Read Chapter 7: The Season Begins

The Marsden House ballroom was a confection of candlelight and gilded plaster, every surface polished to a dazzle that made Helena’s eyes ache. She had been in London for exactly nine days, and already she understood why her father called the season a battlefield dressed as a party. The women wore smiles like visors. The men wore debts like armour.

Helena wore a gown of deep amber silk that had cost her three weeks of pinching pennies from the household accounts, and it was the finest thing she owned. It was not, she observed with a grim internal sigh, the finest thing in the room. Not by half.

“Lady Helena.” A voice like honey over glass cut through the murmur. Helena turned to find Lady Marsden herself bearing down on her, diamonds dripping from her ears and a smile fixed in place with the determination of a siege engine. “You have arrived at last. I feared you had been swallowed by the fog.”

“My apologies, my lady.” Helena dropped into a curtsey that was precisely the right depth—not that Lady Marsden would notice. “The carriage was delayed. A wheel.”

“Wheels are notoriously unreliable.” Lady Marsden’s gaze swept over Helena’s gown, assessing and dismissing it in the same glance. “But you are here, and that is what matters. I have been fair dying to introduce you to my nephew. He races, you know. You will have so much to discuss.”

Helena’s smile felt painted on. She had spent the past week fending off introductions, each one a potential trap. She was not here for a husband. She was here for a patroness, a trophy, and a chance to save her father’s stables from the auctioneer’s hammer. Every hour spent making conversation with a horse-mad viscount was an hour she was not watching Lady Aldersgate, studying the old countess’s habits, searching for the key to her favour.

“I should be honoured,” Helena said, because there was no other answer.

But before Lady Marsden could drag her across the room, the hostess spotted a more pressing target—the arrival of Lady Aldersgate herself, sweeping through the doors in a cape of midnight velvet, her thin face arranged in an expression of mild, invincible boredom. The crowd parted around her like water around a stone.

Helena watched her, memorising the angle of the dowager’s chin, the way she nodded at acquaintances with the barest inclination of her head. Then she felt a presence at her elbow, a familiar scent of lemon and sandalwood, and her spine went rigid.

“You are staring,” Julian Ashford murmured, close enough that his breath stirred the tiny curls at her temple. “Lady Aldersgate will think you are trying to read her thoughts. Which, I assume, you are.”

“I am trying to understand her,” Helena said, not turning. “Some of us are not born knowing how to charm old women with our… what do you call it? Effortless ease?”

“It is called breeding.” Julian stepped around to face her, and Helena was forced to acknowledge him. He was dressed immaculately, of course—dark coat, crisp cravat, a waistcoat of silver-grey that made his eyes look like a winter sea. He smiled at her, and she hated him a little for how easily the expression came. “You look well, Lady Helena. The London air suits you.”

“The London air,” Helena said, “is coal smoke and river fog. I would not wish it on my worst enemy’s horses.”

“And yet here you are, breathing it in.”

“Here I am.” She met his gaze squarely. “Winning our little wager, I trust you have not forgotten the terms.”

“I have not.” Julian’s smile did not waver, but something flickered behind his eyes—something she could not read. “Nor, I imagine, has Lady Aldersgate. She has asked me twice already this evening about the charming young heiress from Whitbury. It seems you have made an impression.”

Helena’s heart gave a dangerous leap. “She has spoken of me?”

“She has spoken of your horses. The distinction seemed important to you.”

Before Helena could formulate a suitably cutting reply, Lady Marsden was upon them, her hands clasped in delight. “Mr. Ashford! And Lady Helena! How wonderful that you have found each other.” Her eyes glittered with matchmaking intent. “I have just been telling Lady Helena about my nephew’s racing interests, but I see you two are already acquainted. How delightful. A waltz is about to begin, and I find myself short a pair of dancers. You will oblige me, won’t you?”

It was not a question.

Julian offered Helena his arm. His expression was politely blank, but she saw the challenge in it—the same challenge that had been there in her father’s study, when he had first named his terms. *Dance with me*, that look said, *and see if you can best me.*

Helena took his arm. Her gloved fingers rested on his sleeve with the lightest possible touch, as if contact might burn her.

“I did not know you danced,” she said, low, as he led her onto the floor.

“I am full of hidden talents.”

“I can think of one particular talent that is not hidden at all.”

Julian’s mouth twitched. “Lady Helena. Are you attempting to offend me before we have even begun?”

“I am attempting to remind you that we are rivals, Mr. Ashford. In case the candlelight had muddled your memory.”

The music swelled, and he took her hand. His palm was warm through her glove, and she hated how steady it felt. They moved into the first steps of the waltz, and Helena was acutely aware of every eye in the room upon them—Lady Marsden beaming by the refreshment table, the glitter of spectators lining the dance floor, and somewhere at the edge of her vision, a spot of midnight velvet and silver hair: Lady Aldersgate, watching.

Julian leaned in as they turned, his mouth close to her ear. “You know she is enjoying this.”

“Who?”

“Our hostess. The entire assembly. A known investor and a rumoured heiress dancing together? You have made yourself a spectacle, Lady Helena. I hope you are prepared for the consequences.”

Helena’s smile was sharp as a blade. “I am prepared for anything, Mr. Ashford. That is the difference between us. You plan. I adapt.”

“Is that so?” He spun her, and the ballroom blurred around them. When she came back to him, his eyes were alight with something that was not quite mockery. “Then adapt to this: I may have understated my knowledge of your father’s affairs.”

Helena’s steps faltered, and he caught her smoothly, drawing her closer than was strictly proper. She smelled his cologne again—lemon, sandalwood, and something underneath like old leather and rain.

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Only that you are not the only one who has been making inquiries.” Julian’s voice was soft, almost kind, and that was worse. “Pettifer the silversmith is a dead end, Helena. I checked. The trophy was sold onward within a week of crossing his threshold—to a man named Croft.”

The name hit her like a slap. She missed a step entirely, and Julian steadied her, his hand firm on her waist.

“That is not possible,” she whispered. “Croft already holds the debt. Why would he buy the trophy?”

“I do not know,” Julian said. “But I intend to find out. And I thought you should know that your father’s problems may be even more complicated than you realise—and that they may not begin and end with me.”

He released her as the music drew to a close, and Helena stood frozen in the middle of the floor, her heart hammering. Croft. The trophy. Her father’s ruin—all roads led to the same grasping, gilded fist, and Julian was still smiling at her, still watching her with those winter-sea eyes, as if he had just handed her a gift instead of a knife.

Before she could respond, Lady Marsden materialised at her side, tucking her hand through Helena’s arm with the inexorable gentleness of a trap closing.

“My dear,” the hostess said, steering her toward the refreshment table, “I must have a word. I have heard the most extraordinary rumour about you and a certain earl, and I simply must know if it is true.”

Helena’s blood turned to ice. She looked back over her shoulder, but Julian was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

“A rumour, my lady?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“That you are engaged to Lord Eastman.” Lady Marsden’s eyes were bright and merciless. “Tell me everything, my dear. I am fair dying to know the particulars.”