The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(88)

He’d only just found Helena, and he would be goddamned if he lost her now.





Chapter 22


Rule 22


Remain silent on the streets.

With the reassuring, if slight, weight of her derringer tucked inside the clever pocket sewn on the front of her cloak, Helena made her way through the old familiar streets of St Giles. In this particular instance, she came to an unfortunate realization—Lady Diana Wilkinson would have made a rotten pickpocket.

“I am excited to meet him,” Diana happily prattled at Helena’s side, as they picked their way along St Giles Street.

“Shh,” Helena hushed, casting a glance about. Alas, either the rumble of the carriages and the shouts of street vendors drowned out her urging, or her sister was too excited to work at subterfuge. Then when one was the proper daughter of a duchess there was no need for subterfuge. You didn’t go sneaking off. You didn’t know how to discreetly find a hired hack. And you most certainly did not ever visit these very streets where they found themselves now.

Yet through Helena’s less-than-stellar influence, she’d brought her sister into the streets unfit for men, women, and children alike.

“Do you think he’ll like me?” Diana asked at her side.

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that Ryker Black didn’t like anybody, but that would only fuel further questions from her loquacious sister. So instead she said nothing.

They reached the end of the street, and Helena put a staying hand on Diana’s arm, bringing the girl to a stop. The younger woman pushed back her hood, and Helena cursed, promptly tugging the hood back into place. “You must leave your hood up,” she scolded, stealing a look about. “You face ruin in being here.” Not for the first time since she, in a moment of sisterly devotion and poor judgment, had agreed to let Diana accompany her, regret stabbed at her. In her innocence, Diana had no place being here.

“But you are here,” Diana countered.

Helena closed her eyes and prayed for patience. How had she failed to realize how stubborn the young lady was? “I am a bastard.”

“You are also a duke’s daughter.”

“It is different,” she shot back. Was she truly debating the distinctions between a duke’s offspring here, now, with some of the roughest, crudest men in London idling about?

“I don’t see how . . .” the girl grumbled under her breath.

“And I am to be married,” Helena added. That at the very least settled the discussion.

“Oh, you are?” Diana clapped her hands excitedly. “Splendid. Lord Westfield will make you a divine husband.” She paused. “It is Lord Westfield, correct?” And even walking the streets of St Giles, attempting to evade discovery and ruin, a smile pulled at Helena’s lips. The girl could have talked the late Boney into defeat with such skill.

“Yes. It is Lord Westfield.”

“Lovely. Even if he is old,” she rambled.

Helena took her by the hand and started across the street.

“. . . after all, you are closer in age to the marquess. Not that you are old,” Diana said on a rush. “You’re only a little bit old. For a woman, that is.”

Again, Helena’s lips pulled in a grin. Mayhap it wouldn’t be so very difficult to convince Ryker to accept Diana in this new world, after all. It would surely take one endless stream of conversation from this magpie to bring him round.

A tall figure stepped into her path, and she crashed into a hard, immovable wall, knocking her hood loose. Helena’s hair tumbled about her shoulders as she was sent sprawling. She landed so hard on her buttocks pain radiated up her spine.

“Oh, dear,” Diana cried, rushing over. “Are you all right?” She planted her hands on her hips, a little defender. “You, sir, should have a care,” she chided.

Giving her dazed head a shake, Helena shoved herself onto her elbows and froze. Through the din of street noise and her sister’s prattling, the world stopped. He, with his pockmarked face and gaunt features, came to her at the oddest times, haunting her sleeping and waking moments.

“’ello, Helena.” Diggory grinned back.

The earth dipped and swayed. She closed her eyes hard and counted. One-two-three-wake-up. One-two-three-wake-up. She choked on bile. He is not real. He is not real. He’s merely the nightmare that’s dogged you for nearly twenty years.

She peeked under her lashes, and a wave of nausea assaulted her. Aged by time and life on the streets, the evil, cracked, yellow-toothed smile remained the same.

“Look at ye, all fancy now.” That hated cockney sucked away rational thought, and she was once more that small, cowering girl with a flame touched to her skin. “Oi almost didn’t recognize ye the other night in the street.”

It had been him. She whimpered, and shook her head, inching away.

“Helena?”

She clamped her hands over her ears to blot out that hated sound. Only confusion raged inside her mind. For that sweetly spoken inquiry, laced with concern, did not belong to the demon in her dreams.

Diana.

She forced her eyes open, and looked blankly to her sister. Oh, God. Diana. “Run,” she rasped.

Diana looked at her, opening and closing her mouth, and apparently there was more strength to the girl than she’d credited, for she flared her eyes and then, with a speed a wood sprite would have been impressed by, sprinted down the street.