Deeply In You Read online

  So did bruises. Purple, black, green bruises ringed her throat.

  “You were right,” Helena gasped, though she seemed to have no breath in her lungs. “The poor thing was lured here . . . and then . . .” And then some monster had wrapped his powerful hands around Mary-Alice’s throat and had ruthlessly squeezed until the girl had died—

  Helena’s legs lost substance beneath her, dissolving like sugar in water.

  Powerful arms went around her. A broad chest pressed against her cheek, and she felt her body slump against warm, solid strength.

  “I am all right now. It was just the shock.” She wanted to collapse against him completely. Horror made her dizzy and nauseated. But she couldn’t just fall on Greybrooke like a limp doll. She had to keep her wits about her—she had to help Will.

  She had to help Greybrooke.

  Governesses were supposed to have strength, and she was trying to dredge up every ounce she had. But it was only Greybrooke’s embrace that was making her strong again.

  He didn’t release her. His hands stroked over her back. He was touching her to soothe her. Then he turned her, his arm around her waist, and he led her to the door. He shouted brusquely for the madam. The woman materialized out of a nearby bedroom. Obviously she had followed them up the stairs.

  “The young lady has been killed.” Greybrooke gave commands to the madam, who went pure white. Helena realized the woman was in shock—surely she could not be such a good actress. The madam knew nothing about this.

  “Go with her,” Greybrooke said to her.

  “N-no. I want to stay with you.” She had to find courage to face this.

  “Angel, I am going to question people. Runners will be here as soon as the madam gets the message to Bow Street. I want to learn what I can.”

  He was so strong. She felt sick.

  “The poor, foolish girl.” Tears broke then, soundless tears that ran down her cheeks.

  Next thing she knew, Greybrooke was taking her out the front door. He installed her in the carriage. “Wait for me.”

  She did. She felt too sick to try to do anything. Time inched by, then finally the door was thrown open and Greybrooke swung up into the carriage. He sat beside her. Rapped on the ceiling and commanded the coachman to take them to her home.

  Once in the door, all he said was, “To bed.”

  She wasn’t sure if she could bear being tied up. Not now.

  When he was helping her take off her dress, Helena whispered, “Are you helping me get ready for bed just for sleep?” She knew he needed sex when he was tormented or haunted by horrible thoughts, but she couldn’t do it. What she really wanted was to be held.

  “If that’s what you want.” He let her dress pool around her feet and unlaced her stays. “I won’t do anything you don’t desire. If you just want rest, you shall have it.”

  She had no right to ask this, but the words tumbled out. “I know you don’t trust me, Greybrooke. I know I did a terrible thing by lying to you. But would you consider—for tonight—staying with me? Sleeping with me?”

  He hesitated. Then shook his head. “I can’t, love.”

  When she woke, Helena saw Greybrooke sitting in a wing chair by the fire, the chair turned so he could watch her. “You weren’t there all night, were you?”

  “I returned to the brothel,” he said, “then went to Bow Street. I’ve only been back a few hours.” He groaned as he pushed out of it and got to his feet.

  He had spent a few hours in a chair watching her? She had done that when children were sick. Not only because it was her job, but because she loved them.

  Greybrooke did not love her. Even if a duke could fall in love with a governess—really, what mad fantasy was that?—Greybrooke would never allow his heart to open. He would never let himself be vulnerable by falling in love.

  But what did it mean that he’d sat awake and uncomfortable, watching over her?

  Then she felt a wave of sorrow over the maid, Mary-Alice. Helena slipped out of bed to dress. She was determined to do something. She didn’t quite know what. “Why would Lord Blackbriar have had the maid killed?” God, she hated to think of the poor girl—foolish, naïve, now dead. “Wouldn’t he want her alive to give her story?”

  “He couldn’t trust her to stick to the lie. And since I found the girl dead, he probably thought I’d be blamed. I suspect he forced Clarice to give us the tale she did.”

  “But how would he know for certain that we would find Clarice?”

  “She probably reported to him immediately after you questioned her, Miss Winsome. Then he baited his trap.”

  “But I can vouch for your innocence.”

  “You look so sweetly indignant,” Greybrooke said with a wry smile. “But you’re my mistress. Not an impartial witness.”

  Helena bit her lip. “But the doorman saw you arrive with me, and that was after Mary-Alice had been stabbed. Your coachman will say he took you to the brothel only the once that night. True, they are only servants, but there would have to be actual evidence to convict a duke of murder. And rather good evidence to wrongfully convict one!”

  “Angel, only you could make me smile at a time like this,” he said. “Your determination and belief in me is adorable. All I care about is protecting you—and protecting my family.”

  Did he not care about his own life? “I don’t want to be adorable, I want to help you,” Helena declared. “He won’t get you hanged. I won’t let him.”

  As her maid O’Hara dressed her hair, Helena stared at her reflection in her mirror. She was surrounded by her beautiful house, but she didn’t care a fig about it. A pale, haggard face looked back at her. Greybrooke had left her to go once more to Bow Street. She was determined to help him get to the truth, but she feared he didn’t care whether he lived or died. He was pursuing the blackmailer for revenge and to protect others, not to protect himself.

  She believed him. He didn’t care about his own life.

  She remembered how she had vowed to change him. She didn’t want to change him. Not the man who did wicked things to her and made her soar in pleasure. She didn’t want to alter one thing about his noble, protective ways. Or muck in any way with the artistic soul inside him.

  But she wanted him to be happy.

  She wanted to be with him. That was the longing Helena couldn’t deny. She had always thought she was sensible, but she wasn’t.

  She must find what had wounded his heart and soul, and she had to give him the strength to overcome his memories.

  Her family’s newspaper had helped to hurt him. If she could help him, it would make some amends for that. She was still haunted by guilt over Margaret’s death. She would never forget losing her sister.

  If only she could find out exactly what had happened to Greybrooke . . .

  She wished she had been there with him when he was young. If she’d been his governess, she would have known what had happened. She would have—

  His governess. Goodness, why had she not thought of that?

  It took Helena most of the day to find out what she wanted. For her Lady X column, she had fostered relationships with servants in many of the great houses. Fortunately no one knew she had left her post to become the Duke of Greybrooke’s mistress. True to his word to his sister, Greybrooke had ensured discretion.

  She had gone from one contact to another to learn what she needed to know: A woman named Miss Renshaw had been governess to the duke, Jacinta, and Maryanne. Miss Renshaw had remained with Maryanne until the death of the old duke, seven years ago. After that, Maryanne had gone to live with Jacinta, who had by that time married Winterhaven.

  Miss Renshaw had been almost thirty when she had gone to the family, but that still meant she was only in her fifties. Certainly still alive.

  Armed with a directory of London, Helena set about finding where the former governess lived. It took an hour, but she succeeded—she found the address.

  Putting on her most modest gown, Helena summoned one of the c
arriages that had been a gift from Greybrooke. And she gave the direction to Miss Renshaw’s house.

  Miss Renshaw poured the tea. Helena accepted the cup. The rooms were warm, welcoming, furnished with pretty things. “You have a lovely home,” she said to the former governess.

  Tall, with curling gray hair and lively blue eyes, Miss Renshaw acknowledged the compliment. “It is all due to the Duke of Greybrooke. A year after he inherited the title from his father, he searched me out. The young duke granted me a very generous annuity.”

  To keep her quiet? The terrible thought flitted through Helena’s head. But no, she could guess why. “Had you been left badly off?”

  “I—” A flush touched the woman’s lined cheeks. “I was dismissed from my post by the duchess just after the old duke’s death. I spoke out about things that I . . . did not agree with. So I was turned out without money or a reference.”

  And Greybrooke had come to the woman’s rescue.

  Helena had no idea how to trick Miss Renshaw into talking. “I must be honest,” she said. “I have come to ask you questions. I am worried about the duke, and about his youngest sister Maryanne. I believe you can help me.”

  She told Miss Renshaw all about Greybrooke. About how he claimed he would never fall in love. About how he was deeply wracked by guilt and tortured by pain.

  “I want to help him,” Helena finished desperately.

  There was a long silence. Very long. Then Miss Renshaw said, “Who are you to the duke?”

  She had to admit it. “I am now his mistress. I was once governess to Lady Maryanne. I am sure you are shocked now, but please help me. Greybrooke is being wrongfully accused of murder, and I fear he is so hurt by his past that he will not fight for himself.”

  “Yes, I saw the newssheets. The stories about his father. The accusations.” Miss Renshaw put her hand to her throat. “I wish to help the duke, but I’ve kept these secrets a very long time. . . .”

  “If you can help Greybrooke, please, please, do so.” She was so hopeful, so desperate, all the control a governess should display went out the window. “He is such a good man. He’s artistic, did you know? But he hid his talent from his family because his father was so terrible. He’s such a wonderful gentleman, and I—” Goodness, she had almost said, “I love him.”

  She did. It was a glorious feeling, and a deep intense pain, and it was happiness and longing wrapped up together.

  She knew she’d revealed her heart to the former governess, and she bowed her head.

  “You love him,” Miss Renshaw said softly.

  With Will, Helena had protested and denied it. But Greybrooke was so wonderful, so sensual, so caring. How could she have done anything else?

  With a shaky hand, Miss Renshaw set down her cup. “The tragedy is in what Lady Maryanne did. Before the fever that left her blind. The illness was awful—a sort of spinal sickness. The poor child had terrible headaches. Part of her face was paralyzed, and she could not move her eyes or her mouth on that side. It was the most frightening thing. The poor lamb was delirious. She was in the care of her brother, then; the old duke and his wife were dead. The poor child kept screaming that she had done something evil and this was her punishment. She was tormented, certain her soul could not be saved. The duke—the new duke, I mean, not her father—nursed her as much as I did. He barely left her side. But the illness left her blind.”

  Helena remembered the secret Jacinta had written about in her letters and the terrible thing Maryanne claimed she had done. She declared softly, “Lady Maryanne has been very troubled.”

  “The new duke indulged her, I am sorry to say. His Grace loves her dearly, and after she lost her sight, he let her have her tantrums, spoiled her rotten. It did the child no good.”

  Helena ached to know what had happened, but she feared if she asked bluntly, she would make the woman stop speaking. She told Miss Renshaw of the progress she had made with Maryanne.

  The older woman rested her hand on Helena’s sleeve. “Then you were a godsend for her, Miss Winsome. That is just what the child needs—firm and loving discipline. She went through—” Miss Renshaw stopped. “Well, I cannot say.”

  “If it would help Lady Maryanne—and the duke—it would be best to speak the truth.”

  Miss Renshaw frowned. “I know of some of the things that went on in that house. Very bad things.”

  “Greybrooke was abused,” Helena said. “He has told me about some of it.”

  Miss Renshaw wrung her hands. “It was horrible. She claimed it was for the boy’s own good. But what she did . . . well, I would not want to see my worst enemy endure it.”

  “She?” Helena gasped the word. “Do you mean the duke’s mother? His mother was the one who imprisoned him and abused him?”

  “Yes. It was the duchess. They were both terribly cruel and quite vicious, the duchess and the old duke. I know I should not speak of it, but it makes me so angry. For the sake of those children—Lord Damian, Lady Jacinta, Lady Maryanne—I did not say a word once I was turned out. I kept the secrets. When I was in the home, I tried to defend them, but what could I do, pitted against a powerful duke and a wicked duchess?”

  Helena’s stomach lurched. “Both parents abused them?”

  Good heavens, she’d thought Greybrooke’s mother must have tried to help him—or she’d been too afraid of her husband to protect him.

  “It was almost like a game between them, to outdo each other in cruelty.” Miss Renshaw’s eyes narrowed with remembered anger. “The duke—he was Lucifer incarnate. And the duchess insisted that she was doing God’s work by whipping the devil out of her son.”

  “That is terrible.”

  “It is a miracle those children survived it. Once Lord Damian was close to death, for he had been locked in a metal box and left outdoors in the dead of winter. The child nearly froze. Then he nearly died of illness afterward.”

  Numbness raced over Helena.

  “What had Lady Maryanne seen that was so horrible she thought blindness was her punishment?” Helena asked softly.

  “I—I really do not know, Miss Winsome. Lady Maryanne would not speak of it to me. All I know was that it happened at the time of the old duke’s death. That was fortuitous—the death of the old duke. It happened before . . . it happened at a time to protect the girls. It hit Lord Damian very hard, though of course he knew it was necessary. Only weeks after the old duke’s death, the duchess passed away. I was not sorry to hear of it. The new Duke of Greybrooke is a very good man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Helena breathed. But Greybrooke did not see that. There was more here. Why should Greybrooke feel such guilt?

  It happened at a time to protect the girls . . .

  “Did his mother and his father abuse their daughters too?” She heard the horror in her voice.

  Miss Renshaw nodded sadly. “The father did evil, terrible things. And their mother punished them for it, as if it were their fault.”

  Helena knew Lady Winterhaven would never allow her to approach the children in Berkeley Square. Not now that she was a scandalous mistress.

  She hid behind the leafy branches of a shrub and watched the new governess. Filled with envy, Helena had to admit. The woman was very pretty with auburn curls, and the children looked happy.

  No—Sophie, Michael, and Timothy looked happy. Lady Maryanne did not. Greybrooke’s young sister sat on a blanket in a circle of her skirts, tearing out fistfuls of grass.

  Every so often the young governess would glance at Maryanne and bite her lip.

  Envy quickly became a sharp pang of guilt. Obviously Lady Maryanne had been very upset by her leaving. The young woman was once again sullen, vacant, and childlike, just as she’d been when Helena had first arrived.

  The young governess drew out some embroidery for her and Sophie, and the two females began to make swift strokes with their needles. Timothy and Michael played leapfrog on the grass.

  Now was her chance. She believed the true secret to Greybr
ooke’s pain lay in the terrible thing that Lady Maryanne had done. She must do the very thing she had told that evil, fake Whitehall she would not do. She must coax Maryanne to tell her the truth.

  “Maryanne, it’s me, Miss Winsome.” The girl, who was several yards away from the others, lifted her head, cocked it, then turned in the direction of Helena’s whisper.

  “Miss Winsome?” She asked it softly.

  “Yes, my dear.” The governess was absorbed in her needlework, so Helena slipped out from behind the lilac bush. She hurried to Maryanne and clasped the girl’s hand. “I need to ask you some questions. It is important you tell me the truth. Important for your brother’s sake. It is about what happened when your father’s died.”

  Lady Maryanne’s eyes widened. “Do you know? Grey said I was never to tell. Never.” Her fingers curved like claws. Like a frightened animal preparing to fight for its life.

  Miss Renshaw’s words floated back to Helena. That was fortuitous—the death of the old duke.... It hit Lord Damian very hard, though of course he knew it was necessary.

  Had Maryanne seen her brother kill her father? Was that what had tormented the girl? Keeping that secret? Heavens, the old duke had been evil. Greybrooke must have shot his father to protect his sisters. But she had to know if her suspicions were correct.

  “Maryanne, how did your father die? Was . . . was Greybrooke responsible? I know he was beaten, locked up, and whipped—”

  “Father never hurt Damian,” Maryanne whispered. “It wasn’t Father who did that. It was Mother. Damian had to be punished for being naughty and sinful. Mother wanted to make him good. But she was so very wrong—hurting him only wanted to make him misbehave more. The more she tried to stop him from being terrible like Father, the more he wanted to be bad.”

  Maryanne tipped up her face, and for one moment Helena felt the young woman could see into her soul. “Father was so awful. I wanted Mother to be good. I wanted to be loved. But there was no escape.” Tears brimmed, then spilled to Maryanne’s cheeks. “It was my fault. That’s why I went blind.”