Dangerous Decisions (2 page)

If Oliver Faraday had one passion in life, it was his ancestral home, Graylings. And his interest in Helena Standish sprang from the shock of an unexpected funeral earlier that year. The deceased was a close friend, a man of a similar age who had appeared in perfect health yet suddenly succumbed to the wretched London fog that plagued them all. As Oliver stood in a cold and musty church in Highgate half listening to the droning voice of the parson, he came not only to the sober realisation of his own mortality but conscious of the appalling consequences that could follow. Were he to die today or even within the year, then Graylings would become the legal property of his first cousin Selwyn Faraday. A man he loathed, whose dissolute gambling was notorious; it was even whispered that he was in debt to money lenders and the banks had refused him credit. Therefore, while the rest of the congregation sang the 23rd Psalm, Oliver's mind wrestled with the fact that he must delay no longer. As soon as the burial was over, he strode out of the cemetery full of purpose – he needed a son. And the London season would provide the ideal and fruitful market in which to find a suitable wife.

His search had been a frustrating one until he saw Helena Standish. She seemed to be ideal; she not only had beauty, but youth and robust health – he had bred enough horses to know that promised fertility – and he had no desire to be married to a mouse so was pleased with her spirited demeanour. He had waited until his lawyer reported on his investigation into the Standish family. There was apparently no scandal attached to the name, and although it was a pity that Jacob Standish had made his money in brewing, unlike many of his contemporaries Oliver was perceptive enough to recognise that times were changing and the future would depend on industry rather than on inherited wealth.

Now free to make his approach, he'd become impatient for the next event on the social calendar. As he entered the glittering room he saw her immediately, looking cool and elegant in white satin trimmed in blue, while her nearby aunt was wearing a brown frock almost as ugly as the last time. Swiftly he searched for Johnnie Horton, and seconds later the two men began to thread their way through the partygoers.

Helena had been aware of his presence as soon as he had arrived, had instinctively known that this time he would approach her, and in answer to his request, held out her silk-tasselled dance card. When it came, their dance was almost a parody of silent meanings. It was there in the way that Oliver held her, the expression in his eyes as he gazed down at her, the slight movement of his thumb against her palm as he held her gloved hand. He held her so closely that she could feel the warmth of his body as he said softly that he understood that her mother had died when she was born, a misfortune they both shared. ‘But I see you have an excellent aunt,' he said, ‘who certainly takes her role as chaperone seriously.'

Helena glanced across the room to see Beatrice watching them, her expression one of stern disapproval, and laughed. ‘It's because you're holding me too close. I'm afraid she's terribly old-fashioned.'

However, later, Beatrice's reaction was an unexpectedly warm one when Oliver invited them to walk with him the following day in the Botanical Gardens. ‘That would be delightful,' she said, and with an approving nod gave him their address. As his tall figure then left the ballroom, Beatrice said in a low voice, ‘I've been making enquiries about that young man. Not only is he extremely eligible but do you realise that he didn't dance with anyone else?'

It was a month later when Jacob Standish received the letter from his sister. He wandered onto the large stone terrace overlooking the park-like grounds of Broadway Manor and, adjusting his spectacles, read through it once again. A powerfully built man in late middle-age, he murmured aloud the name – Oliver Faraday. This news from Beatrice was a matter for his lawyer to look into, because if this man was showing a serious interest in Helena, then certain discreet enquiries would need to be made.

Jacob glanced again at the letter.

I believe his family are landed gentry and his seat is Graylings in Hertfordshire. He is certainly taken with Helena. I must confess that I too find him charming.

That may be so, Jacob thought, but though his sister had many admirable attributes to her character, experience of the male sex, particularly with regard to courting women, was not one of them. He went back into the drawing room and, going over to the ornate Adam fireplace, gave a tug on the silken bell cord.

When the silver-haired butler entered the room, Jacob said, ‘Ah, Bostock. I shall be leaving for London on Friday. Would you tell Fraser to pack for at least a week?'

‘Very good, Sir. Might I enquire whether Miss Beatrice and Miss Helena are enjoying their time there?'

‘I'm delighted to say that they are. And you may tell the rest of the staff that Miss Helena is a great success.' Jacob saw a slight smile pass on Bostock's normally impassive face. Helena was enormously popular with the servants; Beatrice often protested that she was far too familiar with them. As the heavy mahogany door closed behind his butler, Jacob went to sit in his favourite winged chair, the one that Helena laughingly called his ‘thinking chair'. He had much to consider. If all went well and a marriage did take place then a member of the landed gentry in the family would not only assure its social standing but could even be beneficial for the business. Jacob made a steeple of his hands and drew his brows together. His interest nowadays was to spread tentacles into a wider field, one that needed influence and contacts; surely such an alliance could only bode well for a man with political ambitions.

The day before her father was due to arrive, with Beatrice having retired to bed suffering from a headache, Helena was feeling both bored and restless. Much as she enjoyed being in London, especially lately as Oliver had taken her riding in Rotten Row, she missed her chestnut mare Blaze and the graceful manor house where she was born. And the capital could be so unbearably hot. She wandered over to sit on the velvet-covered seat by the open window, filling the time by dwelling on the reason for her father's visit.

Not that Oliver had given any formal indication that he was about to propose, but Aunt Beatrice seemed to be convinced of it. The other debutantes with whom she had become friendly were blatantly envious. He was certainly attentive; each day brought more flowers or chocolates and there was no denying that he was devastatingly attractive. Yet Helena sometimes felt what she could only describe as a slight uneasiness.

She leaned nearer to the open window hoping to feel even a hint of a breeze. And it was then that she saw a dejected-looking horse struggling to pull a delivery van. Thin flanked, his coat matted, he looked half starved. Infuriated to see a whip raised, within seconds Helena was dashing into the hall, through the front door and out into the road. Startled by her sudden emergence and waving arms, the horse immediately baulked and the driver was thrown forward and let out a stream of curses.

‘How dare you so ill-use an animal,' Helena yelled. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!'

‘Yer stupid bitch!' The burly man gave a vicious jerk on the reins. His fleshy face was beaded with sweat and he lifted his red neckerchief to mop at his brow, then with a dismissive shrug he flicked his whip again over the horse's swayed back. ‘Get out of me way.'

‘Leave that horse where it is.' A resolute male voice came from behind Helena and as she hurried to the cart's shafts, a man went forward to seize the reins. ‘And I'll thank you to watch your language before a young lady. Are you the owner of this van?'

‘That's none of yer business.'

‘Whether you are or not, I've made a note of the name on it so that I can report you to the authorities.'

Helena was gazing in distress at the horse, its eyelashes yellow-encrusted while froth at the corners of its mouth was flecked with blood caused by the sharp, cruel bit. It was with grim satisfaction that she heard the sudden fear in the driver's voice.

‘Oi, there's no need to go doing that. It ain't my fault. I've only just bought the beast.'

Helena turned to glare at him. ‘Well, I for one don't believe you.'

‘Are you calling me a liar?'

‘Yes, I am. Nobody would try to sell a horse in this state. I'm sure this gentleman will agree.' It was only then that Helena turned to look up at her companion, and her breath caught in her throat. Surely … yes, he was the same young man she had seen from her window last month. She hadn't realised he was quite so devastatingly handsome.

With his black bag on the pavement beside him, he was looking up at the driver. ‘Where do you stable him? Come along, man, answer me. I can easily find out.'

With some reluctance, the driver muttered the address.

‘Now that is most convenient, I often pass that way. I won't warn you again. If I see any further sign of this or any other horse on those premises being ill-treated then the police will be paying a visit.' He released the reins and stepped back to stand beside Helena.

As the horse plodded away, she turned towards him. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my assistance.'

He smiled down at her. ‘I think you were very brave.'

She smiled back. ‘And you were very effective.' She remembered him so well from that earlier evening when she had seen him walking along the pavement. He seemed less tired now, his clean-shaven face alight with warmth, his brown eyes holding her gaze. Helena felt a rush of attraction so strong that heat rose in her cheeks. ‘I think I saw you …' She had intended to ask if he had a patient nearby, but her sentence remained unfinished because an outraged Beatrice was already hurrying towards them.

‘What on earth do you think you are doing?' Ignoring the man beside her, she seized Helena's arm to hustle her away, and within seconds they were both back in the house and in the morning room. ‘I've never heard of such a thing, out on the street talking to a stranger. Whatever were you thinking of?'

Helena flashed, ‘Did you have to drag me away like that? He was a doctor who had, if I may say so, dealt with an unpleasant situation in an exemplary way. You didn't see that poor neglected horse.'

‘Maybe not, but have you never heard of white slave traffic?'

Helena stared at her in astonishment. ‘And you accuse me of having a vivid imagination. I hardly think they come looking for victims in this part of London.'

‘There are rogues everywhere, Helena. You are far too trusting.'

‘Maybe I am, but I'm not a child any longer, Aunt Beatrice. I'm capable of making my own judgements and decisions.' Helena was livid. If only her aunt had not interfered, then at least she could have discovered the man's name.

Nicholas, who had continued on his way to visit a regular patient, had immediately recognised the furious girl confronting the driver of the van, and knew that he too would have intervened. He hated cruelty and neglect wherever he found it, but it was unforgiveable in the case of a defenceless animal. And once again he spent an evening with his thoughts returning to the girl who kept lingering in his mind. She may be a debutante, but she was neither shallow nor frivolous, not with spirit and courage like that. He smiled as he recalled her slight figure confronting the burly driver, but then he gave a regretful shrug and returned to his newspaper. Belonging as she did to a social class that closed ranks against outsiders it was unlikely that their paths would ever cross again, and yet … Raising his head, Nicholas stared unseeing across the room.

That same evening, not too many miles away, Cora Bates was getting ready for the coming night's work. She felt no shame at her profession. Her view was that if men were daft enough to offer money to relieve their urges, a woman who was short of cash would be mad not to take it. Besides, sex was better than scrubbing floors for toffs any day. Cora knew a lot about toffs; when they came to her they were more than likely half drunk and free with their talk. And she had her regulars. In their minds, she was just an uneducated whore and Cora was careful not to let any of them know that she could read and write. Several of the girls could, but not even they knew about her daily scribbling; the record she kept. Cora was looking out for her future, because she had no intention of going on the streets, especially when her face was raddled and her body grown thick.

Her shabby journal was hidden behind a loose brick in the wall of her bedroom, concealed by the only picture she had, a cheap print of a flower garden. Cora had never been in a garden, but as a young girl, she had worked on a flower stall in Petticoat Lane. Not serving but helping to unpack the stock and to fetch and carry hot drinks and food from the market cafe. It had been Sid the burly red-faced stallholder who had encouraged her to work at her letters. Cora had learned her alphabet during her rare attendance at the board school, but it had been Sid who had helped her to write more than her name. Surrounded by the fragrance of flowers, she had sat behind the stall on an iron bucket and during slack times he had used his pencil stub to correct her mistakes. She would always be grateful to him, and despite the difference in their ages, he was the only man she had ever felt any affection for. If he hadn't gone and died of apoplexy before she reached an age when … But then everyone knew that life was built on
ifs
.

It was stiflingly hot, had been for days, so Cora decided to wear her latest muslin, a frock she had bought second-hand. It had been an easy task to change its virginal look; sewing was about the only useful skill they'd taught her in the workhouse. Of course, there she'd worked with rough calico, not fine and flimsy material. Just a rip to lower the bodice, a few flounces, a shortening of the skirt, and if she wore it without a petticoat, its transparency would drive the punters wild. Not that she wanted any rough trade. That was why she lived in Camden Town at Belle's brothel. Belle, still an attractive woman despite her now blousy figure and hennaed hair, kept her charges high. Her discriminating clients were well able to afford an extra coin or two for a girl who satisfied them.

‘Cora!' Belle, whose shrill voice could shatter glass, shrieked up the stairs. ‘Ain't yer ready yet?'

‘I'm comin' now!' Cora straightened the flower print, closed her door and went along the landing among a cloud of scent left by the other girls.

The house never opened until midnight. As the upper classes dined late and would only seek diversion once they had fulfilled their social commitments, there seemed little point in beginning a night's work too early. As always, Belle was waiting in the salon; it was her custom to check the girls as they came down. She would brook no stained clothes, insisting that she employed a laundress and expected them to use her. Nor lack of personal hygiene. Her rules were strict and the girls knew better than to flout them.

‘That looks good, ducks!' Belle glanced with approval at Cora's muslin dress then added in a sharp tone, ‘but yer late and one of yer regulars is waiting.'

‘Sorry.' Cora turned to give a warm smile of welcome. Young Johnnie – the clients never revealed their surnames – didn't seem to have a perversion or nasty habit in his nature. He was no trouble at all. But although after his last visit she'd found his white lawn handkerchief beneath her iron bedstead, she had no intention of returning it. Instead, with its fine monogram of the initials J. F. H. it was folded and safely tucked away behind the loose brick – just in case.

Oliver Faraday did not share Johnnie's fondness for what he called ‘ladies of the night'. To Oliver they were simply whores, a crude word for an ugly but necessary profession. His own fastidious needs he dealt with in a different way. He rented under an assumed name, an apartment in St John's Wood, and a red-haired and pleasure-loving young woman called Sybil was the current occupant. Oliver demanded in return only that he retained exclusive rights to her white-skinned and unblemished body and the arrangement had suited them both perfectly. The apartment in St John's Wood and its occupant had served him well in the past, but he had no plans to renew the lease. Now that he wished to marry he could ill afford even the whisper of scandal and with her services no longer needed, a generous final payment was as much as Sybil could expect. The girl was no longer his concern.

On the afternoon following Jacob's arrival in London, Helena joined her father and aunt in the drawing room to await Oliver's arrival. She had every confidence in her father's judgement of character, and so although outwardly calm, she felt slightly nervous as Oliver was shown in and went with outstretched hand to take Jacob's proffered one.

‘Please – do take a seat.' Jacob indicated an armchair opposite his own.

Oliver, his appearance impeccable, smiled at Helena while Beatrice said, ‘We're delighted you could join us for tea, Mr Faraday.'

‘An invitation much appreciated, I assure you.'

The two men embarked on pleasantries at first, then Helena, who knew her father so well, gave an inward smile as she heard him asking what she knew he would consider to be vital questions. ‘I was sorry to hear that you had lost your father two years ago,' he continued after a parlourmaid had brought in tea. ‘You must find it a heavy responsibility to run the estate on your own. You have several farms, I understand.'

‘I am fortunate in having an excellent estate manager.'

‘And do you spend much time in the country? Or do you prefer London?'

Oliver smiled. ‘I am content in both places, as I think Miss Helena is too.'

Helena, lifting the silver teapot to pour tea for them all, smiled at him. ‘Yes, I am. But to have the choice is the best of both worlds.'

Sitting with Oliver in the sunny room, seeing him so comfortable with her family, Helena began to feel ashamed of her misgivings. After all, how much experience did she have of men of Oliver's age, or of any age really?

As she listened to the intelligent way he conversed with her father, her gaze played over his hands, watching the swift way he moved them to illustrate a point, remembering the frisson she felt when his fingers occasionally touched her own. Then suddenly an image came to her of the handsome features of the tall doctor she had met in the square, his air of confidence and determination. Even the remembrance of his deep, almost musical voice made her long to hear it again. Helena felt utterly bewildered. Why was she thinking of a complete stranger when Oliver was not only a few feet away, but being so utterly charming?

That same evening before the others came down for pre-dinner drinks, Helena found herself once again standing before the casement window and thinking of the young doctor. What useful purpose did she serve? How did she help humanity? Beatrice deplored such serious thoughts, declaring that these matters lay in the male domain, but this notion irritated Helena. She was convinced that she had more to offer than simply being decorative and having an ability to speak French and to play the piano. She glanced down into the square still hopeful that she might once more see him, that this handsome, professional man might look up and see her. He might even smile …

Nicholas, a strong believer in the value of exercise, had instructed his cab driver to stop a short distance before his destination. He often did this when a call was not urgent, especially if it meant he could enjoy a stroll along a leafy road or through a pleasant square. And within minutes, he saw Helena's outline by the window. Even from some distance, the sun caught the brilliance of her honey-blonde hair.

This lovely girl – why was it that she haunted him so much?

Not a man inclined to what he regarded as ‘flights of fancy', Nicholas was finding his inability to dismiss her from his mind increasingly frustrating. He felt his steps begin to slow as he came ever nearer, fighting against the temptation to glance up, perhaps even to exchange glances, to make some connection. But that would be the action of a fool; what would be the point? Nicholas walked on only to immediately regret his decision and it took all his self-discipline to prevent him from turning.

Helena remained at the window long after the young man had walked past and once he was no longer in sight, turned away in bitter disappointment. Why should she have expected anything else? He was probably married anyway.

It was a few days later on a perfect summer evening that Helena followed Jacob and Beatrice out of the house and down the short flight of steps to where Oliver's carriage awaited them. The invitation to the opera had been received by Helena with pleasure, by Beatrice – who found sitting in one position for long periods difficult – with fortitude, and by Jacob with resignation. His own taste leaned more towards music halls, a fact he kept to himself.

Nicholas Carstairs often reflected on the cruel turn of fate that made him turn into the square at that particular time only to see the elegant carriage waiting in front of the house at the exact spot where he had come to assistance of his ‘girl in the window'. There was a small group of people clustered on the pavement, the two men in evening dress, but his gaze was drawn only to a remembered lovely face above a vivid green cloak. She was smiling at her companions, her expression one of youthful anticipation as she followed an older woman.

Nicholas, finding his way blocked, came slowly to a halt only feet away. Then suddenly she turned. His gaze directly met her own and in that one intense moment there came a flash of mutual startled recognition. Her eyes – those wonderful hazel and gold-flecked eyes – widened and there passed between them a connection so intense that he instinctively took a step forward. But already the pavement was clearing and the younger and taller of the two men was holding out a gloved hand. ‘Helena?'

At the sound of her name Nicholas drew back. He saw her cast a bewildered glance at him over her shoulder, but then she was inside the carriage, the coachman was flicking his whip over the backs of two splendid grey horses, and they began to trot away.

Helena could only sink back against the plush seats of the coach and avert her burning cheeks. As her father began to recount his earlier visit to the National Gallery, she scarcely heard a word. Any confusion she had ever previously felt was as nothing compared to the chaos of her emotions now. What had happened back there? That sense of connection, even of intimacy with a man who was almost a complete stranger.
He
had felt it too – of that she was certain. Helena lowered her eyelids, not wanting anything to disturb her thoughts. Such vivid, evocative images; even now she could see his eyes, so brown, warm and expressive, the set of his mouth, those broad shoulders …

Oliver's voice came as if from a distance. ‘Are you quite well, Helena?'

As she looked across at him, her first thought was: he is so fair, so different from … ‘Just a slight headache,' she said. ‘It's disappearing already.'

‘But you are looking forward to the performance?'

‘Yes of course.' Helena doubted whether she would be able to concentrate on a single moment.