Page 25 of Letters to a Wallflower
He paused. No. He must not have done it to hurt Helen, but to hurt him. Over a horse? But then the full scope of it dawned on him. Akers had struck three enemies with one blow. He’d hurt Major Crawford, Will Crawford and Ben all at once. All he’d had to do was sacrifice Helen and he’d harmed those he despised and their families, all without suffering any consequences, himself.
Until now.
As Helen hurried away, Akers slipped from the little group of witnesses he’d brought in tow. Ben started to push through after him, but Miss Ventry grasped his arm.
“Helen Crawford will never recover from this,” she hissed. “Nor will you. The pair of you will be drummed from all good Society.”
Ben stepped close. “I think Miss Crawford’s kind nature will carry more weight than your viper’s tongue.” He tugged his arm away.
Helen would not suffer from this night’s adventures. He would make sure of it. But he had to stop Akers from publishing a story about it. Ben’s temper soared as he realized all of the baron’s posturing about befriending and protecting Helen had only been to protect his own reputation and hide his misdeeds. He set off at a run, but ran into the dense crowd as soon as he left the darkened dining room. He pushed through, searching for the baron, but realized it would be next to impossible to find him, even if he hadn’t left already.
Gathering his cloak, Ben strode out into the wide streets of Mayfair. He knew where to look. Akers would land at one place or another eventually, and Ben would be there, even if he had to wait all night.
Chapter 9
Grandmama was tired, but not in distress, thank goodness. Helen ushered her home quietly. She did not confess the trouble she was in. Let her grandmother brace herself with a good night’s rest before she had to deal with more worry and anger.
Simpson was waiting when they arrived and she scolded and soothed as Grandmama headed upstairs to her room. The butler was also hovering. As her grandmother disappeared, he turned to Helen.
“There is a . . . person here, Miss Crawford. She refused to leave until she’d spoken with you.”
What now? The second destruction of her reputation was not enough for one night? Strangely, she wasn’t truly worried about the censure of the ton. They would be merciless, but she was stronger now. She was more concerned about how Ben might suffer—and about how he might feel about her, amidst a new scandal. Helen wanted only to retire to her room and relive his incredible kisses. They seemed so much more relevant than Miss Ventry’s scorn and the tales she would surely be telling right now. Helen also found herself wishing for time to think about that strange exchange of looks he’d had with Leighton, but instead she nodded and took a candle from the servant as he opened the parlor door. Helen stepped into the room, feeling both curious and wary. She stopped when she saw the young woman waiting there.
“Oh! Good evening . . . Maggie, is it not? Or perhaps I should say, Miss Wilson?”
“Aye. I offer my apologies for coming here, Miss Crawford, for I know it must distress you, but I ask that you hear me out.”
Helen frowned. “Did Will send you?”
Her family’s former maid looked startled. “Mr. Will Crawford? No, miss.” She shook her head. “There was never nothing between your brother and me save for one kiss. And that was only because I was a fool and trying to make another jealous. But your mother caught us at it . . . and well, here we all are.”
Helen thought back. “Make another jealous? But, who?”
Maggie lowered her gaze. “I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it then. Part of me knew it all along, but I see it so much more clearly, now.”
Helen blinked. “It was Leighton, wasn’t it?” she asked with sudden certainty. Leighton had seduced their maid? It seemed . . . unnecessary. She knew he received plenty of female attention. Had it been just another way to annoy her father? She stiffened. Maggie had been blamed for posting those letters, but she had bitterly denied it. “Leighton,” she whispered.
Images began to drift together in her mind, sifting themselves into the truth of the thing. Scenes of Leighton fighting with her father. His raging resentment at him and the other trustees for refusing to grant his inheritance early. His constant attempts to irritate. Memories of Leighton sneering at her brother and his friends. At the ton.
“It was him?” she asked, but the question was directed more at herself than at the former maid.
Leighton had stayed by her side during those years of social exile, but never in true sympathy. It had been more a shared isolation as he tossed sarcastic comments and withering insults at Society. She stiffened, recalling the strange excitement he’d shown the day of the garden party. He’d known Ben would be there. She recalled the light in his face as he’d pushed them together that day. And he’d pushed Ben in the pond and allowed everyone to believe she had done it.
Always pushing. Poking. Denigrating those he perceived as enemies. Never satisfied. Always believing he was better, smarter. Owed what he wanted, at the exact moment he wanted it.
“Leighton,” she whispered. “It was him. He took the letters. He gave them over to the newspaper. It’s been him, all along.”
She thought of the bitter, triumphant glance he’d tossed at Ben tonight and shivered.
“Yes. It was him.” She’d nearly forgotten Maggie, but the girl continued, anxious. “But I didn’t know it, I swear! I never knew, until today.”
“You’ve been with him? All of this time?”
The girl nodded.
“You told him. About the letters. Where I kept them.”
“I did.” It came out in an agonized whisper.
