“She’ll learn.” Cassandra came to stand at the bedside. Reaching down, she followed the shape of one miniature dark brow with a soft fingertip . . . and she glanced at Helen, looking troubled.

“Let’s go to my room,” Pandora said. “I have a feeling this next bedtime story is going to be really interesting.”

HELEN BEGAN WITH the discovery of the half-finished letter behind her mother’s notebooks, and ended with the visit to the orphanage. Any conventional young ladies of high moral standards, upon hearing such a narration, would have been shocked and distraught. Her sisters, however, had been raised outside of society for too long to view it with proper fear and reverence, or to give a fig for its approval. Helen was vastly comforted by the fact that although they were surprised and concerned for her, they took the situation in stride.

“You’re still our sister,” Pandora said. “It doesn’t matter to me whether you were sired by our old terrible father, or your new terrible father.”

“I didn’t need the extra one,” Helen said glumly.

“Helen,” Cassandra asked, “are you certain that Mr. Winterborne won’t want to marry you when he finds out?”

“No, and I wouldn’t want that for him. He’s worked hard all his life to rise above his circumstances. He loves beautiful, fine things, and he deserves a wife who will elevate him, not lower him.”

“You could never lower him,” Pandora said in outrage.

Helen smiled sadly. “I’ll be connected with ugliness and scandal. When people see me with Charity, they’ll assume she’s my bastard child, and I must have had her out of wedlock, and they would whisper about how Mr. Winterborne’s wife is a strumpet. And they would pretend to be sorry for him, but they would take malicious delight in shaming him behind his back.”

“Whispers can’t hurt you,” Pandora said.

Cassandra gave her twin a chiding glance. “Whispers can gut and fillet you like a haddock.”

Pandora scowled but conceded the point.

“The fact is,” Helen continued, “I’ll ruin Winterborne’s image.”

“The man or the store?” Cassandra asked.

“Both. His store is about elegance and perfection, and I would be a chink in the armor. More than a chink: Charity and I would be a large, gaping hole in the armor.”

“When will you talk to him?”

“Tomorrow, I think.” Helen put a hand over her midriff as she felt a little stab at the thought of facing him. “Afterward I’ll take Charity to Eversby Priory, and we’ll stay there until Kathleen and Devon return from Ireland.”

“We’re coming with you,” Cassandra said.

“No, you’ll be better off in London. There’s more to do here, and Lady Berwick is good for you. She wants very much to make a success of you. I’ve disappointed her terribly, and she’ll need you to lift her spirits and keep her company.”

“Will you live with Charity at Eversby Priory?” Cassandra asked.

“No,” Helen said quietly. “It will be better for all of us if Charity and I live far away, where no one knows us. Among other things, it will lessen the chance that my disgrace might harm your marriage prospects.”

“Oh don’t concern yourself about that,” Cassandra said earnestly. “Pandora’s not going to marry at all. And I certainly wouldn’t want a man who would scorn me just because my sister was a strumpet.”

“I like that word,” Pandora mused. “Strumpet. It sounds like a saucy musical instrument.”

“It would liven up an orchestra,” Cassandra said. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the Vivaldi Double Strumpet Concerto in C?”

“No,” Helen said, smiling reluctantly at her sisters’ irreverence. “Stop it, both of you—I’m trying to be morose and tragic, and you’re making it difficult.”

“You’re not going to live far away.” Pandora put her arms around her. “You and Charity are going to live with me. I’ll start earning money soon, lots of it, and I’ll buy a big house for us.”

Helen reached out to hug her close. “I think you’ll be a great success,” she murmured, and smiled as she felt Cassandra’s arms go around the both of them.

“I’m going to live with you too,” Cassandra said.

“Of course,” Pandora said firmly. “Who needs a husband?”

Chapter 30

HELEN AWAKENED AS AGATHA, the lady’s maid who attended her and the twins, entered her bedroom with a breakfast tray.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning,” Helen said sleepily, stretching and turning on her side. She was briefly surprised to be confronted with the face of a sleeping child.

So it hadn’t been a dream.

Charity was so deep in slumber that the slight rattle of teacups on the approaching tray didn’t cause her to stir. Helen stared at her with a touch of wonder. Despite the child’s pitiful spareness, her cheeks were babyishly rounded. The lids covering her large eyes were paper-thin, with delicate blue veins, thinner than human hairs, etched on the surface. Her skin was poreless, translucent over her pulses. It frightened Helen to realize how vulnerable this small person was, a fragile construction of delicately joined bones, flesh, veins.

Sitting up carefully, Helen let Agatha settle the tray on her lap. There was a steaming cup of tea, and a silver pot of chocolate next to an empty cup.

“Did the little one sleep well, my lady?”