Regaining his apartments, he summoned Webster, gave orders as he washed, shaved, and dressed. Leaving his valet, Gros, rushing hither and yon, packing the small bag he’d declared was all he would take, he quit the room and headed for his study.
There he started on the task of setting in place the foundations of his plan.
The first letter he wrote was a personal request to the Bishop of Lincoln, an old friend of his father’s. Once he and Helena returned from France with Ariele, he was not of a mind to delay their wedding further. Finishing his letter, he sanded it, then set it aside, together with Fabien’s declaration. Helena had secured that prize—he fully intended to use it.
He rang for a footman, dispatched him to find Webster. With his customary magisterial calm, Webster led the senior staff into the study. They sat. In swift order Sebastian outlined his requirements, then they discussed, suggested, and eventually decided on various ploys to delay both Louis and Villard.
“I would expect the valet to be the comte’s creature. Take care that while watching the larger fish you do not let the minnow slip through your net.”
“Indeed not, Your Grace. You may rely on us.”
“I will be. I reiterate—I do not wish you to do anything overt to delay de Se`vres and his man. I wish them to be mystified as to where mademoiselle la comtesse and I might be. If they realize they’re being deliberately delayed, they’ll guess where we’ve gone and follow swiftly.” Sebastian paused, then added, “The longer they remain uncertain, the safer I, your future mistress, her sister, and the gentleman who brought us word last night will be.”
He was rewarded by the sight of a slight curve in Webster’s lips, a gleam of triumph in the butler’s gray eyes. The man had been quietly prodding him for years—ever since Arthur had married—to do his duty and save them all.
Barely able to contain his pleasure while maintaining his imperturbable mask, Webster bowed deeply. “Might we extend our congratulations, Your Grace?”
“You may.” After an instant Sebastian added, “But only to me.”
Delighted, they all did so, then departed. Sebastian returned to his mental list of tasks.
After clearing his desk of all urgent business, he spoke briefly with his steward, then gave orders to have the Thierrys brought to him.
They appeared, confused, a little hopeful. Sebastian considered them as they sat in the chairs before his desk, then he leaned forward and told them all they needed to know—enough for them to realize their situation— that they had unwittingly been accessories to a plot to steal from him. They were as aghast as he’d expected; he cut short their horrified protestations to reassure them that he recognized their innocence.
He then gave them a choice. England or France.
England with his support; France as accessories in Fabien’s soon-to-be failure.
Given that they’d been genuine émigrés before Fabien had recruited them, it took them no time at all to opt for England.
He suggested they remain at Somersham until he and Helena returned and they could discuss arrangements for their future. Although at that point in ignorance of his plans, Gaston Thierry, to his credit, suggested that he and Marjorie could act to delay Louis.
Sebastian offered Thierry his hand and sent them to confer with Webster.
The last person with whom he needed to speak fluttered into the room five minutes later.
“You wished to speak with me, dear boy?”
Sebastian rose, smiled, and waved Clara to the chairs before the fire. She sat in an armchair; he stood by the hearth, one arm resting on the mantelshelf, and told her much more than he’d told the Thierrys.
“
“Indeed, but you understand that I wish just the usual Christmas crowd and those others I’ll list in my letter for Augusta—not the entire clan—here when we return?”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. Just a small crowd. We can invite all the others later, when the weather improves.” Clara patted his arm. “Now, you’d best be on your way if you’re to make Newhaven tonight. I’ll be here when you get back, and so will Augusta and the others. We’ll hold the fort here.”
With another pat and an admonition to take care, Clara swept out, still beaming.
Sebastian rang for Webster. “Louis de Se`vres?” he asked when that worthy arrived.
“In the breakfast parlor, Your Grace.”
“And his man?”
“In the servants’ hall.”
“Very well—fetch mademoiselle la comtesse to me here and have a footman take her bag to the coach. Send another footman to take Monsieur Phillipe to the stables by way of the side door.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Sebastian was seated at his desk when Webster ushered Helena in, then retreated and shut the door.
Dressed in a traveling gown with a heavy cloak over her arm, Helena came to him, her gaze alert and watchful. “Is it time to go?”
Halting before the desk, he smiled and took her hand. “Almost.” He kissed her gloved fingers, then turned to the two letters still lying open on his desk. “I took the declaration—I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I assumed you had.” Head tilted, she looked up at him, and waited.
“In this country, for us to marry, the fastest way is to procure a special license—a dispensation, if you will. I’ve written to a well- disposed bishop, but in support of my request, given you’re French and not your own mistress, I’ll need to enclose Fabien’s declaration.” He paused, then asked, “Have I your permission to do so?”
She smiled, slowly, glowingly. “
He smiled.
“It’s done.” He laid the letter on top of his missive for Augusta and another letter addressed to the Court of St. James. “Webster will send it by rider.”
He considered the second letter, wondered if he should mention it. He turned and met Helena’s peridot eyes—clear, free of clouds, although not yet of lingering worry.
“Come.” He took her hand. “Let’s be on our way.”
Chapter Twelve
Cushioned in the comfort of leather upholstery, cocooned in the warmth of soft furs and silk wraps with hot, flannel-wrapped bricks beneath her feet, Helena watched the chill world flash by. She tried, initially, to sit upright, to keep her spine erect and eschew the temptation to lean against Sebastian, solid and immovable beside her. But the hours passed and she nodded, then dozed as the carriage rocketed along; she woke to find her cheek cushioned on Sebastian’s chest, his arm heavy and reassuring around her, keeping her from falling to the floor.
Cracking open her lids, she glanced across the coach. Phillipe, sitting opposite, was asleep in one corner.
Letting her lids fall once more, she sank against Sebastian and slipped back into sleep.
And dreamed. A confusion of images that made no sense but were pervaded by desperation, by burgeoning hope, by a sense of fate and a nebulous fear.
