been shrouded in mystery.
There was never a calling card, or a note, or anything to indicate who might be giving her such a lovely and extravagant gift. She’d tried having the person who delivered them followed on several occasions, but that had always inevitably led to a dead end. She’d visited dozens of flower shops, even traveling an hour outside of London, but her exhaustive searches had never yielded any results.
Eventually, she had stopped looking. Helena was a woman who prided herself on success, and to fail so many times was nothing short of humiliating. What made it even worse was that she suspected whoever was giving her roses was the same man – or at least, she presumed it was a man – who was keeping the roof over her head, and the food on her table, and the dresses in her closet, and a small staff at her beck and call.
A benefactor she’d never spoken to, never met, never even seen. All she knew was that he had, quite literally, saved her from starvation.
And he had a proclivity for yellow roses.
Beyond that, she knew absolutely nothing about him. A frustrating fact she could force herself to forget on most days, except for today. Because today was the first Monday of the month. And any minute, a loud knock would sound on the door, and a footman would open it, and there, sitting on the brick stoop, would be a bouquet wrapped in brown paper.
“Have the roses brought up here and placed by my bed, as always.” Helena might have hated that she didn’t know who sent her the flowers, but she loved to wake to the sweet smell of them. “Do you know if the final alterations have been made on the dress I am wearing to the wedding?”
Tomorrow morning, her dearest friend, Calliope Haversham, was marrying another one of her dear friends, Leopold Maven, the Earl of Winchester. Or Leo, as he was known to her. She’d had more than a hand in helping Calliope and Leo find love, and she was absolutely delighted they were finally going to be tying the knot.
“It should be delivered this afternoon,” Ives informed her. “Have you decided which hat you want to wear?”
She pursed her lips. “Nothing too outlandish. I would not want to detract from the bride. My bonnet with the pink silk ribbons, perhaps.”
“But it doesn’t even have a single feather,” Ives said, aghast.
“I know,” she sighed. “It’s horrifically boring.”
If there were one thing Helena loved more than anything else, it was fashion. Bold fashion. Brave fashion. Fashion that made doddering dowagers gasp with outrage and randy young bucks sit up and take notice.
She was vain enough to admit she enjoyed the attention (both good and bad), but that wasn’t the driving force behind her inspired attire. Ever since she’d been a little girl, Helena had wanted to do things the way she wanted to do them. Not as they were dictated to her. If she saw something she liked, she wore it. And if she couldn’t find something she liked (which as more often the case, given her eccentric style), she had it created. Regardless of whether it reflected the current trends or not.
But for the sake of her friend’s wedding, she was happy to keep her attire demure.
Even though it would mean looking dreadfully dull.
“Well, when you are the one getting married, you can wear whatever you want,” Ives said philosophically as he slid the last pin into place. Taking a step back, her lady’s footman studied his work with narrowed eyes. Then he clucked his tongue and moved to fix a curl that didn’t quite meet his impeccably high standards. “I’m envisioning a gown in gold. High neckline. Long sleeves that taper to a point at the wrists. An emerald tiara–”
“A tiara?” Helena interrupted, auburn brow arching.
“I can only assume you’ll be marrying a duke; in which case, a tiara would only be expected.” Ives paused. “Unless you’d like to wear something flashier, and then we’ll need to find you a prince.”
“I am not going to marry a prince.”
“A duke, then.” Her servant nodded. “Much more practical and fewer dignitary responsibilities.”
“I am not going to marry one of those, either.” Satisfied with her hair, Helena leaned towards the mirror and applied a light dusting of powdered rouge to her cheeks. Behind her, Ives pursed his lips.
“You can’t intend to marry another earl.”
Helena flicked him an icy stare over her shoulder as she rose from her