The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [108]
“Before we speak of the lamp,” Spenser said, “let me give you several examples of Helen’s discipline system.”
“Ah, yes,” Douglas said. “Then I will tell you what I came up with just last Saturday morning.”
“What an unexpected pleasure this visit has turned out to be,” Ryder said and drank his tea as he sat forward, all attention, not even realizing the tea was cold.
Spenser frowned at all of them. “I just remembered. We must plan our formal engagement ball. I want everyone in London to be here.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll do all that,” Ryder said. “But first things first, Spenser.”
28
IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE their formal engagement ball. The name of Gerard Yorke was on everyone’s lips. Old gossip was resurrected, new gossip added to the mix.
Lord Beecham’s drawing room was filled from morning until night. Everyone wanted to talk about Gerard Yorke and this fabulous lamp, and the murder of Reverend Mathers, but mainly everyone wanted to know everything about the magic lamp. Both Spenser and Helen told the same story, over and over. The lamp was a myth, a charming, titillating legend unfortunately with no basis in fact. No, the scroll had been no help at all.
There were scores of people arriving at the house who wanted the fifty-pound reward for information about Gerard Yorke. There were more scores of people arriving at the house who wanted the fifty-pound reward for information about the murder of Reverend Mathers. Helen held her breath whenever one of these individuals arrived—they were a scruffy lot, hats pulled low over their eyes, knives stuck in the bands of their none-too-clean trousers. Pliny Blunder, Lord Beecham’s secretary, was kept busy from early morning until late at night reviewing each claim to the groats.
As of midnight tonight, three days after all the announcements and the inquiries had been in the newspapers, there were still no pertinent leads; apparently, none of the shifty characters who swore they’d just seen Gerard Yorke at the White Horse Inn just outside of Greenwich were telling the truth. And there was nothing pertinent either about the murder of poor Reverend Mathers. If there was one thing Pliny Blunder excelled at, it was ferreting out pretenders, liars, and just plain dregs.
There was also endless talk all over London of the magic lamp that no one really believed in at all, but it made for fascinating conversation, particularly since Lord Beecham, that naughty and very clever man, was involved in the business. London was having a fine time with the entertainment Lord Beecham was providing them.
As for his fiancée, Miss Helen Mayberry was glorious—all agreed to it, even those ladies, obviously jealous, who would say behind their hands that she was just a tad too tall.
Tomorrow night, Helen thought, as she sank deeper into the soft bed in her bedchamber that wasn’t more than thirty feet from Spenser’s bedchamber, curse him. Tomorrow night, and they would announce their betrothal. Where the devil was Gerard Yorke? If he was alive, surely he wouldn’t wait until the last minute. Surely he had to strike soon. It was odd, but she didn’t remember if he had ever shown much courage. Perhaps there hadn’t been the opportunity.
It happened so quickly that Helen had no time to strike out or to yell. One moment she was sleeping soundly, dreamlessly, and the next a handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth just as a fist hit her jaw, knocking her senseless.
She thought she heard a man’s voice say, “Good, we’ve got her now.” Then she just drifted away.
She felt a pounding, a very deep pounding that seemed to fill her and make her want to scream at the pain it brought. She didn’t want to recognize it, to accept it, but finally she had to. Her head was going to explode and there was nothing she could do about it. She gasped.
“Ah, you are going to wake up now, Helen?”
That voice—she knew that voice, but it had been so very long since she’d heard it, so long ago, a lifetime ago. And it was different now somehow, perhaps deeper and harsher, but she