Ariele
Helena’s thumbs were pricking. Why? Fabien never did anything without good reason. What could he want with Ariele? And why did he wish her to know that Marie, his wife, a meek and sickly soul he had married for her connections, was ailing?
Laying aside Ariele’s letter, she reached for Fabien’s.
As always, he was direct and succinct.
As she read his words, Helena’s world—one that had started to glow with rosy hope—shattered, then re-formed into a dark landscape of despair.
As you will see from your sister’s letter, she is now at Le Roc. She is currently well, as happy as might be expected, and intact. There is a price, my dear Helena, for her continued well-being.
The gentleman in whose house you are now residing has something of mine. It is a family heirloom, and I wish it back. I have been unsuccessful over the years in convincing him to part with it, so you will now please me by retrieving it and returning it to me.
The heirloom in question is a dagger in its sheath. It is eight inches long, curved, with a large ruby set in the hilt. It was given to one of my ancestors by the Sultan of Arabia. There is no other like it—you will know it the instant you see it.
One thing—do not seek to discharge this duty by enlisting the aid of St. Ives. He will not part with the dagger, not for any reason. Do not think to appeal to his good nature—it will avail you naught and cost your sister dearly.
I expect you to obey me to the letter in this, and with all reasonable speed.
If you fail to bring me the dagger by Christmas, in recompense I will take Ariele as my mistress. Should she fail to please me, there are houses in Paris always ready to pay highly for tender chickens such as she.
The choice is yours, but I know you will not fail your sister.
I will expect you by midnight on Christmas Eve.
Yours, etc.
Fabien
How long she sat and stared at the letter Helena had no idea. She felt ill; she had to sit unmoving until the nausea passed.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine . . .
Then she did, and that was worse.
“Ariele!”With a muffled cry, she bent forward, covering her face with her hands. The thought of what awaited her precious little sister if she failed swamped her mind, made her wits seize.
Her heart, her whole chest, hurt; a metallic taste filled her mouth.
The lesson was abundantly clear.
She had never been free of Fabien—he’d been pulling her strings all along. The letter she’d felt so clever about obtaining was worthless. She would never get an opportunity to use it.
Fabien had played her for a fool.
She would never be free.
She would never have a chance to live. To have a life that was hers and not his.
ignonne,are you well?”
Helena forced her lips to curve, glanced up briefly as she gave Sebastian her hand. She still couldn’t think, could barely function. Until that moment she’d thought she was covering her state well; no one else seemed to have noticed. But Sebastian had just joined them in the small drawing room and had come straight to her side. “It is nothing,” she managed, breathless, her lungs tight. “It’s just the traveling, I think.”
He was silent for a moment; she didn’t dare meet his eyes. Then he murmured, “We will have to trust that dinner will revive you. Come, let us see.”
Collecting the others with a gesture, he led her to the family dining room, an elegant apartment that was considerably more intimate than the huge dining room she’d glimpsed from the front hall. As he sat her on his right, Helena could almost wish that he had chosen the larger room—she would have been farther from him and his too-sharp gaze.
Time had not been on her side. Before she’d had a chance to relieve her despair, give vent to her fury—to rail, to weep, to wail, then, perhaps, to calm and think—a maid had come scratching at her door, reminding her it was already late. She’d thrust the letters under her jewel box, then had to rush to get gowned, to show the maid how to dress her hair.
Rage, despair, and fear were a potent mix. She had to keep the roiling emotions bottled up, find strength, dredge deep, and put on a good show—had to manufacture smiles and small laughs, force her mind to follow the conversations rather than succumb to her feelings. Her performance was made more difficult by Sebastian, a shrewd observer. He sat relaxed in his huge chair, fingers lightly curled about the stem of his wineglass, and watched her from beneath his hooded lids.
The thing she remembered most of that hour was the sapphire he wore on his right hand, how it winked in the candlelight as his fingers languidly caressed the glass. The jewel was the same color as his eyes. Equally mesmerizing.
Then dinner was over. She could remember nothing of what had been said. They all rose, and she realized that the gentlemen would remain to pass the port. Relief swamped her. The smile she gave Sebastian as he released her hand came more easily.
She retired with Clara and Marjorie to the drawing room. By the time Sebastian entered with Thierry and Louis twenty minutes later, she had herself under control. She made herself wait until the tea trolley was brought in, until they’d all sipped and chatted. She increasingly fell silent.
When Sebastian came to relieve her of her empty cup, she smiled weakly—at him, at them all.
“I fear I have a headache, too.” Louis had already retired, claiming the same ailment.
Thierry, Marjorie, and Clara all murmured in sympathy. Sebastian merely watched her. Clara offered to get her a powder.
“If I retire now and get a good night’s sleep,” she replied, still smiling faintly but reassuringly, “I am sure I will be recovered by morning.”
“Well, if you’re sure, dear.”
She nodded, then looked up at Sebastian. He took her hand, helped her to her feet. She curtsied to the others, murmuring her good nights, then turned to the door. Her hand still in his, Sebastian turned with her, walked with her.
He paused before they reached the door. She halted, glanced up at him. Met his blue eyes, felt them search hers. Then he raised his other hand, smoothed a fingertip across her brow.
“Sleep well,mignonne. You will not be disturbed.”
There was something in his tone, in his gaze, as if he would tell her, reassure her . . . She was too drained, too exhausted to fathom his meaning.
Then he lifted her hand, turned it, pressed his lips to the point where her pulse fluttered at her wrist. Let his lips linger until she felt the heat flow. Raising his head, he released her. “Sweet dreams,mignonne .”
She nodded, bobbed a curtsy, then walked to the door. A footman opened it; she sailed through. The door shut softly behind her; only then was she free of Sebastian’s gaze.
Wanting nothing more than a pillow on which to lay her aching head and the privacy to ease her heavy heart, to release her pent-up feelings, she climbed the stairs, crossed the gallery, and headed down the corridor to her room. Just before she reached her door, a shadow shifted; Louis stepped out to intercept her.
“What is it?” She made no effort to hide her anger.
“I . . . wanted to know. Will you do it?”
She stared at him blankly. “Of course.” Then she realized. Fabien, as usual, was playing his cards close to his chest. Louis did not know with what his uncle had threatened her. If he had known, not even he would have asked such a stupid question.
“Uncle insistsyou fetch the item—not me.”
Louis’s surly tone nearly made her laugh. Hysterically. He was sulking because Fabien was using her talents, not his.