“Odd,” she said, her breath freezing to her lips.
She took another step and froze when her shoe caused an unusual crunching noise. Glancing down, Helena lifted her foot and screamed.
Half-buried on the snowy walkway, its delicate purple petals smashed into the ground, rested a small bundle of lavender tied with a white ribbon, the exact flower Humphrey gave her when he proposed.
The same flower he had brought when he attempted to violate her.
Trembling, she leaned down and plucked the bouquet from its frozen grave. She lifted the flowers and turned them over, searching for a clue regarding the sender’s identity, but the bundle refused to reveal its secret.
Helena raised the flowers to her nose and inhaled. Instantly overcome, the scent dragged her back to that dreadful evening in her brother’s parlor.
Humphrey appeared, unannounced and uninvited, and attempted to ruin Helena.
She struck him.
The bruise that blossomed around his eye only served to increase his desire. He launched himself at Helena, tackling her, pinning her to the floor, and ripping her dress. As he unfastened his pants, Helena reached behind her head, her hand scrambling for a weapon.
Fingers closing around a log meant for the fireplace, Helena swung the piece of wood at Humphrey’s head, striking him in the temple. Blood poured from the gash on the side of his face. His eyes rolled back, and he fell to the side, unconscious.
Before anyone discovered what occurred, Helena raced to her bedchamber, packed a small trunk, grabbed the paltry sum of money she’d saved from the allowance provided by her brother, and ran. She regretted parting with the ring Humphrey gifted her, but she needed funds to escape.
Helena swallowed the lump growing in her throat, her eyes investigating the long shadows stretching toward her.
Only one person knew of the lavender favors… Humphrey Drummond.
Black spots danced through Helena’s vision as an unfamiliar numbness, originating in her chest, spread through her body like a virus. Before she could fling out an arm to catch herself, her legs gave way, and she collapsed in the snow.
“Miss Rowe!” Misses Webb and Fernsby-Webb yelled as they hurried toward Helena, their faces sharing twin expressions of concern.
They dropped beside her, negligent of the cold. Each lady grabbed an arm and pulled, lifting Helena’s torso from the snow.
“Have you fallen ill?” Miss Webb asked, brushing frigid bits of ice from Helena’s hair.
“I…” Helena shuddered as a tiny icicle slid down her spine. “I’m not certain. One moment, I was standing, smelling these flowers?—”
“What flowers?” Miss Fernsby-Webb asked, wrapping Helena’s arm around her neck.
“These.” She raised her wrist, waving the bundle at Miss Fernsby-Webb. “I inhaled, and the next moment, I was falling.”
“Perhaps,”—Miss Webb exuded a soft grunt as she helped Helena climb to her feet—“the flowers made you ill.”
Miss Fernsby-Webb shot her sister a glower. “Have you ever heard of a lady having that type of reaction to lavender?”
“No.” Cautiously, Miss Webb tugged the bundle from Helena’s fingers. “Where did you find the flowers?”
“When I opened the door, they were on the ground.” Helena gestured vaguely toward the doorstep.
Miss Webb raised the bundle to her face and inhaled. She stood, eyes closed, for several moments, then shook her head. She passed the lavender to her sister, who copied her actions.
After a minute, Miss Fernsby-Webb opened her eyes. “It must affect only Miss Rowe.”
“No matter,” Miss Webb said as they trudged toward the house. “We shall dispose of them in the fireplace.”
“I’d like to know where they came from.” Miss Fernsby-Webb’s low mutter crawled over Helena’s shoulder.
Helena wondered the same thing.
They deposited Helena in the parlor on a long, cream-colored sofa stationed in front of the fireplace. Miss Webb sank onto the cushion beside her, then handed the lavender bundle to her sister.
