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Helena watched him turn and hurry toward the servant's hall to issue the orders before she hurried up to her room. She quickly changed her clothes, wearing boots and a bonnet fit for the long ride. She rushed to the nursery soon after, fear and hope in her steps.

She did not know what would happen when she finally confronted George at the docks. Whether he would stubbornly refuse her, whether he would insist on boarding the packet boat for France, or whether he would - just possibly - return home. Whether he would answer her question: were the gossips right? Was she so undesirable, so unacceptable to all Society that he would rather flee from her than build the life he claimed to want?

In the dark, he cherished her. His caresses lifted her beyond herself, helped her find the woman who could stand alone but wanted to stand with family. In the light, he controlled her and kept her at a distance. As she stepped into the firelit nursery, she knew above all else that she would not let him disappear, and she would not let him evade the choice that waited for him. Not this time.

She gathered Oliver gently into her arms, pressing him against her chest as he settled comfortably against her shoulder. She rocked him softly, kissing his hair while Oliver curled his tiny fingers into her delicate lace fabric.

"We are going to find your uncle," she whispered softly into his ear. She looked down into his bright, innocent eyes, a sad resolute smile touching her lips. "And we are bringing him home."

Chapter Thirty-One

Iwish you were here, little Oliver. The infant's uncomplicated love and sunny temperament had soothed Helena's heart so many times… but she'd left him in safety, and had to make do with her own imaginings. Your uncle is a very foolish man, but a brave one in his own way. He fancies himself the Duke of Cavendish, master of vast estates and commander of men, yet he possesses less sense than a runaway colt when it comes to matters of the heart.

The brief fancy brought comfort and peace to her troubled mind, easing the tension that had gripped her shoulders. As the leagues slipped away, Helena glanced out the window.

This path is unnaturally quiet for a road that has tens of post-riders.

Up on the driver's box, Jarvis seemed to share her growing apprehension. She heard the distinct crack of his leather whip, accompanied by his stern voice encouraging the team to maintain their speed. "Hup! Move along now, steady!"

Unfortunately, the speed gained was only for a moment. The carriage was forced to a halt, a massive oak tree blocking the narrowest passage. It had fallen across the dirt track, a thick bed of mud and rotting leaves around the trunk, leaving only a narrow verge where a carriage might barely squeeze through at a walking pace.

"Steady now... steady..." Jarvis called out as he hauled back on the reins.

Before the carriage could navigate the muddy verge, the bushes rustled violently. Three ragged figures stepped out, planting themselves directly across the narrow path.

The men possessed the wretched appearance of common beggars. They wore filthy, tattered wool coats, stained linen shirts, and battered felt hats pulled low over their faces, their boots coated in thick layers of clay. Their backs were bent low, faces hidden from the rising sun.

"Stand clear of the road, good fellows!" Jarvis shouted down from the box. "Make way! Yield the track immediately!"

Helena listened in silence, waiting for the men to clear off the road. She peeked through the window, shaking her head before sitting back down. Seconds passed but the carriage remained in place. When Helena raised her head again, the seemingly harmless situation turned into an unfortunate brawl.

The three men were thieves, disguised as beggars with a very common tactic. The first thief, a squat man carrying a thick wooden cudgel, lunged directly in front of the team, blocking their forward path. Simultaneously, the second man, a nimble rogue with a soot-stained face, leaped toward the horses, his dirty hands grabbing tightly onto the leather bridle of the left wheel-horse, pulling the animal's head down.

The third thief, a tall, menacing figure wielding a rusted hunting knife, bypassed the horses entirely. He strode deliberately toward the side of the carriage, his muddy boots crunching heavily against the gravel.

Inside the coach, fear shot through Helena's veins, but she refused to allow it to master her mind.

The tall thief reached the carriage door and rapped his calloused knuckles sharply against the window, the sound echoing ominously within the enclosed space.

"Open the door! " the man demanded. The reek of cheap spirits and stale tobacco followed his voice, creeping through the cracks.

Helena pressed herself back into the seats. If she so much as cracked the door, the thieves would make themselves free of her purse and possibly her person. Instead, she forced herself forward and stared down at the man, her eyes flashing with disdain.

"Move aside. You would do well not to cross me." she replied sternly. "This carriage belongs to the Duke of Cavendish, and my servants will not hesitate to strike you down where you stand."

The tall man stared at her before bursting into a mocking laugh, revealing a row of yellowed, broken teeth.

"The Duke of Cavendish? Then I would humbly give you safe passage… if only that were true. And what servants? I only see one coachman. Surely the Duke of Cavendish wouldn't let you out of his sight without proper arrangements."

Helena swallowed hard. The one time I choose to depend on titles, on my husband's title, I fall short in my choice of audience.

"Give us the jewelry and you will at least keep your life," the thief sneered coarsely.

"Get your filthy hands off Her Grace's carriage, you rogue!" Jarvis roared from the driver's bench, bringing his long leather whip down with a cracking sound. The heavy lash struck the thief at the horses' bridle across the face, causing the man to howl in pain and stumble backward into the mud.

"Curse you, old fool!" the squat man with the cudgel bellowed, turning away from the horses and lunging up the side of the driver's box to tackle Jarvis from his seat. A struggle erupted, the sound of heavy boots thudding against timber, harsh curses, and the cracking of wood filling the quiet forest air.

Helena knew that if the men overpowered Jarvis, she would be entirely at their mercy. Swiftly, Helena reached down and locked the bolt of the door. She shrugged out of her coat, winding the sturdy cloth about the door handle and the bench to keep it closed more securely.