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“Yes, but —”
“In the meantime,” Kathleen said, “I would appreciate it if one of you would make certain that Helen’s dinner tray is brought up to her. Sit with her and see that she eats something. But don’t ask questions. It’s better to stay quiet unless she wants you to talk.”
“But what about you?” Pandora asked, frowning. “What is this errand, and when will you come back?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Whenever someone says that,” Pandora said, “it always means the opposite. Along with ‘It’s only a scratch’ or ‘Worse things happen at sea.’”
“Or,” Clara added glumly, ‘I’m only going out for a pint.’”
After a brisk walk, during which Kathleen and Clara merged with the mainstream of pedestrian traffic and were carried along in its momentum, they soon arrived at Cork Street.
“Winterborne’s!” Clara exclaimed, her face brightening. “I didn’t know it was a shopping errand, milady.”
“Unfortunately it’s not.” Kathleen walked to the end of the serried façades, stopping at a grand house that somehow managed to blend tastefully with the department store. “Clara, will you go to the door and say that Lady Trenear wishes to see Mr. Winterborne?”
The girl obeyed reluctantly, taking no pleasure in performing a task that was usually handled by a footman.
As Kathleen waited on the lowest step, Clara twisted the mechanical doorbell and rapped the ornate bronze knocker until the door opened. An unsmiling butler glanced at the pair of visitors, exchanged a few words with Clara, and closed the door again.
Turning toward Kathleen, Clara said with a long-suffering expression, “He’s going to see if Mr. Winterborne is at home.”
Kathleen nodded and folded her arms at her chest, shivering as a chilling breeze whipped the folds of her cloak. Ignoring the curious glances of a few passersby, she waited with determined patience.
A short, broadly built man with white hair walked past the steps, pausing to glance at the maid. He stared at her with undue attention.
“Clara?” he asked in bemusement.
Her eyes widened with relief and gladness. “Mr. Quincy!”
The valet turned to Kathleen, recognizing her even with the veil shrouding her face. “Lady Trenear,” he said reverently. “How does it happen that you are standing out here?”
“It’s good to see you, Quincy,” Kathleen said, smiling. “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Winterborne about a private matter. The butler said he would see if he was at home.”
“If Mr. Winterborne is not at home, he is most definitely at the store. I will locate him for you.” Clicking his tongue, Quincy escorted her up the stairs, with Clara following. “Keeping Lady Trenear waiting outside on the street,” he muttered in disbelief. “I’ll give that butler an earful he won’t soon forget.”
After opening the door with a key that hung on a gold fob, the valet showed them inside. The house was smart and modern, smelling of new paint and plaster, and wood finished with walnut oil.
Solicitously Quincy led Kathleen to an airy, high-ceilinged reading room and invited her to wait there while he took Clara to the servants’ hall. “Shall I have someone bring tea for you,” he asked, “while I go in search of Mr. Winterborne?”
She pulled back her veil, glad to remove the black haze from her vision. “That’s very kind, but there’s no need.”
Quincy hesitated, clearly longing to know the reason for her unorthodox visit. He settled for asking, “Everyone at Ravenel House is in good health, I hope?”
“Yes, they’re all well. Lady Helen is afflicted by a migraine, but I’m sure she’ll recover soon.”
He nodded, his snowy brows knitting together over his spectacles. “I’ll find Mr. Winterborne,” he said distractedly, and left with Clara in tow.
As she waited, Kathleen wandered around the reading room. More smells of newness, coupled with a slight staleness in the air. The house felt unfinished. Unoccupied. A paltry number of paintings and knickknacks seemed to have been scattered there as afterthoughts. The furniture looked as though it had never been used. Most of the reading room shelves were empty save for a handful of eclectic titles that Kathleen would have been willing to bet had been pulled carelessly from bookstore shelves and deposited there for display.
Judging by the reading room alone, Kathleen knew that it was not a house that Helen could be happy in, or a man she could ever be happy with.
A quarter hour passed while she considered what to say to Winterborne. Unfortunately there was no diplomatic way to tell a man that, among other things, he had made his fiancée ill.
Winterborne entered the room, his larger-than-life presence seeming to take up every surplus inch of space. “Lady Trenear. What an unexpected pleasure.” He executed a shallow bow, his expression conveying that her visit was providing anything but pleasure to him.
She knew she had put them both in a difficult position. It was wildly unorthodox for her to call on an unmarried man with no one else present, and she was sorry for it. However, she’d had no choice.
“Please forgive me for inconveniencing you, Mr. Winterborne. I don’t intend to stay long.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?” he asked curtly.
“No.”
“Speak your piece, then, and make it fast.”
“Very well. I —”
“But if it has anything to do with Lady Helen,” he interrupted, “then leave now. She can come to me herself if there’s something that needs to be discussed.”
“I’m afraid Helen can’t go anywhere at the moment. She’s been in bed all day, ill with a nervous condition.”
His eyes changed, some unfathomable emotion spangling the dark depths. “A nervous condition,” he repeated, his voice iced with scorn. “That seems a common complaint among aristocratic ladies. Someday I’d like to know what makes you all so nervous.”
Kathleen would have expected a show of sympathy or a few words of concern for the woman he was betrothed to. “I’m afraid you are the cause of Helen’s distress,” she said bluntly. “Your visit yesterday put her in a state.”
Winterborne was silent, his eyes black and piercing.