Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,66

with a group of footmen and maids. He appeared to be regaling them with stories of his new life in London. Quincy had always been a well-liked member of the staff, and he had surely been missed since he had been hired away by Rhys.

As Helen wondered how she might attract his attention without causing a scene, she heard the housekeeper’s voice behind her.

“Lady Helen?”

She turned to face Mrs. Church, whose plump face was trestled with concern.

“What brings you belowstairs, my lady? You have only to ring, and I’ll send someone up to you.”

With a rueful smile, Helen held up her injured finger. “A slight mishap with the sewing scissors,” she explained. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”

Mrs. Church clucked over the little wound, and led her to the housekeeper’s room, just two doors away. It served as both a sitting room and a place where Mrs. Church conducted the business of household management. From the earliest time Helen could remember, Mrs. Church had kept a large medicine chest there. Whenever Theo, Helen, or the twins had injured themselves or had felt ill, they had gone to the housekeeper’s room to be bandaged, dosed, and comforted.

Sitting at the small table, Helen remarked, “Everyone seems merry tonight.”

Mrs. Church opened the medicine chest. “Yes, they’re fair tickled to have Quincy back for a visit. They’ve asked a thousand questions, mostly about the department store. Quincy brought a catalog for everyone to marvel over. None of us can imagine so many goods to be found under one roof.”

“Winterborne’s is very grand,” Helen said. “Like a palace.”

“So Quincy says.” After dabbing tincture of benzoin onto the cut, Mrs. Church cut a small strip from a piece of white sarcenet imbued with isinglass, and moistened it with lavender water solution. Deftly she wrapped the plaster around Helen’s finger. “Quincy seems to have been invigorated by working for your Mr. Winterborne. I haven’t seen him so spry in years.”

“I’m glad to hear it. As a matter of fact . . .” Helen tried to make her tone casual. “. . . I would like to speak privately with Quincy, if you would bring him here.”

“Now?”

Helen replied with a single nod.

“Of course, my lady.” An unaccountable pause followed. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Helen said quietly. “I think so.”

Mrs. Church stood, frowning. “Shall I bring some tea?”

Helen shook her head.

“I’ll fetch Quincy straightaway.”

In less than two minutes, there was a tap at the door, and Quincy’s short, stocky figure entered the housekeeper’s room. “Lady Helen,” he said, his black-currant eyes smiling beneath the heavy white swags of his eyebrows.

It was a relief to see him. In the absence of any affection or interest from her father or Theo, Quincy had been the only kind male presence in Helen’s life. As a child, she had gone to him whenever she was in trouble. He had always helped her without hesitation, such as the time she had accidentally torn an entry in the Encyclopædia Britannica and he had removed the entire page with a razor blade, assuring her that the family would be no worse off for being deprived of the history of Croatian astronomy. Or the time she had knocked over a porcelain figurine, and Quincy had glued the head back on so precisely that no one had ever detected it.

Helen gave him her hand. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening.”

“Not an interruption,” Quincy said, pressing her palm warmly, “but a pleasure, as always.”

Gesturing to the other chair at the table, Helen said, “Please join me.”

The valet remained standing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You know that would not be fitting.”

Helen nodded slightly, her smile turning strained. “Yes, but this isn’t an ordinary conversation. I’m afraid—” She paused, the words jamming inside, refusing to emerge. As she tried again, all she could seem to do was repeat numbly, “I’m afraid.”

Quincy stood before her, his expression patient and encouraging.

“I have something important to ask,” Helen finally managed to say. “I need you to tell me the truth.” To her annoyance, raw salt tears collected in the corners of her eyes. “I think I already know the answer,” she said. “But it would help if you would tell me—” She stopped as she saw the way his face had changed.

Quincy’s shoulders were sinking as if from the weight of a terrible burden. “Perhaps,” he ventured, “you shouldn’t ask.”

“I have to. Oh, Quincy . . .” Helen’s temples throbbed as she fixed her gaze on him. “Is Albion