A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,49
love to rely on you. And to be relied upon. Please trust me. And if you really want to help, can you keep Mama and Papa occupied while I’m out in the fields?”
“Yes. Alright,” Camille called softly, watching her disembark. “Take care, Lena.”
Helena shot her a grateful look and hurried on.
“My sister thinks I cannot trust you,” Helena told Declan two hours later. They were winding their way through parked wagons and grazing horses on the edge of Wandsworth’s country market.
Declan had allotted twenty minutes to search the market, locate Lady Moira, and return to their mounts. It was ambitious, but in Declan’s view, it was just as important to return Helena to the group as it was to approach these women.
“Which sister?” he asked. None of the Lark sisters had shown the slightest interest in Helena’s regard for servants.
“Camille,” she said.
Declan nodded. Of all the sisters, Camille Lark was the shrewdest. “You’ve not told her? About our plan?”
“Oh no, but she knows something’s afoot. She’s not stupid. She’s seen our . . . our rapport, I assume? And she warned me against trusting you.”
“Because she believes I’ll, what?”
“I cannot say. Betray me to Girdleston, I suppose.” She glanced at him. Her face was uncertain. She didn’t accuse him so much as examine his reaction.
His reaction was extreme frustration, but he kept quiet. He counted to ten.
The Lark sisters had no way of gauging Declan’s loyalty, but Helena should have no doubt. He’d put his family’s future in jeopardy to help her. He’d also done nothing but aid and abet her. Since the beginning. Today alone, he’d trailed her through the many acres of Lusk’s Home Farm in his silent role as biddable groom. He held the umbrella while she spoke of late frosts with the duke’s horticulturist, bee migration with the duke’s beekeeper, and wool with the sheepherder.
He’d bribed a stable boy to saddle two mounts and interrupted her discussions so they could finally slip away.
And now here they were. The whole thing had been beautifully played. Her interest in agriculture, her family’s abject lack of interest, even the rain. They’d manipulated the situation despite the implicit risk, but they’d done it together. There was no call for lack of trust.
“If I was going to betray you to Girdleston,” Declan said, “I would have already done it. I’ve gone too deep for that now. My fate is tied to yours.”
“You mean your family’s fate,” she corrected.
“Right,” he said. He was reminded that he’d not been completely honest. He hadn’t told her about the threat of returning to jail.
“Forgive me for raising the topic,” she said. “I don’t doubt your loyalty, Declan. Camille believes herself cleverer than she is, perhaps.”
The muddy crush of the Wandsworth market came into view, and Helena was caught up in distant music and bursts of laughter, the smell of smoke and pasties. She craned to see over horses and carts, her face happy and curious. He stared at her pretty profile, gratified by her open delight. She’d shown disdain for so many things—the garden party, the trousseau, Lusk House in general. But the market captivated her. The broken-off thing in his chest lost another sharp, heavy chunk.
“Our best chance of finding the herbalist is walking up and down every row,” he said, tugging her between a carriage and a pen of goats.
The market’s outer perimeter was a large circle of wagons and tents. Once inside, rows and rows of vendors stretched over the muddy field. A dark, smoky forest loomed in the distance and a crude bandstand and musicians dominated the far end. In the center, a bonfire puffed smoke. The booths spilled over with autumn vegetables, chopped wood, candles, loaves of fresh bread.
Helena pulled free of Declan’s hand and spun in a slow circle, drinking in the swirl of colors and aromas. Children darted around her, chasing a dog.
Declan cleared his throat. “We’re looking at every booth for an herbalist,” he reminded her, pointing to the first row. “We’re searching every person for signs of wealth and privilege. An heiress will be far easier to spot in a country market than New Bond Street.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, following him at a slow pace.
“But we must look,” he reminded.
“I am looking,” she insisted, but she was staring at a table piled high with chunks of soap, each bar pressed with a sprig of lavender.
He hustled her along and they rounded first one row, then another. When they rounded the third row, Declan heard himself