The promise in a kiss

Chapter Six

THEfollowing morning at nine o’clock, Villard pulled back the curtains about his master’s bed. Louis started awake, then scowled.

Villard hurried into speech. “M’sieur, I knew you would wish to have these immediately.” He deposited a package on the bed beside Louis.

Louis frowned at the package, then his face cleared.“Bon, Villard. Très bon.” Louis struggled free of the covers. “Bring me my chocolate, and I will read my uncle’s dispatches.”

Settling against the pillows, Louis ripped open the package addressed in Fabien’s distinctive hand. Three letters wrapped in a single sheet of parchment spilled onto the sheets. There was writing on the parchment, an order:Read my letter to you before you do anything else. F.

Louis studied the three letters. One was for him; another, also from Fabien, was addressed to Helena. The third was also for Helena, but addressed in a girlish hand. After a moment of pondering, Louis decided it must be from Ariele. He set aside Helena’s letters and opened his.

There were two sheets closely covered in Fabien’s forceful black script. Smiling in anticipation, Louis smoothed them out—he looked up as Villard reappeared with his chocolate on a tray. He nodded, picked up the cup, took a sip, then held up the letter and started to read.

Villard saw the smile fade from his master’s face, saw it pale. Louis’s hand shook. Chocolate spattered the sheets, and he swore. Villard jumped to mop the spill. Scowling, Louis set the cup back on the tray. He returned to his letter.

Under pretext of readying Louis’s clothes, Villard watched. When Louis set down the letter and stared blankly across the room, he deferentially murmured, “Monsieur le comte was not pleased?”

“Eh?” Louis blinked, then waved the letter. “No, no—he was pleased with the progress. Thus far.But .” Louis looked at the letter again, then carefully folded it. Villard said nothing; he would read it later.

Some minutes passed, then Louis ruminated, “There is, it seems, more to my uncle’s plans than meets the eye, Villard.”

“It has ever been so, m’sieur.”

“He says we have done well but we must move faster. I was not aware—it seems the English nobility invariably adjourn to their estates in but a few days. I was anticipating another week.”

“The Thierrys have not mentioned this.”

“No, indeed. I will take it up with Thierry when he returns. But for now there is a great challenge facing us, Villard. We must somehow ensure that St. Ives is sufficiently taken with Helena to invite her to visit at his country house. The dagger Uncle Fabien seeks to reclaim is apparently kept there.”

Shaking out a coat, Villard frowned. “Do you think monsieur le duc is liable to issue such an invitation?”

Louis snorted. “He’s been hot after Helena since we arrived, just as Uncle predicted. Don’t forget, these English ape our ways, so yes, as Helena has successfully held him at bay, then the natural course would be for him, a powerful nobleman, to invite her and the Thierrys and myself to stay, with a few others to generate the necessary camouflage, then seduce Helena into his bed. It is the way things are done at home—it will be the same here.”

“Is there not a certain danger there?”

Reaching for his chocolate, Louis smirked. “That is what is most entertaining. It is Helena against St. Ives, and my money is on Helena. She is a prude, that one.” Louis shrugged. “Twenty-three and a virgin yet—what would you do? She isn’t likely to succumb to St. Ives’s blandishments, and you and I, Villard, will be there to ensure he has no chance to force her.”

“I see.” Villard turned to the wardrobe. “So the plan now is . . . ?”

Louis drained his chocolate, then frowned. “The first thing will be to secure this invitation, and thatmust be done tonight.” He glanced at the folded letter. “Uncle Fabien makes it very clear we are to do everything needful—everything—to ensure that Helena is invited to St. Ives’s estate.”

“And once the invitation is in our hands?”

“We ensure Helena accepts, and goes.”

“But will she?”

Louis’s gaze went to the two letters addressed to Helena. “Uncle instructs that I use my best endeavors, but if she proves stubborn . . . I am to give her these letters.”

“Do we know what they contain?”

“No—only that once she reads them, Helena will do as he has ordered.” Louis drew in a breath and dragged his gaze from the fascinating letters. “However, Uncle strongly advises that I wait until we are at St. Ives’s estate before giving the letters to Helena. He says I should not show his hand too soon, not unless she balks entirely at the first fence.”

Louis stared unseeing across the room. “So! We must secure this invitation tonight. I will need to make sure that Helena plays the game hard with St. Ives—that she inflames him and leaves him no choice but to act as we wish. That is the first thing.” Louis glanced at the letters. “For the rest, we will see.”

Villard laid a waistcoat on the dressing tree. “And what of m’sieur’s own plans?”

Louis grinned as he threw back the covers. “Those have not changed. Helena should have been wed long ago. The matter of her marriage is now a difficulty for Uncle Fabien—a liability. The solution I propose is one I’m sure he will support, once he sees its brilliance. It would be nonsensical to lose the de Stansion wealth to another family when we can keep it for ourselves.”

Standing, Louis allowed Villard to help him into his dressing robe. His gaze was distant as he recited what was clearly an oft-rehearsed plan. “When we have Uncle’s dagger safe in our possession and have crossed once more to France, I will marry Helena—by force, if necessary. In Calais there is a notary who will do as I ask for a price. Once our marriage is a reality, we will travel to Le Roc. Uncle Fabien is too much the strategist not to appreciate the beauty of my plan. As soon as he grasps that there is no longer any desirable marriage for the factions to squabble over and that thus I have freed him from their threats, he will fall on my neck and thank me.”

Behind Louis, Villard’s expression betrayed his contempt, yet he quietly murmured, “As you say, m’sieur.”

If Helena had had her way, she would not have attended that morning’s gathering at the Duchess of Richmond’s house. Unfortunately, so Marjorie informed her, it was a tradition as venerated as the masquerade to be held that evening and, therefore, impossible to miss. Helena had had half a mind to appeal to Thierry, more easygoing than his lady, but her host had been absent for the past day.

“He has gone to Bristol,” Marjorie confessed as the carriage rattled toward Richmond.

“Bristol?” Helena looked her surprise.

Marjorie’s lips thinned; she looked out the window. “He has gone to look into some business opportunity.”

“Business? He—” Helena broke off, sensitive to the connotations.

Marjorie shrugged. “What would you do? We are currently monsieur le comte’s pensioners—what is to become of us when you marry and leave?”

Helena hadn’t thought, didn’t know, but thereafter she held her tongue and carped at Marjorie no more.

“Eh, bien,”Marjorie murmured when the carriage eventually drew to a halt and they descended. “Thierry will return later. He will escort us to Lady Lowy’s tonight. Then we will see.”

Helena held to Marjorie’s side as they entered and greeted their hostess. An unexpected tension, an apprehension, stretched her nerves taut. Moving into the considerable crowd, awash with laughter and good cheer, she searched with her eyes, with her senses, and breathed a tight, small sigh of relief when she could detect no glimmer of Sebastian’s presence.

After some minutes of chatting, then moving on, she parted from Marjorie and ventured on alone. She was assured enough, now well known enough, to make her way with confidence. Although unmarried, she was so much older, so much more experienced than girls in their first or even second season, that she was accorded a different status, one permitting her greater social freedom. Speaking to this one, then that, she worked her way through the crowd.

She still had three names on her list, but only Were was confirmed. Were Athlebright and Mortingdale present? Quite how she might engage with them to assess the effect of their touch in the middle of a crowded salon where talk and not dancing, certainly not touching, was the principal aim was a problem—one at which her mind boggled and failed.

Turned too readily aside. After last night, her mind had more troubling thoughts to ponder.

Damn Sebastian!She had constantly, throughout the night, through the silent hours in which she’d tossed and turned and tried to forget, tried to wipe from her mind the sensation of his lips on hers, the warmth of his nearness, the allure of his touch.

Impossible.

She’d spent hours lecturing herself, pointing out how directly against her careful plans falling victim to such a man would be—only to wake from lustful dreams of doing precisely that.

Shocked, she’d sat up, risen from her bed, washed her face and hands in cold water, then stood before her window staring out at the black night until the cold had forced her back to her quilts.

Madness. He had sworn never to marry. What was she thinking of?

It was impossible, more than impossible, for a woman such as herself—an unmarried noblewoman of old family—to become his mistress. Yet to marry a complaisant husband knowing herself driven by a need to be free to engage in an illicit but socially acceptable liaison with another—that, too, was unthinkable. At least to her.

Sebastian, she was sure, had thought of it, but that had never been part of her plans.

Still wasn’t.

Which left her with one very large problem—he surprised her by appearing in the doorway to an adjoining salon just as she approached it.

“Mignonne.”He took the hand she instinctively raised to ward him off, bowed, and raised it to his lips.

Her eyes met his over her knuckles as she belatedly bobbed a curtsy; what she saw in the blue depths made her lungs seize.

“Your Grace.” Cursing her breathlessness, she struggled to marshal her wits as, still holding her hand, he urged her back from the doorway toward the side of the room. Forced to comply, she reminded herself of how dangerous he was—only to have another part of her mind airily point out that with him, she knew she was safe.

Dangereuxon the one hand, knight-protector on the other. Was it any wonder she was confused?

“Indeed, I am very glad I met you.” Attack suited her more than defense. She faced him, head high. “I wished to say good-bye and to thank you for your assistance through these past weeks.”

She could tell nothing from his expression—the polite mask he so often wore—but she saw his eyes widen a fraction. At least she’d surprised him. “I understand that the masquerade tonight will be very crowded, so it’s possible we will not meet again.”

She stopped there, bit her tongue against a nervous urge to babble on. If what she’d already said didn’t put him in his place—didn’t tell him how she’d decided to react after last night—nothing would.

He was silent for some minutes, his unnerving blue gaze locked on her eyes, then his lips curved, just enough to tell her that the smile was indeed genuine.

“Mignonne,you never fail to surprise me.”

Briefly, she glared. “I am honored that I amuse you, Your Grace.”

His smile only deepened. “You should be. There’s so little these days that amuses such a jaded soul as I.”

There was sufficient self-deprecation in his tone to make it difficult to take offense. Helena contented herself with another glare—then felt heat shoot up her arm as his fingers shifted and one stroked her palm. He’d lowered their hands but hadn’t released hers; his fingers curled protectively around hers, their linked hands hidden from all by her wide skirts.

“But there’s no reason to bid me farewell. I’ll be by your side tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You will have to find me in all that crowd, and then be sure it is me.”

“I will know you,mignonne —in exactly the same way you will know me.”

His confidence grated. “I will not tell you my costume.”

“No need.” He continued to smile. “I can guess.”

He’d guess wrong, along with all the others. She’d been to masquerades before. Supremely confident, she looked about at the crowd.“Eh, bien —we shall see.”

After a moment she glanced at him. He was studying her face. He hesitated, then asked, “Have you spoken with Thierry this morning?”

She blinked. “No. He is out of town but should return this evening.”

“Ah. I see.” That, Sebastian realized, explained why she didn’t know of his invitation. Relieved his concern that she might indeed know but had decided to resist, to play even more difficult to win. Hard to imagine, but . . .

“Why such an interest in Thierry?”

He refocused to find Helena regarding him suspiciously. He smiled. “Merely an interest I have that concerns him. I will no doubt see him tonight.”

The suspicious light didn’t leave her eyes, but her gaze suddenly moved past him.

“There’s Lord Athlebright!”

“No.”

She looked at him. “No?No what?”

“No, you cannot try to ascertain how his lordship’s touch affects you.” Lifting her hand, he turned her in the opposite direction. “Believe me,mignonne, you do not need to work on your list of prospective husbands any further.”

She heard the steely note in his voice. Puzzled, she searched his face. “You are not making any sense—no, you are making evenless sense than usual.”

“Acquit me of any wish to confuse you,mignonne, but am I right in assuming you will not agree to leaving this uncomfortably overcrowded salon with me to seek a quieter place where we might talk?”

She’d instantly stiffened. “You assume correctly, Your Grace.”

Sebastian sighed. “You are the devil’s own daughter to seduce,mignonne. ”

The smile that curved her lips suggested she approved of the epithet.

“For all that, you’ll still be mine.”

The smile vanished. She flashed him a look of righteous fury; if he hadn’t still held her hand, she would have whirled, curtsied, and flounced off. But the instant she started to move away, he drew her back. “No—don’t leave me.” He covered the simple, far-too-heartfelt plea with an easy smile. “You’re safer with me than with any other—and together we’re better entertained than we otherwise would be.” He caught her eye. “A truce,mignonne —until tonight.”

He’d intended to speak with her of his intentions, the purpose behind his invitation. He’d counted on Thierry’s having received his letter and having told her of his request—she would have agreed readily to a private discussion after that. But . . . not knowing of his invitation, she would not go apart with him—and it was impossible for him to mention the word “marriage” in such a crowded place; he would bring all conversation to a halt.

She was searching his eyes, well aware of the caveat—that when he said “until tonight,” he meant just that. That tonight he would come for her, andthen they would see.

She tilted her head, then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace—a truce.”

Sebastian smiled, raised her hand to his lips. “Until tonight.”

Her cloak already wrapped about her, her mask already in place, Helena left her room and headed for the stairs, summoned by Marjorie’s call.

“We will be late,ma petite ! Such a wait we will have!”

“I’m coming.”

Helena started down the stairs just as the front door opened. Thierry, still in his morning coat, tired and weary, came in.

Marjorie had whirled; now she rushed to her husband.“Mon Dieu! Thank God you are come—we must goimmédiatement !”

Thierry summoned a smile for her and for Helena. “You will have to permit me to change,chérie. Go ahead, and I will follow.”

“But, Gaston—”

“Madame, I cannot grace the masquerade in all my dirt. Let me get my costume”—Thierry’s glance took in the mail stacked on the side table—“and glance over these letters. Then I will followtout de suite, chérie —that I promise.”

Marjorie pouted, but accepted the assurance. She kissed Thierry’s cheek.“Tout de suite, oui?”

Thierry returned the kiss.“Oui.”

He beamed at Helena and kissed his fingers to her. “You look ravishing,ma petite. Have fun.”

Scooping up his letters, he strode quickly for the stairs, passing Louis with a reassuring word.

Louis helped Marjorie and Helena into the carriage, then joined them. The coach lurched and rumbled off toward Berkeley Square. As Marjorie had prophesied, there was a long line of carriages waiting to set their passengers down before Lowy House.

The night was clear and bitingly cold, yet the sight of wave after wave of fantastically garbed guests arriving in costumes both outrageous and rich had drawn a large knot of onlookers. A plush red carpet laid from front door to pavement’s edge was flanked by banks of holly and ivy. Flares burned brightly, illuminating the arriving guests for all to see.

When Helena was handed down from the carriage, there were no oohs and aahs. She appeared a gray mouse, draped in rich velvet, true enough, but hardly outstanding. Then she lifted her head and put back the hood of her cloak. Every eye fixed on her. The light from the flares caught the gold circlet of laurel leaves set amid her black curls, danced over the solid gold mask, also stamped with laurel leaves, that hid her face. Even though the cloak still concealed the rest of her costume, mouths dropped open as the onlookers stared.

With every indication of proprietorial pride, Louis led both Helena and Marjorie up the sweep of red and on through the open front door. The moment they were inside, Helena retrieved her hand and tugged at the gold cloak strings at her throat.

She’d worn the costume before, was well aware of its effect on susceptible males; as she handed the heavy cloak to a waiting footman, his eyes nearly started from his head. In the slim sheath of pale blue silk fashioned in a Roman toga, with telltale laurel leaves worked in gold thread at the neckline, hem, and along the fluttering border, she was every man’s fantasy of a Roman empress. Which was who she’d elected to be: St. Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine. Seduced by the dramatic tone that pervaded masquerades, everyone who knew her always assumed she would come as Helen of Troy.

The silk sheath was anchored by a gold clasp on her right shoulder; the costume left most of her shoulders and arms bare. She wore gold amulets on both arms, gold bracelets on both wrists. There was gold dangling from her lobes and a heavy gold necklace encircling her throat. Her skin was whitest ivory, her hair blacker than black in contrast. With the gold and pale blue as a foil, she looked stunning and knew it. Drew confidence from the fact.

Extremely high heels concealed beneath the long skirts added to her mystery—fully masked, her lack of height was the characteristic most searched for.

Expecting to enjoy her evening thoroughly, spiced with the anticipation of a seminal and final victory over St. Ives, she walked beside Marjorie into the ballroom, head high, looking around boldly—as an empress, she could do as she pleased.

She’d triumphed at masquerades at the French court in this costume—the flowers of the English nobility gathered tonight were to be her next conquests. Separating from Marjorie, who was rather too easy to spot with her auburn hair imperfectly concealed by her shepherdess’s hat, Helena moved into the crowd.

The room was bedecked as a magical grotto with the symbols of yuletide the theme. Midnight blue silk scattered with gold and silver stars was draped across the ceiling; the walls were decorated with swags of green and brown velvet against which evergreen boughs, holly, and ivy had been fixed. Huge logs burned in the hearths, adding to the considerable heat; spiced champagne was being continuously served by footmen dressed as elves.

Against this backdrop, the elite of the ton formed a rich tapestry of shifting colors and costumes, of fantastic wigs and amazing hats. At this early stage the revelers were looking about, weaving and reweaving through the crowd, some in groups but most moving indepen-dently, recognizing and noting others, searching for those they hoped to meet but had yet to identify.

Helena spotted her first Paris within minutes. He stood tall, eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd, examining all the women in sight. His gaze rested on her for one instant, then moved on. Helena smiled behind her mask and turned away. Paris One was Lord Mortingdale. A good sign perhaps? Or did his choice of costume show a sad lack of appreciation of her wit?

Continuing around the room, she found three more Parises; they all saw her—one looked interested but did not pursue her when she moved away. One of the three was Mr. Coke, a gentleman who had tried to pay her considerable attention. The other two she could not identify, but neither of them was Sebastian—of that she was sure.

There were a number of Roman senators in the crowd. As was usually the case, they were gentlemen for whom the toga meant freedom from their corsets. To Helena’s relief, none had thought to array himself as an emperor. One of the portly crew, on spying her, came rustling up to suggest they were a pair. One glance and a cool word disabused him of the idea.

“Oh, well, had to try, you know!” With a grin, the gentleman bowed and left her.

Gaining the side of the room, Helena paused and turned to scan the throng. Even with her high heels, she couldn’t see far; the huge wigs and elaborate headdresses so many wore blocked her view. She’d covered nearly half the long room. Farther ahead she glimpsed an archway leading to another salon. She craned her neck, peering between bodies . . .

And felt Sebastian’s presence materialize like a flame at her back.

As she registered the fact and turned to face him, his fingers closed about her hand.

“Mignonne,you are exquisite.”

She felt the usual jolt as his lips brushed the backs of her fingers, was momentarily lost, adrift in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth that shone there, real appreciation tinged with desire, edging into . . .

She blinked, and her conscious view expanded—to take in his gold half-mask, like her own embossed with laurel leaves. She blinked again, lifted her gaze—took in the gold wreath set amid the burnished brown of his hair. Sucking in a breath, eyes wide, she swept her gaze down—over the white toga edged with gold-embroidered laurel, topped with the purple robe of an emperor.

“Who—” She had to stop to moisten her lips. “Who are you supposed to be?”

He smiled. “Constantius Chlorus.” He raised her hand again, held her gaze as he turned it and pressed his lips to her palm. “Helena’s lover.” He changed his hold, touched his lips to her wrist, to where her pulse raced beneath her skin. “Ultimately her husband, the father of her son.”

Breathing was increasingly difficult; Helena tried to find her temper—she couldn’t even summon a frown. “How did you know?”

The curve of his lips was triumphant. “You do not like being taken for granted,mignonne. ”

He was right, so right she wanted to scream—or weep, she wasn’t sure which. Being with someone who knew her—could read her—so well was unnerving—and so appealing.

She finally managed a slight frown. “You are an extremely difficult man to deal with, Your Grace.”

He sighed, his fingers shifting over hers as he lowered her hand. “So I have often been told,mignonne, but you don’t truly find me so difficult, do you?”

Her frown grew more definite. “I’m not sure.”

There was so much about which she was unsure when it came to him.

He’d been studying her face; now he said, “I take it Thierry has yet to return?”

“He arrived home just as we were starting out. He will no doubt be here shortly.”

“Good.”

She tried to read Sebastian’s face. “You wish to talk with him?”

“In a manner of speaking. Come.” Sebastian took her hand and drew her on down the room. “Stroll with me.”

She threw him a puzzled, slightly suspicious glance but consented to stroll by his side. Others had similarly found mates; they were stopped frequently as other guests tried to guess their identities.

“That Neptune is magnificent—and the Sun King, too.”

“Mme de Pompadour is Therese Osbaldestone, which is something of a surprise.”

“Did she recognize us, do you think?”

“I expect so. Very little misses those black eyes.”

They were nearly at the end of the room when Sebastian tightened his hold on her hand. He glanced down as she looked up questioningly. “Mignonne,I need to speak with you privately.”

Helena stopped walking. Started to frown. “I cannot—will not—be private with you. Not again.”

He exhaled through his teeth, glanced around, noted how close others were. “I cannot discuss what I wish to discuss in such surrounds—and it’s not possible to arrange to meet with you privately by any other means.” Not without tipping the wink to the gabblemongers.

She didn’t say anything. The stubborn set of her lips gave him her answer.

Sebastian knew he was close to losing his temper. It had been a very long time since anyone—let alone a slip of a woman—had dared deny him so stubbornly. And for once in his life, his intentions were honorable.

“Mignonne—”He instantly knew he’d chosen the wrong tone; her spine stiffened like a poker. He exhaled, then stated, “I give you my word that you will be safe with me. I do need to speak with you.”

The stubborn set of her chin eased; her lips shifted, twisted, grimaced lightly. But . . .

Briefly she returned the clasp of his fingers, then shook her beautiful head. “Non.I cannot . . .” She drew breath, lifted her chin. “I dare not go apart with you, Your Grace.”

Helena watched his eyes darken, although his face changed not at all.

“Do you question my word,mignonne ?”

The words were soft, steely.

She shook her head. “No—”

“You don’t trust me?”

“That is not it at all!” It wasn’thim she didn’t trust—but she couldn’t tell him that. Too revealing, too much an acknowledgment of her susceptibility, her vulnerability—her weakness over him. “It is just that . . . No. I cannot go apart with you, Your Grace.” She tugged. “Sebastian, let me go!”

“Helena—”

“No!”

Their altercation, albeit conducted in hissed whispers and low growls, was starting to attract attention. Gritting his teeth, Sebastian forced himself to release her. “We are not finished with this discussion.”

Her eyes blazed. “Weare finished entirely, Your Grace.”

She turned and stormed off—an imperial termagant leaving a conqueror, dismissed, in her wake.

Sebastian stood perfectly still for three minutes before he got his temper back under control. Even then he had to stop himself from snapping when some unfortunate lady thought to offer him solace. Then he glimpsed Martin, a corsair, through the crowd. He started to prowl, his mind fixed on one object—and on how to achieve his goal.

He hadn’t prowled far when he was approached by a pirate.

“Monsieur le duc, I do hope my cousin is not”—a vague gesture punctuated the pirate’s words—“being difficult?”

De Sèvres. Biting back the urge to articulate just how difficult his cousin was indeed being, Sebastian drawled, “Mademoiselle is an extremely stubborn woman.”

“Vraiment.”

De Sèvres was wearing a half-mask; Sebastian could see his worried frown.

“If I could help in any way . . . perhaps be of some assistance . . . ?”

Sebastian fought to keep his expression impassive. What was going on? He was tempted to pursue the matter—why a man supposedly sent to protect Helena was offering instead to assist in what, for all he knew, was to be her seduction—but at that precise moment, he had a more imperative goal.

“I wish to speak privately with mademoiselle la comtesse, but she is proving elusive.”

“I see, I see.” De Sèvres nodded, frowned harder.

“Perhaps if I were to set a location and wait there, you might endeavor to persuade her to join me?”

Looking into the crowd, de Sèvres considered, calculated; eyes narrowed, he chewed his lower lip. Sebastian would have taken an oath he wasn’t worrying over the propriety of his actions but rather how to persuade Helena to comply. Then de Sèvres nodded. “What location?”

Not why did he wish to speak with her—for how long, how privately . . . Sebastian made a mental note to investigate de Sèvres a great deal more closely once he’d secured Helena’s hand.

“The library.” A sufficiently formal setting, which would likely make Helena less suspicious; Sebastian had little faith in de Sèvres’s powers of obfuscation. He nodded to a doorway across the ballroom. “Go through there, turn right, then follow the hall to a long gallery. The library is the main room giving off that. If you wish to assist me, bring mademoiselle there in twenty minutes.”

At this hour the library should be empty, although as the evening progressed, others, too, would seek out its amenities.

De Sèvres tugged on his waistcoat. “I will bring her.” With a nod, he moved off in the direction Helena had gone.

Sebastian watched him go and inwardly shook his head. Later . . .

He turned—and found himself facing Martin.

One look into his eyes and his brother grinned. “Itis you! Now, where is she?” He glanced around. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve found three Helen of Troys so far, and none of them are she.”

“If you’re referring to mademoiselle la comtesse, she’s here, but not as Helen of Troy.”

“Oh?” Martin frowned. “Then who . . . ?”

He cocked a brow at Sebastian—who considered him, then shook his head. “I know for a fact that you received a classical education. I wouldn’t want to inhibit the exercising of your intellect.” He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Think hard, and the answer will come to you.”

With that, Sebastian strolled on, leaving Martin scowling good-naturedly after him.

The library was indeed deserted when he reached it. He surveyed the long room, then strolled to the large desk set out from one corner. Beyond it, in the corner of the room, sat a commodious armchair. Sebastian sat, stretched out his legs, folded his hands, and waited for his duchess-to-be to appear.

Helena didn’t notice Louis hovering until she turned from chatting to Therese Osbaldestone and saw him step toward her. She inclined her head, expecting to pass him by.

Instead, he put a hand on her arm. “You must come with me—quickly.”

Louis’s manner was agitated. He was glancing around.

“Why? What is it?”

“There is someone Uncle Fabien requires you to meet.”

“Fabien?What is this?” Thrown off balance, Helena allowed Louis to draw her to the side of the room. “Who does Fabien know here?”

“That is not important. I will explain all later. But I can tell you this—Fabien wishes you to meet with this gentleman and hear him out.”

“Hear him out?”

“Oui.”Louis continued tugging, surreptitiously dragging her to a doorway. “This man will have a request to make—an invitation. You are to listen, then accept!Comprends? ”

“I don’t understand anything,” Helena complained. “Stop pulling.” She wrenched her arm free, stopped Louis with a glare, then straightened her gown. “I do not know whom Fabien wishes me to meet, but I will not meet anyoneen déshabillé !”

Louis gritted his teeth. “Vite, vite!He will not wait forever.”

Helena heaved a resigned sigh. “Very well, where am I to meet him?” She followed Louis through the doorway into a corridor.

“In the library.”

“Allons!”Helena waved Louis on. She had little confidence in Louis, but set much more store in Fabien’s good sense. Her guardian was not a man to put at risk anything that was of value to him. If Fabien wished her to meet some gentleman, there would be some sane explanation. Although she railed against Fabien’s hold on her, she was too wise not to humor his wishes until she was free of him.

Louis led her to a long gallery, then somewhat hesitantly opened a door and peered in. He stood back. “Bon—this is it. The library.” He waved her in.

Helena glided forward.

Louis lowered his voice. “I will leave you together, but I will not be far, so I can conduct you back to the ballroom if you wish.”

Helena frowned, grateful for her mask as she stepped over the threshold. Whatwas Louis about? If she wished? Why . . . ?

The library door shut softly behind her. She scanned the room, expecting to see some gentleman waiting for her, but there was no one there. No one rose from the large armchairs before the hearth, no one sat behind the desk.

Pirouetting, she scanned the long room. Bookcases lined the walls. The tall windows were uncurtained, but it was dark outside. There were lamps, lit but turned low, set on side tables and credenzas around the room, shedding a gentle glow, revealing the fact that the room was empty save for her. She could see the entire room from where she stood, all except . . .

The huge desk cut off a corner of the room. Beyond it, set in the wall beside the corner, was a door leading to the next room. It was shut. Some way before it stood an armchair; she could see its high back, but otherwise the desk hid it from view. On a side table to the left of the chair sat a lamp, like the others burning low.

She started toward the desk; she may as well check the chair before returning to Louis and telling him that Fabien’s friend had not appeared. Thick Aubusson carpets muffled the click of her heels. She rounded the desk—and saw a hand, relaxed on the arm of the chair. A very white hand, with very long fingers . . .

Premonition washed over her; a tingling awareness told her who it was who waited so patiently. Slowly, disbelievingly, she came around to stand before the chair and looked down at the occupant.

He’d taken off his mask—it lay hanging from the other arm of the chair, glinting dully.

Sebastian sat, effortlessly elegant, watching her from beneath hooded lids. She saw blue flash, then he murmured, “Bon, mignonne.At last.”

Outside in the corridor, Louis chewed his nails. In a fever of uncertainty, he glanced this way, then that, then eased open the library door. As before, it opened noiselessly; he peeked but could see nothing, put his ear to the crack but could hear nothing.

Biting back a curse, he was about to shut the door when he noticed the sliver of a crack that had opened on the hinged side. He put his eye to it—and saw Helena, standing in the far corner of the room, staring down at an armchair. St. Ives must be in it, speaking, but Louis could hear not a word, could not even distinguish the tone. He stared—then saw the door in the wall beyond the chair.

Carefully, he shut the library door.

“This must work.” He whispered the words through gritted teeth. “Hemust ask her tonight!”

He hurried to the next room. It proved to be an office—empty, unlit, clearly not intended for the use of guests. Thanking the saints, Louis entered, shut the door silently behind him, then tiptoed to the door giving access to the library.

There was no lock on the door—just a knob. Holding his breath, he turned the knob. The door eased open a fraction.