A chuckle emerged, and Stanwick openly smiled. “You wish to challenge me?”

  “Yes,” she announced, and she would happily slice the arrogance out of him. She had heard pistols were the thing when issuing a challenge, but Hélène had never shot a gun and didn’t wish to have a bullet put in her. However, she knew how to fence and was quite confident she could beat him, despite Stanwick having a longer reach.

  “Have you ever fought a duel before?” His eyes had lit to a warm brown and filled with humor.

  She planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I didn’t think so.” He sat in the chair behind his desk. “First, the person being challenged, which is me, chooses the weapons.”

  Hélène swallowed. She didn’t know of this rule. Though it was always scripted as such, she never thought there was actual protocol.

  “Have your second contact mine, and the time and weapons will be decided upon.”

  She couldn’t afford to wait. The longer it took, and the more people who were involved, the more likely Acker would learn of what happened tonight. Or worse, her half-brothers could find out, and that would never do. “Are you afraid to face me now?”

  He glowered at her. Apparently Stanwick didn’t like being called a coward. “I will face you now or in a week. The reason for a time delay is to see if cooler heads prevail.”

  Hélène mulled over what he said but waiting wasn’t something she could afford to do at the moment. “I will not change my mind. So, unless you choose to apologize, I see no reason why we don’t get it over with.”

  Stanwick placed both hands on his desk and pressed down as he rose, studying her. Hélène fought to keep her spine rigid and her chin out. She would not cower before him.

  There was no longer even a hint of humor in his eyes. She began to suspect she may have just baited a lion.

  Sebastian couldn’t believe the audacity of the pup standing before him. There was something off about Mirabelle, but he couldn’t place it. He was young, for one thing. Though he had nicely trimmed sideburns, there wasn’t even the hint of stubble on his chin. Sebastain knew some gentlemen who couldn’t grow a beard even if they failed to shave for a month. The lack of stubble on Mirabelle’s cheeks shouldn’t concern him.

  No, there was something else, and in time he would figure it out, but at the moment, he needed to teach Mirabelle a lesson he would never forget. “Very well.” He sauntered past him and opened the case holding his various weapons and withdrew two rapiers. “Come with me.” He turned, exited the office, and marched down the corridor and into the main room. Servants were cleaning off table and carrying away used glasses. Thorn and Carrington still remained in conversation.

  At least they would have their seconds.

  The two gentlemen glanced up when Stanwick entered. Thorn looked from Sebastian to Mirabelle, then the rapiers. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and Stanwick completely agreed with him.

  “Mirabelle feels I’ve insulted his honor in questioning his skills at the gaming tables this evening.”

  Carrington straightened. “He cheated?”

  “No,” Mirabelle answered.

  “He’s a cardsharper.”

  Carrington turned to Mirabelle. “Is this true?”

  “No,” he ground out. “I played with skill.”

  “Mirabelle doesn’t wish to wait for a dawn appointment, and as you two are still here, you will serve as our seconds.”

  Thorn pulled Mirabelle to the side. “You should rethink this decision.” His eyes bored into Mirabelle’s. At least he was trying to talk sense into the pup. “Sleep on it before something disastrous occurs.”

  “I can’t wait, nor do I wish to,” Mirabelle argued.

  Thorn blew out his breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. He glanced at Sebastian and then back at Mirabelle. “And if you are hurt, or die, how will that be explained?”

  Mirabelle had the audacity to grunt. “It isn’t I who will suffer.” The pup smirked.

  That young man needed to be taught a lesson more than Sebastian originally realized.

  “Let’s get this done, and we will be on our way.” Mirabelle turned and walked back toward Sebastian.

  “Thorn,” Stanwick nodded to the younger, dark-headed man standing next to Mirabelle, “you will act as Mirabelle’s second. Carrington shall stand as mine.””

  “Very well,” Thorn said before he took Carrington across the room to discuss the rules. Sebastain remained in his spot and glared at Mirabelle. Perhaps once the young man had a scar to remind him of this evening, he might not be so quick to issue a challenge again and be very careful where he gambled and with whom.

  Most men had more defined features, as well as the ability to grow facial hair before they participated in their first duel. Mirabelle couldn’t be above nineteen, or maybe younger. His face was still youthful and somewhat feminine. If he’d been born female, he would be considered rather pretty.

  Was he really going to duel with this boy? “How old are you?”

  That damn chin went up again. “Two-and-twenty.”

  Impossible!

  Thorn and Carrington returned. “We will hold the contest here,” Carrington announced.

  Sebastain raised his eyebrows. This was unexpected.

  “It is too dark to be outside, and the ground in Green Park or Hampstead Heath will be wet with dew and offer an unnecessary danger,” Thorn added.

  He had not considered the deterrent. The last thing he or Mirabelle needed was to slip on wet grass in the dark and skewer someone, or themselves. Besides, it wouldn’t be light for a few more hours, and Sebastian wanted this done so he could find his own bed.

  “It will be fought to first blood, not death.”

  Mirabelle blew out a sigh. Perhaps the young man had been rethinking his position and had begun to fear death.

  He turned to his servants. “Clear the tables and chairs from the room.”

  They hurried to do as he bid. Sebastian didn’t need to tell them that what happened here tonight would not be repeated outside this room. They had held many confidences over the years, and one slip of the tongue would leave them without a job.

  Sebastain handed the rapiers to Carrington. He and Thorn inspected the blades and compared the swords. They were identical, but he wanted them to be assured the two were exactly alike in grip, weight, and strength. He shrugged out of his coat and glanced at Mirabelle’s hands. They were smaller than his. The grip was always comfortable for him, but it might not be for Mirabelle, but that was not Sebastian’s concern.

  Five

  Hélène took a deep breath and rubbed her sweating palms against her trousers. What had she gotten herself into? This was madness, but it was too late to back out now. She shouldn’t have challenged Stanwick. It was a foolish mistake, and one she would likely regret. At least it was to first blood. She would have hated to kill such a handsome gentleman.

  Dark, intense eyes studied her as he removed his jacket. Hélène supposed she should do the same but wasn’t as confident in disrobing. What if there was a flaw to her disguise beneath the outer layers? That was something she had not considered when dressing, but who anticipates removing clothing for a duel before leaving the house? Still the jacket was tailored to perfection and thus too tight for what would be required for fencing. She shook out her hands to hopefully rid them of the tingling that had developed, and then pushed her coat from her shoulders.

  Stanwick’s deft fingers worked at the intricate tie of his cravat. Soon it loosened, revealing a strong-corded neck. Hélène knew her cravat would remain, or he would discover her thin neck. It was bad enough that with the padding from the coat removed he would see how narrow her shoulders were in comparison to the other gentlemen in the room.

  He peeled his waistcoat away as he studied her. She didn’t dare do the same. The lawn of her shirt was thin, and he would be able to see the bindings of her breast and the lumpiness of the pillowing at her waist and stomach. If he did manage to strike her first, which Hélène doubted, she hoped it wasn’t in the abdomen. It would be impossible to explain why she didn’t bleed without revealing the truth.

  He turned and tossed his discarded clothing onto the table shoved against the wall and Hélène’s mouth went dry. His shoulders were wide, and his back dipped slightly where his shirt was tucked into form fitting trousers. The very male, strong buttocks was outlined and defined by the black material. Goodness, he was a fine specimen of masculinity.

  Stanwick faced her once again. His head cocked to the side as he studied her. He rocked back on his heels and smirked. “Have you had a change of heart?”

  Hélène took easy breaths to relax and locked gazes with him. “Non! Never.” He was not going to intimidate her.

  Thorn approached and held out the two rapiers. Stanwick nodded for her to choose. Hélène picked up one, tested the hold and sharpness of the blade before she did the same with the other. They were identical from what she could tell. She kept the one she was currently holding. Stanwick accepted the other.

  Facing forward in the center of the room, Hélène fought the urge to wipe her sweaty palms again. She could do this. She had to do this, and win, so she could leave without him knowing the truth.

  Thorn and Carrington separated, one standing on each side of the room.

  “En garde,” Thorn shouted. They brought the blades up and assumed the fencer’s stance with their weight balanced on the right, forward foot.

  “Pret,” Carrington called, and then “Allez.”

  Neither moved. They studied their opponent. Hélène would force him to make the first move. It was a study of skill, and she wanted to see what the man was capable of. Stanwick lunged, and she danced out of the way. He sported the longer reach, but she could use this to her advantage. She would make him work and tire him out.

  He advanced. She retreated, preserving her strength. Letting instinct take over, withstanding her opponent’s offense for as long as she could, Hélène spun to the left so as not to get cornered by the wall.

  Hélène’s sword lashed out in a brilliant flare, and she put Stanwick on the defense. But he barely broke a breath at the change of direction. This was nothing like stage fighting, and she began to feel a strain in her wrist. Again, he took the upper hand as they advanced backwards like a lover’s dance.

  Perspiration broke out on her brow, and it trickled down her back. Her breaths were coming shorter now, as were his. She needed to change her maneuvers and bring this to an end. It was just as tiring being on the defensive as it was on the offensive. Each time their swords connected, vibrations riveted through her arm at his strength.

  As they reached the center of the room, Hélène took on the role of the aggressor once again, forcing Stanwick back a few steps before he adjusted and lunged. His blade ripped through the bellow of her sleeve but did not touch skin. That was a little too close, and she once again backed away, looking for another opening. He would weaken and allow her the chance to draw first blood soon. He had to, because she was not going to lose this match.

  Sweat beaded on Stanwick’s forehead. When he lifted an arm to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, Hélène took advantage of the opening and lunged. He countered with enough force that the rapier almost flew out of her hand.

  “That was unsportsmanlike,” Stanwick ground out.

  “So is calling someone a cheat,” she retorted.

  Sebastian’s blade sliced through the left shoulder of Mirabelle’s waistcoat, and it fell open, revealing the white linen shirt beneath. The other side slipped down Mirabelle’s right arm. He shrugged it back up to keep his fencing arm from being confined.

  “Arrêt,” Thorn called.

  Sebastian took a step back and lowered his blade, while Mirabelle pulled off his waistcoat and tossed it aside. Mirabelle shook out his arms and took up the stance once again. As with Sebastian, sweat had dampened Mirabelle’s shirt. It clung to his shoulders like a second skin.

  “En garde,” Thorn shouted and took a step back.

  Carrington called, “Pret,” and then, “Allez.”

  In that moment, everything that had bothered Sebastian came together. There was no stubble on Mirabelle’s chin, his shoulders were delicate, as were his wrists. Mirabelle’s hips were not narrow, as one would find on a young man but rounded. The thin linen shirt revealed material wrapped around his upper body. “Bloody hell.”

  Mirabelle lunged before he could call a halt to the match. Instinctively, Sebastian slashed his blade down to block hers from striking him. His aim was not what he had hoped due to his distraction, and the tip of his blade cut a long line down her thigh.

  She gasped and looked down. Blood damped the dark material. Good God, he had just injured, no cut, a woman with a rapier. What the hell was she thinking?

  Sebastian let his blade drop and took a step back. He wanted to go to her and inspect the injury but didn’t trust that she wouldn’t come back at him. Thorn rushed to Mirabelle, and Carrington strolled up to Sebastian.

  “Congratulations” Carrington patted Sebastain on the back.

  He barley acknowledged Carrington but studied Mirabelle, wavering between being damned angry for being put in this situation and fierce admiration for the woman. Had she been any better, she could have bested him. What if the rules hadn’t been for first blood but death? He could have ended up in a casket, just like Arrington, killed by a woman. His friends and acquaintances would have had a good laugh over how his demise came to be.

  Thorn was helping Mirabelle, or whoever she was, into her jacket as Sebastian approached. “Why?”

  She glanced up at him, her crystal blue eyes etched with pain. He’d caused her this distress. He’d wounded her, and it tore at him. It didn’t matter that it was her fault for coming here in the first place, dressed like a man, and issuing the challenge. He had been the one who struck and cut her.

  “I needed the money.” Though her voice still carried the lilt of a French accent, it was no longer spoken in the lower register she had used all evening. He should add acting to her list of talents.

  “We need to get her to a doctor.” Thorn moved to escort Mirabelle past him. And as much as Sebastian wanted answers now, he could wait until her injury was treated. Mirabelle took a step and winced and Sebastian strode forward.

  Six

  Hélène winced when Stanwick swept her up in his arms. Why didn’t he leave her be? This was humiliating enough.

  “My carriage should be out front,” Thorn called as he rushed toward the entrance. Thorn stepped back as Stanwick entered the carriage and placed her on a bench. “Where do we take you?” Thorn demanded.

  Hélène gave him the address on Henrietta Street before letting her head fall back and closed her eyes. Thorn called the address up to the driver and settled in beside Stanwick across from Hélène.

  “Why?” Thorn asked Hélène as the carriage pulled into traffic.

  Hélène opened her eyes and looked at Thorn. “I needed the money.”

  “I didn’t mean the gambling, but the duel. What possessed you to even think of the idea?”

  She shrugged. “He called me a cheat, and I reacted as I thought any gentleman would.”

  Thorn sighed, shaking his head.

  Stanwick shot an irritated look at Hélène. This night was not going as planned and the sooner these two gentlemen were gone the sooner she could deal with this mess. How was she going to explain her injury?

  Damn and blast, she was even out the twenty pounds she had originally saved. It was still back in Dagger’s.

  Hélène adjusted her seat and winced. Her thigh no longer burned as if she’d been branded, but it throbbed and continued to bleed. She tore at her cravat to loosen it, but she could not make her fingers work properly. What was wrong with her?

  Stanwick leaned forward, untied the knots, and drew the material from around her neck before he bent and snuggly tied it around her thigh. Even in the darkness of the carriage she could see it stain immediately with her blood.

  “Are you truly related to Lady Acker, or did you invent the connection?” Stanwick demanded.

  “I am her sister,” Hélène answered through pain.

  Thorn leaned forward and stared at her. “You are not Miss Genviève.”

  How did Thorn know her sister? Hélène leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Oh, yes, Genviève had worked in the Thorn’s household before she and her sisters were discovered by the Trents. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? “No,” she answered. “I am Hélène.”

  The carriage slowed to a stop, and Hélène looked out the window. Lights burned on each floor of the house. Genviève must still be waiting for her return.

  “I’ll take her inside,” Stanwick announced. “Go for Dr. Brune,” he ordered Thorn.

  “I am sure I don’t need a doctor,” Hélène protested as she tried walk, but her leg gave out as soon as she took a step. Stanwick scooped her up in his arms again and marched to the door. He didn’t have a chance to knock before it was thrown open by Genviève. “What happened?” she demanded.

  “It is nothing,” Hélène attempted to assure her sister.

  Genviève opened the door further and Stanwick entered. “Where is Miss Mirabelle’s room?”

  “Follow me.”

  “Thorn has gone for Dr. Brune,” Stanwick said as he followed Genviève up the stairs.

  “This is really not necessary,” Hélène insisted.

  “Your injury is much worse than you realize and needs to be tended.”

  He followed Genviève into the chamber Hélène had chosen when she thought she would be allowed to live here. Stanwick gently placed her on the bed. “See that she is made ready for the doctor to examine her injury.”

  Genviève nodded and Stanwick quit the room, closing the door behind him. Hélène knew it was too much to hope that he left the house as well.

  She fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep. The pain in her leg would eventually go away and she would be fine tomorrow.