She waited until ten minutes past nine—she knew His Grace read to his children until nine o’clock—and rang the bell at the house next door.
The duke’s abode was the mirror image of Helena’s—her fan-lighted front door lay to the right of her main rooms; his lay to the left.
The ground floor was for the public—drawing rooms that could be opened into one grand room for dancing. Not that Ashford had hosted anything like a ball or at-home in years. The ground floor was dark and silent, like Helena’s.
The footman who answered the door was disinclined to let her in. “I’m sorry, madam,” he said, his young face unhappy under his old-fashioned white wig. “His Grace is not receiving visitors.”
“Nonsense, Henry. I am expected—His Grace must have told you. Besides, you do not want me informing your mother about what I saw you and Alice doing on my back stairs a few days ago, would you?”
The kiss had been innocent, and a bit touching, but Helena kept her voice firm. His mother would be most displeased, and Henry knew it. Looking even more unhappy, he yielded.
“His Grace is upstairs, madam. Not to be disturbed.”
“I know. You’re a good lad, Henry.”
Helena patted his cheek and hurried up the stairs. One hurdle past. The formidable Edwards, Ashford’s valet, looming on the landing above her, would be a more difficult obstacle.
To her surprise, Edwards, gray-haired and imposing, stood aside and stared into space as Helena climbed the stairs, pretending not to notice her slide past him. Well, well.
His Grace’s study was on the second floor, above his private dining room. The duke’s bedchamber was the next floor up, she knew. He slept well above the street and exactly beneath the nursery.
Helena tapped on the door of the study and admitted herself when she heard Ash’s distracted, “Come.”
Helena entered a chamber lined with bookcases, books piled across the tops of those already filling the shelves. She’d always known the duke was a reader, though when he found the time, she could not imagine. He did read to his children, they had told her. Interesting books too—an admirable trait in an otherwise inflexible man.
Ashford did not look up from the papers he read at his desk, so Helena said brightly, “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Ashford jerked his head up then came to his feet with comical rapidness, his hard face turning as red as Henry’s. “What the devil? Madam, these are my private rooms and you have no appointment.”
He was struggling to remain civil and barely winning the fight. My, my—would he stoop to bodily pushing her out of his house?
And could Helena stop him? Not really. He’d be considered wholly justified in ejecting an intruder, and there were those who found Helena a bit forward for a woman.
She should fear him—she’d observed his strength—but she did not. Strange. Helena might be foolish in her courage, but so be it.
“I believe I told you I would call this evening,” she said. “We must discuss your children’s request. Not a bad thing, Your Grace, for you to find a wife. I grew up with only a father for many years, and it was a relief when he wedded again. Indeed, my stepmother and I have become great friends.”
“I know.” Ashford’s lips thinned. “The pair of you natter at the theatre. I hear you—your box is next to mine.”
“I only natter, as you call it, when the play is deplorable. When we have fine actors and excellent singing, we listen most attentively. Now.” Helena removed a paper from her reticule and bravely approached the desk. “I would not presume to push you into encounters with these ladies without your approval, so I have made a list for you to look over beforehand.”
“Mrs. Courtland.”
Helena looked up to find His Grace standing tall and stiff beside her. “Yes?”
“You will take your list and your good self and remove both from my house. My son had no business approaching you, and you will forget all about this foolishness. I will explain to him why he is wrong.”
Helena pictured young Lewis as his father sternly instructed him to stay out of his affairs. The lad would be humiliated, embarrassed, hurt. Her resolve increased.
“Perhaps you could listen for a fraction of a moment, Your Grace. Your son only wishes to see you happy. You cannot tell me that walking to and from Pall Mall every day with never a deviation—for years—can make a person happy. A walking corpse, you are, never looking from side to side. A winter snowstorm, a spring shower, a fine summer day are all the same to you. You never leave London—it isn’t healthy for children to stay here in the heat. You should be at your country house in the summer, where they can ride and run and play.”
Helena ran out of breath, knowing she’d gone too far, but she squared her shoulders. She’d only spoken the truth.
“Mayfair is a perfectly fine place,” Ashford countered. “In all seasons. But I do not need to justify my choices—it is my business, madam, and none of yours.”
“If only you were involved, I’d gladly leave you to walk yourself to death. You must have worn a groove in the pavement between here and St. James’s by now. But you force your children to live as you do, and they are miserable.”
“And they are my children.” Ashford took another step closer, his body tight. “They will not remain here forever—Lewis will be off to school and the girls will have a governess and be trained at my estate in Somerset before they enter their Seasons. All has been provided for, you needn’t worry.”
“So you will pack them off like unwanted parcels?”
Ashford’s usually cool voice rose. “Which do you want, madam? For them to stay here and be miserable in London, or off to the country? You are objecting to both.”
Helena waited impatiently until he finished. “Of course I am objecting to both. The children have no
