The promise in a kiss

“I never thought Sebastian would marry, and that would have been a very big mistake.” Clara paused, then added, “Words can’t express how pleased I am you’re here.”

With that she departed, gently closing the door, leaving Helena pondering the wooden panels. She had never looked to be here, in this position, yet . . . there was much to be said for being a duchess.

Sebastian’s duchess.

She drifted to the window. It looked out over a rose garden to the lake. Dusk was rapidly falling. The gardens seemed extensive; tomorrow she’d investigate. Returning to the dressing table, she lit a lamp, then sat and started to pluck pins from her hair.

The mass tumbled down around her shoulders as a knock fell on the door.

Sebastian? That first thought was immediately superseded by the reflection that it was unlikely. Ignoring the sudden thrill that had flashed through her, and its subsequent fading, she called, “Come.”

The door opened; she turned and saw Louis standing in the doorway. She rose. “What is it?” He really did not look well.

“These are for you.”

He held out two letters. Crossing to the door, Helena took them.

Louis shifted as she glanced at them. “I’ll leave you to read them. Once you have”—he gestured vaguely —“we’ll talk.”

He turned and shambled off. Helena watched him go, then, frowning, closed the door and returned to the dressing table.

One packet was addressed to her in Fabien’s distinctive hand. The other was from Ariele. Dropping Fabien’s letter on the table, Helena sat and broke the seal on her sister’s missive.

As she read the first words, she relaxed, very conscious of relief. The way Louis had behaved, she’d already tensed, worrying . . . but no. Ariele was well. The daily round at Cameralle went on much as usual.

Helena smiled again and again as she read the first sheet—read of their ponies and the exploits of the geese. Halfway down the second sheet, Ariele broke off, then continued.

Phillipe has arrived (how odd!). He says monsieur le comte wishes me to come to Le Roc and we must leave tomorrow. Bother! I do not like Le Roc, but I suppose I will have to go.

Helena paused, looked up, frowned. Fabien had claimed Ariele’s guardianship as well as her own. Phillipe was Louis’s younger brother; she had not met him in recent years. He’d always been quieter than Louis, but from Ariele’s words, it seemed Phillipe, like Louis, was now engaged in Fabien’s service.

Ignoring the ripple of unease the knowledge brought, Helena read on. After two paragraphs bemoaning the necessity of obeying Fabien, Ariele broke off again.

This time, when she resumed, it was clearly some days later.

I am now at Le Roc. Fabien says if I finish this letter he will send it with one of his. I am well, but alas this place is gloomy. Marie is ill and confined to her bed—Fabien said I should mention it. How I envy you in England, rainy and cold though it may be. It is rainy and cold here—I should have come with you. Still, if you were to find a useful Englishman and marry him, Fabien would be bound to let me come to be your bridesmaid. I most sincerely wish you luck in your search, dearest sister.

I remain, as ever, your loving little sister,

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.

“M

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