While the conversation continued, Helen tied off the thread of her mending and slowly reached into the sewing box near her foot. She felt for the pair of tiny sewing scissors in the top compartment, and nudged the wickedly sharp blades apart. Deliberately she ran the side of her forefinger against the blade until she felt a pinching sensation and a hot sting. Drawing her hand back quickly, she glanced with feigned dismay at the drop of bright red blood welling from the cut.

Rhys noticed immediately. He made a Welsh sound of disgruntlement, a flick of breath pushed between the edge of teeth and lower lip. “Wfft.” Tugging a handkerchief from inside his coat, he came to her in a few strides. Wordlessly he sank to his haunches in front of her and clamped the folded cloth around her finger.

“I should have looked before reaching for the scissors,” Helen said sheepishly.

His eyes had lost that chilling hardness and were now filled with concern. Carefully, he lifted the handkerchief to look at the cut on her finger. “It’s not deep. But you need a plaster.”

Kathleen spoke from the settee. “Shall I ring for Mrs. Church, dear?”

“I’d rather go to her room,” Helen said lightly. “It will be easier there, with all her supplies at hand.”

Rhys rose to his feet, pulling Helen up with him. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, do stay,” Helen said quickly, holding the handkerchief around her finger. “You haven’t finished your cognac.” She stepped back from him. Avoiding his searching gaze, she sent a quick smile to the room in general. “The hour is late,” she said. “It’s time for me to retire. Good night, everyone.”

After the family responded in kind, Helen left the parlor with measured steps, fighting the urge to break into a run. She continued down the grand staircase, crossed through the main hall, and descended the servants’ stairs. In contrast to the quiet emptiness of the first floor, belowstairs bustled with activity. The servants had finished their dinner and were clearing away dishes and flatware, while the cook supervised advance preparations for the next day’s meals.

A burst of laughter came from the servants’ hall. Inching closer to the doorway, Helen saw Quincy sitting at the long table with a group of footmen and maids. He appeared to be regaling them with stories of his new life in London. Quincy had always been a well-liked member of the staff, and he had surely been missed since he had been hired away by Rhys.

As Helen wondered how she might attract his attention without causing a scene, she heard the housekeeper’s voice behind her.

“Lady Helen?”

She turned to face Mrs. Church, whose plump face was trestled with concern.

“What brings you belowstairs, my lady? You have only to ring, and I’ll send someone up to you.”

With a rueful smile, Helen held up her injured finger. “A slight mishap with the sewing scissors,” she explained. “I thought it best to come to you directly.”

Mrs. Church clucked over the little wound, and led her to the housekeeper’s room, just two doors away. It served as both a sitting room and a place where Mrs. Church conducted the business of household management. From the earliest time Helen could remember, Mrs. Church had kept a large medicine chest there. Whenever Theo, Helen, or the twins had injured themselves or had felt ill, they had gone to the housekeeper’s room to be bandaged, dosed, and comforted.

Sitting at the small table, Helen remarked, “Everyone seems merry tonight.”

Mrs. Church opened the medicine chest. “Yes, they’re fair tickled to have Quincy back for a visit. They’ve asked a thousand questions, mostly about the department store. Quincy brought a catalog for everyone to marvel over. None of us can imagine so many goods to be found under one roof.”

“Winterborne’s is very grand,” Helen said. “Like a palace.”

“So Quincy says.” After dabbing tincture of benzoin onto the cut, Mrs. Church cut a small strip from a piece of white sarcenet imbued with isinglass, and moistened it with lavender water solution. Deftly she wrapped the plaster around Helen’s finger. “Quincy seems to have been invigorated by working for your Mr. Winterborne. I haven’t seen him so spry in years.”

“I’m glad to hear it. As a matter of fact . . .” Helen tried to make her tone casual. “. . . I would like to speak privately with Quincy, if you would bring him here.”

“Now?”

Helen replied with a single nod.

“Of course, my lady.” An unaccountable pause followed. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Helen said quietly. “I think so.”

Mrs. Church stood, frowning. “Shall I bring some tea?”

Helen shook her head.

“I’ll fetch Quincy straightaway.”

In less than two minutes, there was a tap at the door, and Quincy’s short, stocky figure entered the housekeeper’s room. “Lady Helen,” he said, his black-currant eyes smiling beneath the heavy white swags of his eyebrows.

It was a relief to see him. In the absence of any affection or interest from her father or Theo, Quincy had been the only kind male presence in Helen’s life. As a child, she had gone to him whenever she was in trouble. He had always helped her without hesitation, such as the time she had accidentally torn an entry in the Encyclopædia Britannica and he had removed the entire page with a razor blade, assuring her that the family would be no worse off for being deprived of the history of Croatian astronomy. Or the time she had knocked over a porcelain figurine, and Quincy had glued the head back on so precisely that no one had ever detected it.