Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,65
of the age. In the past he tried more than once to borrow against his future inheritance. Lord Berwick was livid.”
Helen glanced at Rhys, troubled by the bleakness of his expression. His friend’s actions seemed to have cut deeply. “Are you certain,” she asked hesitantly, “that Mr. Severin understood the extent of your dislike for Mr. Vance?”
“He understood,” Rhys said shortly, and took a swallow of cognac.
“Then why did he do it?”
Rhys shook his head, remaining silent.
In a moment, Devon answered pensively. “Severin can be callous in pursuit of a goal. He has an extraordinary mind, it’s no exaggeration to call him a genius. However, such ability often comes at the expense of—” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Decency?” West suggested dryly.
Looking rueful, Devon nodded. “When dealing with Severin, one must never forget that above all, he’s an opportunist. His brain is so busy trying to engineer a certain outcome that he doesn’t bother to consider anyone’s feelings, including his own. That being said, there have been times when I’ve seen Severin go to great lengths to help other people. He’s not all bad.” He shrugged. “It seems a pity to give up the friendship entirely.”
“I’d give up anyone or anything,” Rhys retorted, “to make certain I never have any connection to Albion Vance.”
Chapter 16
HELEN LOWERED HER HEAD as if to concentrate on the mending in her lap. A sickening, strange, stomach-dropping feeling came over her. Somehow her hands continued the familiar task of sewing, jerkily stabbing the needle through the torn seam of a shirt. Panicked thoughts became ensnarled in her head, and she worked to pull them apart and make sense of them.
Albion was an uncommon name, but not entirely out of the ordinary. It could be a coincidence.
Please, God, please let it be a coincidence.
Oh that look on Rhys’s face. The kind of hatred a man would take to his grave.
Anxiety seethed inside her, making it the effort to remain outwardly calm excruciating. She had to leave the room. She had to go somewhere private, and take a few deep breaths . . . and she had to find Quincy.
He had come to the estate with Rhys. Quincy knew more of her family’s secrets than anyone. She would insist that he tell her the truth.
While the conversation continued, Helen tied off the thread of her mending and slowly reached into the sewing box near her foot. She felt for the pair of tiny sewing scissors in the top compartment, and nudged the wickedly sharp blades apart. Deliberately she ran the side of her forefinger against the blade until she felt a pinching sensation and a hot sting. Drawing her hand back quickly, she glanced with feigned dismay at the drop of bright red blood welling from the cut.
Rhys noticed immediately. He made a Welsh sound of disgruntlement, a flick of breath pushed between the edge of teeth and lower lip. “Wfft.” Tugging a handkerchief from inside his coat, he came to her in a few strides. Wordlessly he sank to his haunches in front of her and clamped the folded cloth around her finger.
“I should have looked before reaching for the scissors,” Helen said sheepishly.
His eyes had lost that chilling hardness and were now filled with concern. Carefully, he lifted the handkerchief to look at the cut on her finger. “It’s not deep. But you need a plaster.”
Kathleen spoke from the settee. “Shall I ring for Mrs. Church, dear?”
“I’d rather go to her room,” Helen said lightly. “It will be easier there, with all her supplies at hand.”
Rhys rose to his feet, pulling Helen up with him. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, do stay,” Helen said quickly, holding the handkerchief around her finger. “You haven’t finished your cognac.” She stepped back from him. Avoiding his searching gaze, she sent a quick smile to the room in general. “The hour is late,” she said. “It’s time for me to retire. Good night, everyone.”
After the family responded in kind, Helen left the parlor with measured steps, fighting the urge to break into a run. She continued down the grand staircase, crossed through the main hall, and descended the servants’ stairs. In contrast to the quiet emptiness of the first floor, belowstairs bustled with activity. The servants had finished their dinner and were clearing away dishes and flatware, while the cook supervised advance preparations for the next day’s meals.
A burst of laughter came from the servants’ hall. Inching closer to the doorway, Helen saw Quincy sitting at the long table