“And...?”
The assembled sailors voiced the question in unison, their ears cocked toward her to hear every word of her reply.
“She’s tanned by the sun from the tip of her nose to the tips of her toes.”
There was an aghast, prurient silence, then someone muttered, “Blimey!”
She was offered a jug of ale, and she drank it down, Harriet’s message to Harcourt completely forgotten.
“How dare you show your face here!”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Ford glared at Helen with such loathing that Helen flinched back in her chair.
“As if you didn’t know.”
Helen frowned. “I don’t. Truly.”
“Haven’t I always told you that impeccable conduct matters above all else?”
“Yes.”
“And haven’t I also told you that I only retain those girls with stellar reputations?”
“Yes, you have.”
“Miss Stewart, yesterday I received a visit from Miss Miranda Wilson. I trust you are acquainted with her?”
Helen was deluged by a wave of despair. “Yes, I’m thoroughly acquainted with her.”
“Miss Wilson had an interesting tale to tell about a certain lady’s companion who has disgraced herself with an infamous earl. She advised me that the little Jezebel was flaunting the affair in front of the servants, and the man’s household is in an uproar.”
Mrs. Ford stared at Helen, letting the moment play out, letting Helen know that she had no secrets. Helen flushed with shame.
“Need I say more?” Mrs. Ford inquired. “Or will you embarrass us both by demanding the details?”
So...Miranda had been aware of Helen’s relationship with Westwood after all. Helen sighed. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
“I can’t believe your gall in seeking me out.”
“I’m sorry. I’d like a new position. I thought you might be able to help me.”
“You hussy! You home-wrecker!” Mrs. Ford scolded. “Do you imagine there’s a woman in London who would hire you after this...this...outrage? No husband would be safe. No adolescent son.”
“I did nothing wrong,” Helen insisted.
“Nothing! Can you actually suppose this scandal will be kept quiet? Miss Wilson is a renowned gossip, so the story will spread far and wide, and I will not have it known that you were affiliated with my agency.” She leaned closer, spittle flying with her insults. “You have cast dishonor on every girl on my list.”
“I was doing my job,” Helen said softly.
“Ha! If I have my way, you’ll never be employed in this town again. Now get out before I have you thrown out.”
Helen pushed herself to her feet, and she trudged to the door, panicked over where she should go, what she should do. She felt a hundred years old, out of energy and bereft of vigor.
She’d used Westwood’s severance to fork over a week’s rent at a women’s boarding house, but everything in the city was so expensive. After purchasing a few personal items, she hardly had any money left.
She should have had some cash on hand, should have had a nest-egg with which to weather the current storm, but Westwood had never paid her her salary, and she’d never pestered him about it.
With all the dresses and other pretty things he’d given her, it would have seemed greedy to complain over money, too.
She didn’t think he’d intentionally cheated her, choosing instead to assume that her wages had slipped his mind, but however it had transpired, she was broke. Of all the dire circumstances she might face, poverty was the most frightening. There were many poor, desperate souls trying to get by in London, and she had suddenly become one of them.
With Miranda’s slurs being broadly dispersed, Helen’s chances of securing another post were ruined. All her accomplishments of the past four years had been wrecked in an instant by a vicious, jealous shrew.
It wasn’t enough that Miranda now had Westwood all to herself. No. She had to destroy Helen’s life in the process.
Helen couldn’t bear to start all over again, and as she stepped out into the brisk autumn afternoon, it felt as if the entire world was allied against her.
She drew her cloak tighter and headed down the street, not cognizant of where she was going. When she finally glanced up, she saw that she was in a park, and she stumbled over to a bench and plopped down. Dapper gentlemen rode by on magnificent horses. Fetching young misses drove by in open carriages. Everyone was smiling and waving, yet Helen scarcely noticed. She was too stunned by events.
“Oh, James,” she breathed, “how could you do this to me?”
She pulled out her purse and counted the tiny pile of coins, realizing that she could buy food for the rest of the week, then what? What on earth would happen to her?
She wondered where he was, what he was doing. Did he understand the predicament into which she’d been thrust? Did he care at all?
Though she’d never admit it, she’d convinced herself that he was falling in love with her. She’d even begun to imagine that he might...might...ask her to be his bride. The notion was completely ludicrous, and it underscored how Helen had grown half-mad with infatuation and was no longer able to discern fantasy from reality.
Had any woman in all of history ever been a bigger fool? Had any woman in all of history ever acted so recklessly with so little to show for it?
She needed to make plans, but for what? What reason was there to keep on?
Her despair was interrupted by the approach of a sporty yellow gig with red wheels. It was a garish vehicle, the kind owned by the most ostentatious dandies, and as the driver neared and slowed, she gaped as if he was an apparition.
“Cousin Nigel?”
“Helen? Why are you out here all by yourself?”
At their previous meeting—in Westwood’s parlor—she’d been cool and reserved, but now, with her life in tatters, she’d never witnessed a more welcome sight.
“Nigel! I’m so glad to see you.”
He tied off the reins and leapt down, and as he studied her, he scowled.
“My dear, what is it? You look absolutely devastated.”
“I’ve been having the worst time of it.”
“Is it that scoundrel Westwood? Since we last spoke, I’ve heard the most atrocious stories about him.”
The mention of Westwood brought a flood of tears that she couldn’t tamp down, and he sat and patted her hand, offering her a snowy white kerchief so she could dab at her eyes.
“I’ve been fired,” she confessed.
“The dirty swine!”
“And his ward has filed a terrible report about me with my placement agency. I don’t think I’ll ever find a job in London again.”
“Drat it all,” he commiserated. “I was afraid of this.”
“What are you talking about?”
He flushed, appearing chagrinned. “I could see it unfolding that day when I stopped by his house.”
“See what?”
“He seemed very fond of you.”
Gad! Was there anyone who wasn’t aware of her affair?
“He did?”
“Yes.” His flush deepened. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
“Just say it.”
“Helen, he has a habit of luring young ladies into his home—on the pretense of honest employment—but after they’re there...well...”
“He seduces the girls who work for him?”
“Yes. Miss Wilson has gone through three companions in the prior year alone. Her reputation is in shreds over it.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s all over the clubs,” Nigel insisted. “Westwood is a renowned cad; he has the morals of a tomcat.”
This news—on top of everything else she’d recently endured—was too humiliating. She stared at her lap, trying to take it all in.
“I can’t decide what to do next,” she murmured.
“Then let me decide for you.”
“What?” She shifted on the bench and gazed at him. “What should I do?”
“What you should have done a long time ago.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “You’re coming to Brookhaven with me.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I should.”
“Yes, of course you should. I am the male head of your family, and I mean to look after you. We’ve failed you in the past, but we won’t in the future. Let’s get you out of London and away from these horrid people. Let’s get you home where you belong.”
Helen hesitated, pondering Miranda, Westwood, Mrs. Ford.
There was nothing for her in the city, and if she stayed, she’d be inundated by scandal, battered by rumors about Westwood’s grand wedding, and—most likely—living in poverty on the streets.
“I have to locate Harriet though,” she said. “I can’t leave without her.”
“I heard that she’s missing, that she’s in trouble. We’ll search for her together. But”—he was easing her toward his vehicle—“we’ll do it from Brookhaven.”
She thought about his suggestion and, had she been less distraught, she might have refused, but then, she remembered Westwood’s cruel letter of goodbye.
Was there really any choice?
She walked to the gig and climbed in on her own.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James bounded into the house, glad to be home but irritated over his journey to Portsmouth. Bramwell’s message had simply been that there was no information to report.