The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(63)

“I dare because I’m Ryker Black’s bookkeeper.” Or I was. She’d just omit that particular detail. “And his sister,” she added. Helena peered down her nose at him. “Do we have an understanding then, sir?”

“W-we do,” he continued to sputter.

“Very good.” Helena dusted her gloved palms together. “I expect this meeting will remain between us?” The forgotten satisfaction that came from actually doing something that was not buying bonnets and fancy dresses, but rather something that required intellect and finesse, filled her with a heady sensation.

He gave a jerky nod, and as Helena drew her hood back into place and took her leave, she cast a final look back at the establishment. This is why she’d never belong in polite Society, no matter how much the duke wished it. The Helena Banburys of the world were not meant to sit politely with their heads bent over embroidery frames, discussing balls and soirees. She was meant to do something more.

This fleeting visit had been reminder enough. She may enjoy Robert’s company, and smile and laugh more than she ever did in his presence, but she could never have anything more with him, not simply because of the station divide between them, but because of her own need for purpose.

Why, gentlemen such as him, they didn’t even know these parts of London existed, no doubt.

Giving her head a clearing shake, Helena turned to go.

When a sharp cry went up.

Always run from a cry . . .

She momentarily squeezed her eyes shut. Never toward it, Helena. Never toward it . . .

Another wail split the buzz of activity.

She opened her eyes just as a small child’s exclamation echoed somewhere in the distance.

Bloody hell.

And Helena started toward that plaintive cry.





Chapter 16


Rule 16


Never venture into the Dials or St Giles alone. Ever.

“Can you not find a perfectly fashionable bookshop to attend?” Robert muttered, escorting his sister through the bustling, dirty streets of St Giles Circus. The Temple of the Muses. The Corner Bookshop. As it was, leaving his sister in the company of a maid and a footman while Robert went on to see his man-of-affairs gave him sufficient pause—pause enough to personally accompany her to the establishment.

“You are becoming stuffy in your advancing years,” Beatrice scolded. “Furthermore, what business do you have here?” she asked, too cleverly turning the tables on him.

He silently cursed. Of course Bea, who missed nothing, wouldn’t be content to let the question about his trips to Oxford Street be.

“I’m meeting with Father’s man-of-affairs,” he settled for. There, truth. Certainly enough to silence any further—

“To what end?” she pounced. Then she slowed her steps, paling. “I believed you said Father was merely pretending to be ill.”

He fell back a step. “Father is fine,” he said in calming tones, while passersby bustled on noisily about them. She studied him a long moment, and then they resumed walking.

Feeling her gaze on his face, he kept his stare trained forward. “Is it so very shocking that I at my . . . How did you refer to them?” he asked, winging a brow up. “My advancing years? That I should take some interest in the family’s estates.”

Bea turned a suspicious look up at him. “Why?”

Ballocks, was there anything she did not see? “Because I’ve failed to do right by my responsibilities before now,” he said quietly, the words spoken with the ease that truth gave them.

Except, he’d almost abandoned his meeting altogether this morn. He’d almost been the self-absorbed bastard he’d been all these years. He’d almost said no. He’d almost begged off, saying he had other plans, because in a sense he did. With Helena Banbury and their pretend courtship. Now, as they resumed walking and he skimmed his gaze over the rough streets on the fringe of London, he gave thanks that he hadn’t been so selfish in his intentions, because he’d no doubt, knowing Beatrice as he did, she’d have found a way here, herself.

“Quite sad, isn’t it?” His sister’s quiet inquiry recalled his attention.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand; instead, he looked about the dirtied streets where Charing Cross intersected with St Giles Circus.

They were red cabbage leaves . . . I’d found something more magnificent than even flowers . . .

That familiar pressure squeezed about his lungs. This was Helena’s life. One of dark, dank streets and hungry beggars. Robert swallowed hard. Nay, hers had been far worse. Hers had been the streets of St Giles, where the only thing between living and dying in that area was good fortune. And the brothers she’d spoken of yesterday.

“I expect you hardly think there is anything interesting in visiting a bookshop, Robert.”

Walking alongside his sister through the growing crowds about Westminster Bridge, with a maid traveling close on their heels, Robert smiled. “Do you think I’m one of those illiterate lords?”

His sister shot him a look. “Hardly,” she scoffed. “But if you are the rogue the papers purport you to be . . .” By the pregnant pause and long look, she was expecting an answer. Which he assuredly would not oblige her on. “Well, then you do tend to find your enjoyments at your clubs and scandalous events.”