Deck!” she whined, clasping to him like a crab. “I’ve waited so long for you to discover me.”
“Stop. Talking,” he growled, looking right and left.
By some miracle, no one had seen. He stalked from the door, unable to peel her from his body without considerable effort. When he passed Helena, he reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her along.
“Oh, your friend!” sang Knightly Snow, still clinging to him. “She’s so pretty.”
She was here.
Knightly Snow was here.
In London.
She was not dead.
She’d not been abducted.
Hope swirled inside him with cyclone force.
He disappeared down the warren of corridors and stopped in the alcove with the toga statue.
“Miss Knightly Snow,” he recited formally, detaching her from his body, “meet Helena La—”
He stopped, considered the ramifications, and thought, To hell with it.
He continued, “Meet Helena Shaw. My wife.”
He turned to Helena. She gaped at him. Her eyes were larger than he’d ever seen. “Helena, meet the girl whose disappearance sent me to prison. Miss Knightly Snow.”
“H-how do you do?” stammered Helena.
“Your wife?” accused Knightly. “Declan! You told me you would never marry!”
“No,” he sighed. “You told me that I must not ever marry.”
“Silly Declan,” said Knightly, swatting his arm. “Why would I say something like that? I adore weddings!”
“I cannot begin to imagine,” Declan mumbled. If memory served, she’d been trying to enlist him as her own paramour. But there was no need to recall that now. Or ever. He’d not touched Knightly Snow, not once, despite her repeated attempts at seduction.
“Miss Snow,” he sighed, trying again, “let us start over. Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you for the good part of a year. Your parents accused me of abducting you, and I went to prison.”
“Stop!” cooed Knightly. “They told me you’d be investigated but not charged. That you’d be exonerated in the end.”
“Who told you?” asked Declan. “Are you saying you knew I was being accused of abducting you?”
Knightly Snow sighed as if she was being asked to recite a familiar poem for the entertainment of grandparents. “Those savages at the palace gave me a bit of money . . .” she winked at Helena and made a pinching gesture with her thumb and pointer finger, “. . . if I promised to make myself scarce when we got to France. They were so insistent their precious Crown Prince should recover from his heartbreak. Poor man, he loved me so very much.”
“They paid you to evade me?” Declan hissed. He spun away. “They knew all along. I should have known. What a fool I have been!”
Knightly Snow laughed as if it was the most hilarious prank. She told Helena, “They felt the prince would cling to the vain hope of my return if I wasn’t . . . in a manner . . . dead.”
Declan spun back. “Let us forget for the moment that an innocent man was accused and sent to Newgate, Knightly. But you’ve let the world believe you’d been kidnapped and . . . and done in. Even your parents!”
“Shhh,” said Knightly, holding a finger to her pouty lips. “I’m not meant to talk about it. But of course I had to tell you. I felt honor-bound to relieve any great guilt you might harbor. For killing me.”
“I did not kill you! Obviously.”
“That’s why I’ve been following you,” she continued. “Also, the South of France in winter is such a bore.”
“Why did you take so long to reveal yourself?” Declan demanded. “Why stalk us for weeks?”
“Oh, that. Well, the palace put a date on when I could ‘reemerge’ in London if I wanted the balance of my lovely money. But I wanted to come home. And I thought to myself, I know, I shall fashion a disguise. Something mysterious and ominous. Like a little witch. A beautiful little witch.” She smiled and drew up her hood, and then let it fall. She giggled. “Clever, don’t you think?”
Declan stared at her. Did he feel relief or rage? The two emotions roiled inside of him like the fires of hell. Helena must have seen it on his face, because she clasped his hand.
“Knightly,” he began, trying to remain calm, “you cannot fathom the agony you have put me through. You are— You are—”
Helena stepped up. “Let us not insult Miss Snow,” she said carefully. “It’s clear she meant . . . no real, er . . . harm.” She forced out these words like she was swallowing bad milk.
She cleared her throat. “We’ll need her to