“The guards?”
She turned her face to him, whispered back, “These are the kitchen gardens—they check here only once early, then once again close to dawn.”
He nodded, released her. Stood and dusted his knee while she carefully slid the cumbersome key into the old lock, then turned. Phillipe helped her; together they wrestled the tumblers over. Tentatively, clearly worried about the possibility of squeaks, Phillipe eased the gate open. The hinges grated, but the sound was low and wouldn’t carry.
Visibly sagging with relief, Helena followed Phillipe into the garden, onto the beaten path leading to the house. Sebastian followed, paused, watched his two collaborators sneak quietly and eagerly up the path. Then he sighed, shook his head, carefully closed the gate, locked it, and removed the key.
Helena glanced back and saw him tuck the key into his coat pocket. They’d all worn dull colors. Under her dark cloak, her gown was dark brown, plain and unadorned now she’d removed all the braid; Phillipe had worn black. Sebastian was wearing a coat and breeches of a brownish gray with soft, thigh-high boots of a similar hue. The color suited him in daylight, but in night’s faint light he appeared a phantom of the shadows, unreal—surely a figment of a young woman’s imagination as he walked softly toward her, his prowling gait never more pronounced, the grace that invested his large body a symphony to her senses.
He joined her, and she had to force herself to breathe. She nodded to the archway where Phillipe waited. “We must avoid the servants’ quarters. We can reach the rose garden through there. Only Marie, Fabien’s wife, has rooms in that wing. As she is ill”—she shrugged—“it will most likely be the safest place to get in.”
They saw no guards as they circled the stone house with three floors and more of windows looking out on them. Despite the fact that it was long after midnight, Sebastian’s nape prickled. He could see the distant wing Helena was making for; while following in her wake, he scanned the nearer ground-floor rooms.
They were flitting past a stand of rhododendrons when he reached out and caught her arm. “What’s through there?”
He pointed at a pair of narrow doors opening to a small paved area. Helena leaned back to whisper, “A small parlor.”
Sebastian slid his fingers to her hand and gripped, then signaled with his head to Phillipe. Drawing Helena with him, he cut through the intervening garden and slid into the shadows close by the house.
She’d followed without protest, but now she asked, “Why this?”
Sebastian studied the narrow doors. “Watch.” He bent his knees, set his shoulder to the place where the two halves came together at the lock, braced his upper arm along the join. Then he gave a sharp shove.
With a click, the lock popped. The doors swung ajar.
Helena stared. “How . . . simple.”
Sebastian pushed the door wide, bowed her in, then followed. Phillipe joined them; Sebastian shut the door, then looked around. The room was small, neat, and quietly elegant. He joined Helena by the main door, put a hand on her wrist to stop her from opening it. “How far to your sister’s chamber?”
“Not as far as it would have been—the chamber she usually has is in the central wing.”
He considered, then looked at Phillipe. “You go first, but go slowly. We’ll follow. Stroll along; don’t skulk. If any servants should appear, they’ll think you’ve just returned.”
Phillipe nodded. Sebastian let Helena open the door. Phillipe led the way as directed; they flitted in his wake like ghosts.
They had to climb the main stairs; Helena breathed easier when they reached the top and entered the long gallery. The moon had at last risen. Silver light poured through the many long windows, mercilously illuminating the long room. She and Sebastian hugged the inner wall as they followed Phillipe, who at Sebastian’s wave hurried through the gallery.
They slowed again as they entered the maze of corridors beyond. Helena’s tension eased as panic left her and eagerness and anticipation took hold. In minutes she would see Ariele again, know she was safe. See that she was.
Sebastian tugged on her hand, then lowered his head to whisper, “Where are Fabien’s apartments?”
“That way.” She waved back. “At the end of the gallery, he goes the other way.”
Ahead, Phillipe stopped before a door. He looked back and waited until they joined him. “Is this it?”
Helena nodded.
Sebastian closed his hand on her arm. “You go in. We’ll wait here until you’re sure she won’t take fright.” He tightened his grip briefly, then released her. “Make sure she understands the need for silence.”
Helena nodded. She held his gaze, then closed her hand briefly over his. Turning to the door, she eased up the latch and slipped in.
Chapter Thirteen
Smiling, tears threatening, Helena stepped closer.
“Ariele? Ariele—wake up,
Brown lashes flickered, lifted; eyes greener than Helena’s peeked out, then Ariele smiled sleepily. Her lids fell again.
Helena reached out and shook her gently.
Ariele’s eyes opened fully. She stared at Helena, surprised wonder in her face. Then, with a cry of joy, she threw herself into Helena’s arms. “It
“Sssh.” Helena hugged her fiercely, closed her eyes for one rapturous moment, and gave thanks. Then she pushed Ariele away, held her at arm’s length. “We have to leave.
Ariele had never been slow-witted. She’d scurried from the bed even before Helena had finished speaking. She ran to her armoire, searched, pulled out a brown gown, showed it to Helena.
“Yes—that’s perfect.”
“Where are we going?” Ariele scrambled into the gown.
“To England. Fabien . . . he is mad.”
“Mad?” Ariele cocked her head. “Disgustingly arrogant, true, but . . .” She shrugged. “So he does not know we are leaving?”
“No.” Helena came to help with her laces. “We must be very quiet. And we can take only a small bag—just your brushes and important things.”
“I didn’t bring much with me from Cameralle. I’d hoped to go home for Christmas.”
Helena tied off the laces, then hugged her. “
“Yes, but think of the adventure!”
Reassured, Helena left Ariele brushing out her long hair while she hunted and found a small bag in the armoire, then piled all the little items from the dressing table into it, then hurried to the prie-dieu to collect prayer book and crucifix.
A tap on the door had them both looking up; Phillipe peered in. He saw Ariele and slipped in, crossed to her. Sebastian followed him into the room. Helena stared at him, drank in his strength, calmed her tense nerves. All would be well.
Sebastian returned Helena’s regard, then, satisfied that all was as she’d expected, switched his gaze to Phillipe and the young girl he assumed was Ariele. Phillipe was whispering earnestly, explaining his part in things. The girl was listening politely.
