing inwardly with fury.
“We agree on the bargain, then?” Mr. Vance asked. “You’ll convince Winterborne to make the charity donation as soon as possible.”
“If I intend to marry him,” Helen said woodenly, “I have no choice.”
Something in his face eased. In a moment, he grinned. “I find it delicious, that he thinks he’s bought a Ravenel to breed, and instead he’ll be furthering my lineage. Welsh Vances, God help us all.”
For a few minutes after he left her, Helen stared into the case of artfully preserved and arranged creatures. Their sightless glass eyes were permanently wide with surprise, as if they couldn’t fathom how they’d come to be there.
The full awareness of her own ruin sank in, and with it, a new feeling. Self-loathing.
She would never ask Rhys for the so-called charity donation. Nor could she marry him. Not now. She would never inflict Albion Vance—or herself—on him.
Telling Rhys the truth would be a nightmare, more hideous than she could imagine. She didn’t know how she would find the courage to do it, but there was no choice.
A shadow of grief hovered around her, but she couldn’t give in to it yet. There would be time to grieve later.
Years, in fact.
MUCH LATER IN the day, after they had returned from the museum, Helen sat alone at the upstairs parlor writing desk, and dipped a pen into a well of India ink.
Mr. Vance glared at her with frosty dignity. “Don’t demean the relationship I had with your mother.”
“Oh yes. She ‘meant something’ to you.” The wild, mirthless giggles faded, and Helen took an unsteady breath. “I suppose Peggy Crewe did as well.”
His cold gaze fixed on hers. “So Winterborne told you about that. I thought he might.”
Becoming aware of a woman and three children coming to view the lizard display, Helen was forestalled from replying. She affected interest in a glass case of turtles and tortoises, and wandered to it slowly, while Mr. Vance accompanied her.
“There’s no reason for Winterborne to harbor everlasting hatred toward me,” Vance said, “for doing something that most men have done. I’m not the first to sleep with a married woman, nor will I be the last.”
“Because of you,” Helen pointed out, “Mrs. Crewe died in her childbed, and her husband—a man whom Mr. Winterborne loved like a brother—ended up dead as well.”
“Is it my fault that the husband was so weak-minded as to commit suicide? Is it my fault if a woman hasn’t the constitution for childbirth? The entire situation could have been avoided had Peggy chosen not to spread her legs in the first place. I only took what was eagerly offered.”
His callousness stole Helen’s breath away. He seemed to have no more conscience than a shark. What had made him this way? She stared at him, searching for any hint of humanity, any flicker of guilt, regret, or sadness. There was nothing.
“What did you do with the baby?” she asked.
The question seemed to surprise him. “I found a woman to look after her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I’ve never seen her. Nor do I intend to.” Mr. Vance looked impatient. “That has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”
“You have no interest in her welfare?”
“Why should I, when her mother’s family doesn’t? No one wants the misbegotten bastard.”
No doubt he had thought the same thing about her. Helen felt a nagging, anxious, rapidly increasing concern for the little girl, her half-sister. Was the child being nurtured and educated? Neglected? Abused?
“What is the name of the woman who takes care of her?” she asked. “Where does she live?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Apparently it’s none of yours,” Helen shot back, “but I would like to know.”
Mr. Vance smirked. “So you can use her against me in some way? Attempt to embarrass me?”
“Why would I try to embarrass you? It’s in my interest to avoid scandal just as much as it is yours.”
“Then I advise you to forget the child.”
“Shame on you,” Helen said quietly. “Not only have you rejected responsibility for your own child, you’re also trying to prevent someone else from helping her.”
“I’ve paid for her upkeep these past four years—what else would you have me do? Personally spoon-feed the brat?”
Helen tried to think above a rush of inchoate rage. She wouldn’t be able to find out about her half sister’s welfare unless she could pry the information from Mr. Vance. Racking her brains, she recalled what Rhys had once told her about business negotiations.
“You’ve demanded a large sum of money and will expect more in the future,” she said, “but all you’ve offered in return is to let me keep something I already have. I won’t agree to a bargain without a concession from you. A small one: It will cost you nothing to tell me who has your daughter.”
A long silence passed before Mr. Vance replied. “Ada Tapley. She’s a charwoman for my solicitor’s relations in Welling.”
“Where—”
“It’s a village on the main road from London to Kent.”
“What is the child’s name?”
“I have no idea.”
Of course you don’t, Helen thought, writhing inwardly with fury.
“We agree on the bargain, then?” Mr. Vance asked. “You’ll convince Winterborne to make the charity donation as soon as possible.”
“If I intend to marry him,” Helen said woodenly, “I have no choice.”
Something in his face eased. In a moment, he grinned. “I find it delicious, that he thinks he’s bought a Ravenel to breed, and instead he’ll be furthering my lineage. Welsh Vances, God help us all.”
For a few minutes after he left her, Helen stared into the case of artfully preserved and arranged creatures. Their sightless glass eyes were permanently wide with surprise, as if they couldn’t fathom how they’d come to be there.
The full awareness of her own ruin sank in, and with it, a new feeling. Self-loathing.
She would never ask Rhys for the so-called charity donation. Nor could she marry him. Not now. She would never inflict Albion Vance—or herself—on him.
Telling Rhys the truth would be a nightmare, more hideous than she could imagine. She didn’t know how she would find the courage to do it, but there was no choice.
A shadow of grief hovered around her, but she couldn’t give in to it yet. There would be time to grieve later.
Years, in fact.
MUCH LATER IN the day, after they had returned from the museum, Helen sat alone at the upstairs parlor writing desk, and dipped a pen into a well of India ink.
