My Pleasure by Connie Brockway Read Free Book Online Page B

were plentiful.
    This was the third time she had slipped unnoticed among a festive throng to meet with Mr. Goodwin. Those prior meetings had been uneventful. But tonight things had changed.
    Helena’s fingertips drifted uneasily to her mouth. Her lips still felt slightly swollen, still held the memory of his. Odd. She barely remembered feeling any fear of Figgy. All the danger she recalled came from one source, a tall, handsome Scotsman with loose black curls and the eyes of a defrocked priest.
    “Whether you approve of Ossie or not, Helena, you must go back! I would not ask you if I had any alternative,” Flora said with the gravity of those who believe they are speaking the truth. “Ossie must have gotten the dates turned around, or he was delayed, or he saw someone and dared not approach you. Please try again. Please.”
    Blast the girl. Hysterics Helena could withstand, but an honest, heartfelt appeal? She had been caught in a design of her own manufacturing, and until she figured out what was to be done—and despite her most profound prayers, she had no doubt that she, and not Mr. Goodwin or Flora, would have to be the one to figure something out—there she would stay.
    Right now the only other option, terrible though it be, was to throw themselves on Lady Tilpot’s mercy. The fact that Helena was even willing to consider the preposterous notion that Lady Tilpothad any mercy was an indication of her growing desperation.
    “All right, Flora.”
    The girl’s smile appeared like the sun after a spring storm.
    “But only once more.” She returned Flora’s brilliant smile wanly. “And you must promise to refrain from sobbing on my floors anymore. The carpet bleeds.”

FIVE
    MANIPULATORS:
    the thumb and index finger of the sword hand
    ONE WEEK LATER, Helena devoted herself to the crowd in Lady Tilpot’s salon. It was primarily a young fashionable male group, and as such preferred to stand rather than try to sit in their skintight trousers. Coupled with Lady Tilpot’s interior design—one that relied heavily on displaying as many ornate family heirlooms as the salon could hold, this made it difficult to navigate through the stuffy, overheated room. Still, Helena did her best, juggling duties that included seeing that the refreshments remained plentiful, conversing with chaperones and grandfathers, and making certain that Flora showed herself to the best possible advantage. The only problem with this last being that it was impossible to act the foil to someone who was not there.
    Earlier, Flora had pleaded a headache, which Helena could not help feeling grateful about. Without Flora in attendance to view—and be viewed by—the current crop of bachelors being offered on the Marriage Mart, the guests were bound to depart early. Afterward, Lady Tilpot would leave for her Thursday night whist game, affording Helena an opportunity to attempt once more to contact Oswald Goodwin at Vauxhall Garden.
    “No, no, Mrs. Winebarger,” Lady Alfreda Tilpot called out to a Prussian lady who had just dropped her fan. “Do not trouble yourself with dislodging The Creature.”
    Lady Tilpot, flat-faced, flat-chested, and round-rumped, rested her flounder-eyed glare tellingly on the little calico cat perched on Mrs. Winebarger’s knee. Lady Tilpot abhorred “livestock” in the house. “Let Miss Nash retrieve your fan. She must do something for her salary. Miss Nash! Fetch Mrs. Winebarger’s fan!”
    Helena rose at once. She understood the underlying reason for the summons: Lady Tilpot had decided she needed to be reminded of her station. And everyone else in the room, too. She needn’t have worried.
    In her debut season, Helena had realized that she was being judged like a mare at Tattersall’s, and had courteously but adamantly refused to partake in the sales. She wasn’t any more likely to elope with one of this current flock of stable builders—or dynasty builders as the case may be—than she had been then.
    Her