Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(18)

Helen laughed gently. “There’s something charming about a man with an accent, isn’t there? I know it’s considered a defect—even more so if the accent is Welsh—but to me there’s poetry in it.”

“Nowadays having an Irish brogue is the surest way to have a door slammed in one’s face,” Garrett said darkly. “Which is no doubt why Mr. Ransom conceals it.”

During the past ten years, the political unrest of those who believed in Ireland’s right to govern itself had fueled an atmosphere of growing intolerance. Rumors of conspiracies were everywhere, and the people found it difficult to separate prejudice from reason. Especially, now, after a recent spate of terrorist activities, including a recently foiled attempt on the Prince of Wales’s life.

“The man is neither respectable nor gainfully employed,” Garrett continued. “He’s also sneaky, violent, and apparently as randy as a stoat. I can’t possibly be attracted to him.”

“Attraction isn’t something one chooses,” Helen mused. “It’s a kind of magnetism. An irresistible force.”

“I will not be held hostage by invisible forces.”

Helen regarded her with a sympathetic smile. “This reminds me a bit of what you told me after Pandora was injured in the street attack. You said she’d received a shock to her entire nervous system. I think Mr. Ransom has been a shock to your system. Among other things, I think he’s made you realize that you might be a bit lonely.”

Garrett, who had always taken pride in her self-sufficiency, shot her an indignant glance. “Impossible. How could I be lonely when I have you and my other friends, my father, Dr. Havelock, my patients—”

“I meant a different kind of loneliness.”

Garrett scowled. “I’m not some dewy-eyed girl with a head full of spun sugar. I should hope I’m more high-minded than that.”

“Even a high-minded woman can appreciate a fine pair of . . . what did you call them? Quadriceps?”

One could hardly miss the sly teasing in Helen’s demure tone. Taking refuge in dignified silence, Garrett drained another cup of tea while a waitress came to the table with little glass cups of lemon sorbet.

Helen waited until after the waitress had departed before saying, “Hear me out before you refuse: I want very much to introduce you to my cousin West. He’ll be in town for a fortnight. You didn’t meet him the last time he was here to see Pandora. We’ll all have dinner at Ravenel House one evening.”

“No. I beg you, Helen, do not put me—or your cousin—through such pointless torture.”

“West is very handsome,” Helen persisted. “Dark-haired, blue-eyed, and charming. I’m positive you’ll like each other. After a few minutes in his company, you’ll forget all about Mr. Ransom.”

“Even in the unlikely event that Mr. Ravenel and I formed an attachment, it would never work. I can’t live in the country.” Garrett tried a spoonful of sorbet, letting the tart, sugary frost dissolve into a cold flood on her tongue. “Among other things, I’m afraid of cows.”

“Because of their size?” Helen asked sympathetically.

“No, it’s the way they stare. As if they’re plotting something.”

Helen chuckled. “I promise, when you come to visit Eversby Priory someday, all scheming cows will be kept out of sight. And as far as living in the country is concerned, West may be willing to move back to London. He’s a man of many interests and talents. Oh, do say you’ll at least meet him!”

“I’ll consider it,” Garrett said reluctantly.

“Thank you, that sets my mind at ease.” A new, serious note entered Helen’s voice. “Because I fear there’s a very good reason Mr. Ransom has decided to stay away from you.”

Garrett looked at her alertly. “What is it?”

Helen frowned, seeming to debate something within her mind before continuing. “I know some information about Mr. Ransom. I’m not at liberty to relay all of it, but there’s something you should be made aware of.”

Garrett waited with forced patience while Helen glanced around to make certain no one was approaching the alcove.

“It has to do with that incident at the Guildhall last month,” Helen said softly. “You’ll recall that Pandora and Lord St. Vincent attended the reception.”

Garrett nodded, having heard from Pandora herself about how a loose plank had led to the discovery that bombs had been laid beneath the floor. Within a few minutes, the panicked crowd had rapidly fled the building. Fortunately, the explosive devices had been dismantled before they could be detonated. No arrests had been made in connection to the plot, but it had been blamed on a small group of radical Irish nationalists.

“One of the reception guests passed away that night,” Helen continued. “An undersecretary from the Home Office, Mr. Nash Prescott.”

Garrett nodded. “As I recall from the account in the Times, he had a weak heart. In the midst of all the alarm and confusion, he experienced a fatal cardiac seizure.”

“That’s the official story,” Helen said. “But Lord St. Vincent told Mr. Winterborne privately that Mr. Prescott had known about the bomb plot in advance. And it was none other than Mr. Ransom who found Mr. Prescott’s body, not far from the Guildhall grounds.” She paused. “After having given chase to him.”