“Sir Alistair, too, I think,” Lady Vale said. “He struck me as a very lonely man when I saw him. And you’ve performed a miracle already—you’ve got him to journey to London.”
“For my children.”
“For you,” Lady Vale said softly.
Helen again looked at the teacup in her lap. “Do you truly think so?”
“I know so,” the viscountess said promptly. “I saw the way he looked at you in my sitting room. That man cares for you.”
Helen sipped her tea, saying nothing. This was so personal, so new and confusing, and she wasn’t sure yet that she wanted to discuss it with another, even someone like Lady Vale, who had been so kind to her.
For a moment, both ladies sipped tea in silence.
Then Helen remembered something. She set down her teacup. “Oh! I forgot to tell you that I’ve finished copying out the fairy-tale book about the four soldiers.”
Lady Vale smiled in pleasure. “Have you, indeed? Did you bring it with you?”
“No, I’m sorry. I quite forgot in…” She was going to say in worry over the children, but she simply shook her head instead.
“I understand,” the viscountess said. “And in any case, I need to find someone to bind it for me. Perhaps you can hold it for me and I will write when I have an address for you to send it to?”
“Of course,” Helen murmured, but her thoughts had already returned to Abigail and Jamie. Were they warm and safe? Did they cry for her? And would she ever see them again in this life?
The tea suddenly tasted like bile in her mouth. Please God, let me see my children again.
“THE EARL OF Blanchard is giving a luncheon party in honor of the king,” Vale said. “And Lister is an invited guest.”
They were still in the sitting room, and Vale was on his third glass of brandy, though he seemed to show no ill effects.
“Blanchard.” Alistair frowned. “Wasn’t that St. Aubyn’s title?”
Reynaud St. Aubyn had been a captain in the 28th Regiment of Foot. A good man, a great leader, he’d survived the massacre at Spinner’s Falls only to be captured and later killed at the Indian camp. Alistair shuddered. St. Aubyn was the man he’d told Helen about—the man who had been crucified and set alight.
St. Aubyn had also been Vale’s good friend.
Vale nodded now. “The man who has the title is a distant cousin, a widower. His niece acts as hostess for his parties.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow.”
Alistair stared down into the empty glass in his hand. Tomorrow was when Etienne’s ship would dock, but only for a few hours. Would he be able to see both the Duke of Lister and Etienne in the same narrow period of time? In all likelihood not. If he went to the luncheon, he faced the real risk of missing Etienne’s ship. Yet, if he were to weigh the children against information about the Spinner’s Falls traitor, the children would clearly win. How could they not? They were life where the traitor was death.
“Is that a problem?” Vale asked.
Alistair looked up to meet the viscount’s perceptive gaze. “No.” He set aside his glass. “Are you invited to this grand luncheon?”
“Alas, no.”
Alistair grinned. “Good. Then you can do something else for me while I invade Blanchard’s luncheon party.”
Chapter Seventeen
Every night the sorcerer would come to the knot garden and smile and gloat over the soldier he had ensorcelled. But by day, the sorcerer closed himself in his castle and thought up evil schemes.
One day a swallow joined the birds resting upon Truth Teller’s stone shoulders. This swallow happened to be one of the number formerly imprisoned by the sorcerer, and somehow the bird must have recognized her savior. Gliding down to the yew hedge, the swallow plucked a single leaf. Then she spread her wings and flew high into the sky, away from the castle. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
The luncheon party had already started by the time Helen and Alistair arrived on the Earl of Blanchard’s front step. They’d been delayed because Alistair had been waiting for a mysterious message at the hotel. Just before they’d left, a small scrawny lad had brought him a dirty letter. Alistair had read it, grunted in what sounded like satisfaction, and sent the boy away again with a shilling and another letter, hastily written.
Helen tapped her foot as they waited for the door to open.
“Relax,” Alistair growled softly beside her.
“How can I?” Helen said impatiently. “I don’t know why that letter was so important. What if we missed the luncheon altogether?”
“We haven’t. The carriages still clog the street, and besides, these things go on for hours; you know that.” He sighed and muttered, “You should’ve stayed in the hotel room as I suggested.”
Helen glared. “They’re my children.”
He cast his eye heavenward.
“Tell me again what your plan is,” she demanded.
“All I have to do is get Lister to relinquish claim on the children,” he said in a maddeningly soothing voice.
“Yes, but how?”
“Trust me.”
“But—”
The door was opened by a harried maid at that point. “Yes?”
“Late as usual, I’m afraid,” Alistair said in a loud, cheerful voice entirely unlike his normal tones. “And my wife has just now torn a lace or some such. Perhaps you can show us to a room where she can put herself to rights?”
The girl wrenched her horrified gaze from Alistair’s face and stood back to let them in. Blanchard House was one of the grandest houses on the square, the interior hall lined with pale pink marble and gilt. They passed a white marble statue of Diana with her hounds, and then the girl opened a door leading to an elegant sitting room.
“This will do excellently,” Alistair said. “Please, don’t let us keep you from your duties. We’ll show ourselves in when my wife is ready.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. The occasion of a luncheon honoring the king no doubt involved every available servant.
“Stay here, please,” Alistair said. He pressed a hard kiss to her lips and swung toward the door.
And froze.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
On the wall by the door was a huge painting—a life-sized portrait of a young man.
“Nothing,” he muttered, his gaze still on the painting. He shook his head and turned to her. “Stay here. I’ll return and collect you after I’ve talked to Lister. All right?”