window. “There is a man reading a newspaper,” said Hastings.
“He is there to make sure I do not climb down the exterior wall—before the crowd on the street, mind you—and escape to indulge in unsuitable shenanigans. And you know very well that my maid sits out by the other exit of this room to prevent me from walking off. On days I walk to work, she follows two steps behind. On days I take the carriage, the coachmen are instructed to never let me off anywhere except directly at work, where she is already waiting. And when I am dragged about various parlors and ballrooms, either my sister or my sister-in-law stands within three feet, even for my trips to the water closet.”
Contrary to what she’d expected, her enumeration of the close watch under which she’d been placed failed to make an impression on him. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? How will Mrs. Monteth catch me at any scandalous action when I can’t even sneeze without it being duly reported?”
“I have more faith in you, Miss Fitzhugh. You haven’t broken free of this surveillance yet, but it’s only a matter of time before you spot an opportunity.” He paused and gazed at her for a moment. She was disconcerted by something that flickered in his eyes—something suspiciously close to true concern. “When that time comes, and an opportunity presents itself, I beg you to exercise wisdom and restraint and remember that not all opportunities are created equal. Some are nothing but steps leading down toward catastrophe.”
And with that, he bowed and took his leave.
Helena tried to reimmerse herself in Tales from Old Toad Pond. Miss Evangeline South was an accomplished illustrator with a deft, yet whimsical touch. The pond was a perfect shade of springlike green, the cottages laden with ivy and blooming window boxes, the large log that was the summer boat of the turtles—seasonal visitors from warmer climates—charmingly festooned with enormous bouquets of bulrush.
But whereas earlier the drawings had made her smile, now she frowned at them. Surely…surely she could not possibly think that there were any similarities to be found between the cheerful innocence of Miss South’s illustrations and the blatant obscenity of Hastings’s.
She took out Hastings’s manuscript again, flipping the pages, each pornographic image reassuring her that indeed, her mind had been playing tricks on her: There was not the slightest likeness between the artwork of Old Toad Pond and the filthy scribbles in The Bride of Larkspear.
A few pages from the end of the manuscript, however, she came across an illustration that could not be termed indecent. This time the bride of Larkspear was clothed—properly clothed, in a dress that buttoned to her chin. She lay in a field of grass, the brim of her hat covering most of her face. Only her mouth showed, curved in a teasing—or perhaps mocking—smile.
Without the distraction and discomfiture of the woman’s nakedness, the likeness in the artists’ styles leaped off the page and punched Helena in the lungs. She had not been imagining things after all: There was a marked resemblance in the use of color, the curvature of the lines, the weight and solidity of the shapes.
Before she could quite take her thoughts to their logical conclusion, a knock came at her door. She hastily locked the manuscript away. “Come in.”
Miss Boyle entered. “Another cable for you, miss.”
“Thank you, Miss Boyle.”
Fitz had sent a cable not long ago. Did he remember something else to tell her?
But this telegram did not have the name or the address of the sender. The text was short and impersonal. Next Monday. The Savoy Hotel. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Ask for the Quaids’ room.
Her breath suspended. Andrew. At long last. She pressed the cable against her heart, her mind running away with the imagined pleasure of this longed-for reunion. A few minutes passed before she let go of her elation and began contemplating the realities of arranging for such a rendezvous on her part, with all the surveillance that had been placed upon her.
Well, if the Count of Monte Cristo could escape the Château d’If, it ought not be impossible for her to shake free of her watchdogs.
Hastings’s words unexpectedly came to mind, echoing with an ominous, almost prophetic ring in her head. I beg you to exercise wisdom and restraint and remember that not all opportunities are created equal. Some are nothing but steps leading down toward catastrophe.
She wavered for several minutes before she realized what she was doing.
No one