powerful men.
“
Helena turned; she nodded coldly. “
She could ignore Louis. Fabien she’d learned never to forget.
Louis’s dark eyes were roving the room. “There are some likely prospects here.” He leaned his powdered head closer to murmur, “I’ve heard there’s an English duke present. Unmarried. St. Ives. You would do well to garner an introduction.”
Helena raised her brows faintly and glanced about the salon. A duke? Louis did have his uses. He was devoted to his uncle’s schemes, and in this instance she and Fabien were pursuing the same agenda, albeit for different reasons.
For the past seven years—almost from the time the Englishman had kissed her—Fabien had used her as a pawn in his games. Her hand was a prize much sought after by the powerful and wealthy families of France; she’d been
How long the game would have gone on she dreaded to think—until she was too gray to be a lure? Luckily, at least for her, the increasing disaffection in France, the groundswell of discontent, had given Fabien pause. A natural predator, his instincts were sound—he didn’t like the scent on the wind. She’d been certain he was considering a shift in his tactics even before the attempt to kidnap her.
They must have been watching, biding their time. She’d fought, struggled—to no avail. They would have kidnapped her if it hadn’t been for Fabien. He’d been riding past, had heard her screams and come galloping to her aid.
She might rail against Fabien’s hold over her, but he protected what he regarded as his. At thirty-nine, he was still in his prime. One man had died; the other two had fled. Fabien had chased them, but they’d escaped.
That evening she and Fabien had discussed her future. Every minute of that private interview was engraved in her memory. Fabien had informed her the men had been hirelings of the Rouchefoulds. Like Fabien, the most powerful intrigants knew that a storm was coming; each family, each powerful man, was intent on seizing all estates, titles, and alliances they could. The more they built their power, the more likely they would be to weather the storm.
She’d become a target. Not just for the Rouchefoulds.
A problem indeed, one fraught with risk. Fabien did not want to choose, to commit her fortune and by inference his support to any of the four. Favor one and the other three would slit his throat at the first opportunity. Metaphorically, definitely; possibly literally. All that, she’d understood; the observation that Fabien’s manipulative schemes had come home to roost with a vengeance she had kept to herself.
She’d blinked at him. He’d smiled, more to himself than her.
A frown had flitted through Fabien’s eyes.
She’d continued to stare, stunned, surprised, her mind racing.
Misinterpreting her silence, Fabien had drawled,
Seven years of dealing with Fabien had taught her well. She had held her excitement in, kept it from her expression, her eyes. She’d refocused on him.
All her life she’d never been allowed to forget that. She’d frowned at Fabien, letting him believe it was because she didn’t wish to go to England and consort with the English, while she’d assembled her plan. There’d been one very large hurdle in her path. She’d let disillusionment and disgruntlement color her face, her voice.
She’d given a dismissive humph, folded her arms and looked away.
She hadn’t dared peek to see how Fabien responded to her performance, yet she’d felt his dark gaze on her, intent as always.
After a long moment, to her considerable surprise, he had laughed.
She’d watched him sign and hadn’t been able to believe her luck. He’d sanded the paper, then rolled it and held it out to her; she’d managed not to snatch it. She’d accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.
The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.
“The Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis’s dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”
“He’s old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”
Louis snorted. “For a week you’ve been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you’re becoming too nice in your requirements. Given Uncle’s wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”
Helena shifted her gaze to Louis’s face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis’s stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany