But why? Her mind fixed on the point, turned it over—then she saw. Because she was a woman—a woman Sebastian wanted. He’d apparently been too strong for Fabien’s persuasions, so Fabien, with his usual vindictive touch, had chosen as his thief one who would not only succeed in retrieving the dagger but who, in doing so, would also dent Sebastian’s pride.
Fabien would do what he could to hurt Sebastian; that it would hurt her, too, would neither occur to him nor perturb him if it did. Indeed, he would probably view any hurt she suffered as due punishment for her temerity in forcing that letter from him.
Louis scowled at her. “If you require any assistance, I’m to help you. But I would strongly suggest that until we leave, you keep St. Ives at arm’s length—if you take my meaning.”
Helena stared at him. How did he know? She tipped up her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I will retrieve your uncle’s property as I see fit—you need not let my methods concern you.”
With a dismissive nod, she swept past him to her door, opened it, and went in.
Louis stood still, staring after her. When the door clicked shut, he turned and headed for his room.
Villard was waiting. “Well?”
Louis shut his room door, ran his hands through his hair. “She says she will do it.”
“Bon!Then all is progressing, and there is no reason you cannot write and tell monsieur le comte—”
“No!” Agitated, Louis paced before the hearth. Then he flung up his hands. “Marriage!Whoever would haveimagined ? Fabien said St. Ives had publicly decreed he would not wed, and that was years ago! Now suddenly the talk is of a wedding!”
By the bed folding shirts, Villard looked down. After a moment he murmured, “From what you said, it seems unlikely marriage was on monsieur le duc’s mind, not until you directed those others into the library . . .”
Louis missed the malicious glance Villard slanted his way. “Precisely!” He continued to pace. “But what could I do? He would have had her there and then—and then what? Retired merrily to his estate for Christmas, without her. No. I had to stop him—and better those others than me. He would have been alerted had I gone in.”
Villard’s lip curled; he looked down at the shirts.
“I tell you, I had palpitations when I heard what everyone was whispering. No one cared about the masquerade anymore—all the talk was of St. Ives marrying!”
“I believe it is something of a coup, which is why, perhaps, a word to monsieur le comte—”
“No, I tell you!No! Things are back on track now. Helena knows what she must do—and she is not a fool, that one. She will not risk monsieur le comte’s displeasure. She will not give herself to St. Ives.”
“From your description, I thought she had.”
“No. I am sure . . . He must have overwhelmed her. His reputation isformidable . Although I would have thought . . .” Louis frowned, then waved his tangled thoughts aside. “No matter. It is settled. She will not fail, nor will she give in to St. Ives—not now.”
Villard studied the neat pile of shirts and let the silence grow. Then he said, “What if—purely a supposition—what if she accepts him?”
“She hasn’t. I would have heard of it. But even if she needs to do so, to lead him to believe all is progressing as it should, then weddings for such as they are take months to arrange. And they’d have to get Fabien’s permission.Huh! ”
The thought cheered Louis. He actually smiled.
Villard drew breath, lifted his head. “Do you not think it might be wise to warn monsieur le comte?”
Louis shook his head. “No need to start hares. All is proceeding as Fabien wished. The matter of this marriage is incidental.” Louis gestured contemptuously. “There is no need to fuss, and Fabien won’t care. As long as he gets his dagger back—that is all he cares about.”
Villard silently exhaled, picked up the pile of shirts, and carried them to the wardrobe.
elena sat at Sebastian’s right at the breakfast table the next morning. As she buttered a piece of toast, she mentally recited what she had to do.
She had to hold Sebastian off, keep him at arm’s length; Louis had been right about that. She had to find and take Fabien’s dagger. And then she had to flee. Fast. Because nothing was surer than that Sebastian would come after her.
There would be no point taking the dagger, then trying to brazen it out. A dagger he’d taken from a French nobleman goes missing while a French noblewoman was visiting? Half a second, she estimated, would be all it would take for him to figure that out.
She would have to leave him and run.
He would be furious. He would see her act as a betrayal.
He’d assume she’d been part of Fabien’s plot all along . . .
The realization had her raising her head, then she blocked off her thoughts—reached for the jam. Set her jaw.
Nothing else mattered but saving Ariele. She had no choice; she couldn’t afford to let any other consideration sway her.
The Thierrys and Clara were discussing a walk in the gardens; Louis had yet to appear.
She nearly jumped when Sebastian ran a finger along the back of her hand. Eyes wide, she met his gaze.
His lips lifted lightly, but his gaze was sharp. “I wondered,mignonne, if you were sufficiently recovered to risk a ride. You might find the fresh air more invigorating than a slow stroll around the gardens.”
Her heart leaped at the thought of a ride. And on horseback they wouldn’t be that close—she wouldn’t be risking any contact that might give her away, that might test the walls she was trying to erect around her heart.
Letting her lips curve, letting her eagerness show, she nodded. “I would like that very much.”
He waved negligently. “As soon as you’re ready.”
They met in the hall half an hour later, she in her riding habit, he in long boots and a riding jacket. With a wave he ushered her on. They left the house by a side door and crossed the lawns, strolling under the bare branches of towering oaks to a stable block beyond.
He’d sent word ahead; their mounts stood waiting. A huge gray hunter for him, a frisky bay mare for her. He lifted her to the mare’s saddle, then gathered the gray’s reins and mounted. The beast shifted, snorted, eager to be away; the mare danced.
“Shall we?” Sebastian raised a brow.
Helena laughed—her first spontaneous reaction since reading Fabien’s letter—and wheeled the mare.
They left the stable yard side by side, stride for stride. Sebastian held the gray in. The horse shook his head once, then settled, accepting the edict, accepting the masterful hand on his reins. Inwardly smiling, Helena looked ahead.
Despite the month, it was clear, but the morning chill had yet to leave the air. Soft clouds filled the skies, blocking out the weak sun, yet it was pleasant riding through the quiet fields, empty and brown, already touched by winter’s hand. There was peace here, too. Helena felt it touch her, soothe her.
She’d ridden since she could stand, the stocky ponies of the Camargue her steeds. The activity required no conscious effort, leaving her free to look around, to appreciate, to enjoy. The mare was responsive, easy to manage; they rode without any need for words, she wheeling as Sebastian did, following him across his lands.
They topped a rise. To her surprise, the land beyond lay flat, rolling before them to the horizon. She’d never seen such a sight before, but Sebastian didn’t pause; he led her down the gentle slope into that seemingly infinite expanse.
A raised path led between two fields. They followed it, then Sebastian angled down into the pasture and set the gray to a canter. Helena followed—and suddenly realized the pasture was wet, waterlogged, yet not marshy. Sebastian let the gray stretch his legs; she matched him, fearlessly keeping pace, feeling the wind rush to meet them, then racing away through her hair.