She simply made sure the gate was secure before she left.
The following week, Lady Sabine Finch called again.
This time, she did not wait to be announced, but came upon Helena in the hall as she was returning from her walk.
“Your Grace,” Sabine said, her smile all teeth. “Still indulging in your stable-boy pursuits, I see. Your gown is quite earthy.”
Helena ignored the jab.
“Lady Sabine, I trust you are well.”
“Oh, I am always well,” Sabine replied breezily.
She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.
“I came to see Marcus, of course. He has been so low. I thought I might be able to cheer him. We were always so close, you know, before. Well, before.”
She gestured vaguely, a gesture that encompassed both Edward’s death and Helena’s arrival.
“His Grace is in his study,” Helena said, her tone cool.
“Yes, I know.”
Sabine’s eyes glittered with triumph.
“He is expecting me.”
It was a lie. Helena was almost certain, but she could not challenge it.
She watched as Sabine swept past her and headed for the West Wing, toward the Duke’s private domain.
The scent of her heavy floral perfume lingered in the air like a poison.
Helena felt a pang of something she could not name.
It was not jealousy.
It was a kind of protective anger.
Sabine was a vulture circling, waiting for the house and its master to fall.
An hour later, a commotion erupted from outside.
Shouts from the direction of the stables.
The sound of a horse neighing in panic.
Helena ran to the window.
Her heart leaped into her throat.
Chaos was out.
The black stallion was galloping across the lawn toward the formal gardens, his eyes wild, his tail high. Grooms were running after him, shouting and waving their arms, which only made him more frantic.
Without a second thought, Helena ran from the room, down the great staircase, and out the front door. She ignored Hemlock’s cry of alarm.
“Stay back,” she called to the grooms. “You are frightening him.”
She walked calmly onto the lawn, into the path of the panicked horse.
He was thundering toward her, a terrifying mass of black muscle.
The grooms scattered.
“Chaos,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Chaos, it is me.”
The stallion was nearly upon her.
He swerved at the last second, his hooves tearing up the turf. He circled her, snorting, his body trembling.
“It is all right,” she murmured, standing her ground, making no sudden moves. “It is all right now. You are safe.”
She held out a hand.
She did not move toward him.
She waited.
He circled her again, his pace slowing. He stopped, his chest heaving. He looked at her, the panic in his eyes slowly receding.
He knew her.
She was the calm presence from the paddock wall. She was the voice that hummed. She was the hand that offered apples.
He took a hesitant step toward her, then another.