“I am sure I don’t want to know,” Genviève mumbled as she helped Hélène from her clothing and into a night rail.

  “I promise to explain tomorrow,” Hélène assured her sister. She didn’t have the strength needed for the long explanation.

  “You most certainly will.” She pulled the blanket up to Hélène’s chin and settled into the chair. A few moments later Dr. Brune arrived and set to examine her wound.

  Dr. Brune shook his head. “You are lucky, Miss Mirabelle. Any deeper, and the blade would have cut into muscle.”

  After the way he had poked and prodded, causing the blood flow to increase, Hélène had been certain Stanwick’s blade had cut to the bone.

  “You’ll need stitches.”

  She bolted up from her position and her muscles tensed. “I am sure that is not necessary.”

  He looked up at her over his spectacles. “It is very necessary.”

  He threaded a needle he pulled from his bag. She had sewn many costumes in the past, and a little thing like a thread and needle should not bother her. Yet, as he moved it closer to the gaping wound in her thigh, the room tilted, and dark spots danced before Hélène’s eyes.

  Sebastain helped himself to a glass of brandy and paced inside a cream room accented by warm cherry wood. A delicate lady’s desk with spindly legs sat in the corner by a wall of shelves filled with books. Thorn lounged in a chair beside a window, refusing to leave until he knew Hélène Mirabelle’s condition.

  The auburn-haired woman who had answered the door sailed into the room and Thorn came to his feet. “Miss Genviève Mirabelle.” He smiled. “I thought never to see you again.”

  “Mr. Thorn,” she acknowledged with a nod of her head before turning to Stanwick. “Would you care to explain how my sister came to have a cut to her thigh?”

  “Would you care to explain why she dressed as a dandy, came to my club to gamble, then challenge me to a duel?” he countered.

  She gasped. “My sister would not challenge you.”

  “But she did,” Thorn answered.

  Miss Mirabelle sank into a chair. Thorn poured a small bit of brandy into a glass and pushed it into her hand. “I do not understand,” she mumbled before taking a drink.

  “Nor do I,” Sebastian reminded her. “Until I have the answers I desire, I will not be leaving here.”

  “You cannot mean to stay,” Thorn insisted.

  As this was the home of two misses Sebastian well understood Thorn’s concern. “If one of them happens to mention I remained here, I will let it be known what Miss Hélène Mirabelle was about tonight. That should insure nobody speaks out of turn.”

  Miss Genviève Mirabelle bit her bottom lip in concern.

  “I intend to only stay long enough to receive the answers I require.”

  A moment later she sighed and nodded her head before turning to Thorn. “I think you should go.”

  He grasped her hand in his. “I will call on you tomorrow.”

  “That is not necessary,” she insisted.

  “Ah, but it is.” A smile pulled at his lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Sebastian didn’t want to know why Thorn had been looking for this young woman and settled onto the settee. Thank goodness she had not tried to force him to leave because he wasn’t about to exit this house until he and Miss Hélène Mirabelle had a long discussion.

  Seven

  Hélène opened her eyes when a cool hand was placed on her brow. Genviève looked down at her with concern. “Did you really challenge Mr. Stanwick to a duel?”

  Hélène groaned as the events of the night came back to her. Her head ached and her leg throbbed. “I would rather not talk about it now.” She licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, and she would dearly love something to drink. Genviève placed a glass against her lips, and she drank deeply before falling back against the pillow.

  “Thorn left when I insisted,” her sister began.

  “Is he the son of the family you worked for?” Hélène asked.

  Genviève nodded. “Stanwick insists on staying until he can speak with you.”

  Hélène closed her eyes. “I can’t right now.”

  “Of course not,” Genviève agreed. “It is far too late, and you are in too much pain.” She placed a spoon against Hélène’s lips. “Take this and get some rest.”

  Hélène almost recoiled at the bitter taste, but she knew she would find no sleep unless the pain was relieved in her thigh.

  “I’ll be next door. Call if you need me.”

  She didn’t bother to open her eyes and barely heard the door click to her room.

  Sebastian jerked awake and glanced about the unfamiliar room. Where the hell was he? He laid back and groaned as the events of the night before came back to him. He was in Hélène Mirabelle’s home. He had wanted to speak with her, but Dr. Brune insisted she not be disturbed. Sebastian knew she couldn’t sleep forever, and he’d made himself comfortable in this library after helping himself to some of the best brandy he’d ever enjoyed.

  His sleep had been fitful, filled with dreams. Damn it all, he was horrified at the damage he’d inflicted on her person, angry at her deception, and irritated at lustful thoughts plaguing his mind from the way her body filled out gentleman’s clothing. His emotions were in complete contrast with each other. He’d probably scarred her, and it was not something he could reconcile within himself. Women were to be protected and cherished, not participants in manly sports. Yet he couldn’t help but admire her skill.

  The sharp pound of a fist against a door brought him back to a seated position. Is that what had awakened him? Who would be pounding on the woman’s door and were there no servants in this house? Did the sisters live alone without any male to protect them?

  Sebastian pulled the watch from his pocket. It was just past eleven in the morning.

  “Are they here?” someone demanded.

  “Yes, Mr. Trent,” an unfamiliar male responded. “I believe they are resting in their chambers.”

  Sebastain frowned. Jordan Trent? Why was Trent here?

  “Thank God,” another voice muttered before two sets of booted feet pounded up the stairs. Sebastain lay back down on the settee. Until he knew what was happening and what they wanted with the sisters, he’d remain hidden.

  “The three of them are too damned independent for their own good,” Trent was saying as he marched past the parlor.

  “One of them happens to be my wife.”

  Was that Acker? It made sense that he would call on his wife’s sisters, but Sebastain still didn’t understand why Trent accompanied him.

  “I knew Bentley should have insisted Hélène and Genviève remain with him and Eleanor while they were in London.”

  Sebastain rose from his place on the settee and quietly walked to the door. Why would the women live with Bentley?

  “Please inform Hélène and Genviève that I require a word with them,” Trent instructed the person Sebastian assumed was a footman or butler.

  Had Acker learned what happened at Dagger’s? Is that why they were here?

  “They have wanted to live here from the beginning.” The two gentlemen paused in the corridor not far from the library. “What lady does such a thing?”

  Were Hélène and Genviève Mirabelle ladies?

  Sebastian shook his head. It wasn’t possible. Acker’s wife was a ballerina, and they were the woman’s sisters. Besides, ladies didn’t dress as gentlemen, gamble, or fence.

  Why was Trent concerned about these two women? Didn’t he have his own wife to worry about?

  “You really should calm yourself,” Acker offered in a slower tone as they moved further away. “I am certain there is a perfectly good explanation.”

  Sebastian edged toward the door to listen further.

  “There you are,” Jordan announced from what must be the sitting room next door. “Why didn’t you return to Acker’s last night?”

  “Jordan, what are you doing here?” Hélène asked in a sleepy voice.

  There was warmth in her tone, now that she was not trying to sound like a gentleman, and it enhanced the vision from last night. Sebastain had gone to her room in the early morning hours because he was concerned with her health. The wig had been removed and thick, warm chestnut hair was spread out across the pillow. The sideburns had been discarded, and her eyebrows looked more feminine. He’d opened the draperies and the moonlight had shown on her full, rosy lips and rounded cheeks. How had he ever thought her a man?

  “I knew you were feeling out of sorts, and Bentley said you seemed to be suffering from melancholy. I came by this morning to see if you wished to go riding, only to learn you and Genviève never returned last night.”

  “We left Acker and Juliette a note,” she stated as if affronted. “Besides, I am not suffering from melancholy; I am being suffocated to death.”

  That sounded more like the Hélène he had met last night, without the husky lower register in her voice.

  “Nobody is suffocating you,” Trent argued.

  Sebastian stepped out into the hall and quietly made his way to the sitting room.

  “I cannot live on my own. I cannot be a part of the theater and act or create costumes. I must go to Yorkshire for Christmas, and Bentley insists I have a Season because I am unwed.”

  What was wrong with all those things? She was a lady, apparently, and it should be her focus to find a husband.

  “It is too dangerous to live on your own, especially here,” Acker added.

  “There is nothing wrong with having a Season,” Trent said a little more quietly.

  “I am two-and-twenty, far past the age of being presented.”

  So she had been telling the truth about her age.

  “You need to marry,” Trent said in a soothing tone. “Or you will be stuck living with Bentley the rest of your life.”

  “Why?” She cried out. “Maman, Juliette, Genviève, and I got along perfectly fine until we came here.”

  “But your mother is gone,” Acker said quietly.

  “And Juliette is married,” Trent added.

  “You do not think I know that?” Hélène cried.

  “What will people think when they learn our sisters are living alone, without a companion or chaperone?” Trent asked in a soothing voice.

  Sebastain stilled. Had he heard correctly? How had Bentley and the Trents managed to keep this a secret? Not one sister, but apparently three more that nobody knew about.

  “I do not care what anyone thinks, and neither should you,” she insisted.

  “I do not,” Acker added. “Juliette will continue to dance. Why should Hélène not be afforded the same opportunity to do as she wishes?”

  “Because she is a Trent!”

  “And every Trent does what is expected of them?” Acker scoffed.

  “That was different,” Trent defended. “I am a gentleman.”

  “So only gentlemen are allowed to do what they wish, and ladies are simply to wait and be told what to do?” Hélène demanded.

  Those had always been Sebastian’s beliefs, yet hearing the passionate argument in Hélène’s voice gave him pause. Was that why women were prone to madness? They were kept from being allowed to do what they wished?

  If he had been forced to live under his uncle’s thumb, as the man wished, Sebastain would be Bedlam-bound. Was that what had driven Lady Arrington to take a fire poker to her husband? Was she frustrated with her life or just her husband?

  These thoughts did not sit well with him and he swallowed against the closing in his throat.

  Eight

  Hélène stared at Jordan. Of her four brothers, he was the one she hoped would help her. That was until he came storming in the house this morning. She understood he once felt responsible for Juliette disappearing as a child, but she and her sisters were grown women now. Hélène did not need him watching everything she did or demanding to know where she went.

  Jordan sank down on the settee, and Hélène tried not to wince. Her thigh throbbed, and the dip in the cushion from his weight only added to the pain when her body shifted. However, she wasn’t about to share that information with him. The last thing she wanted to do was tell of her night.

  Jordan picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I worry about you. You’ve gone through so much this past year. I want to see you protected and your life made easier.”

  “I am not designed to lead the life of a lady. I am an actress. It is my passion,” she said softly.

  “Bentley wishes to see you wed and happy.”

  “What if marriage is not what makes me happy?” Tears sprung to her eyes. Would any of them ever understand?

  Jordan studied her. “Is being on the stage so very important to you?”

  “It is as important as dancing is to Juliette. It is who we are.”

  He sighed and shifted. It was too much, and she gritted her teeth to keep from moaning.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “The reason I didn’t return this morning.” How much should she tell him? “I injured my leg, and Dr. Brune said I should not move overly much for a day or two.” He had also told her to remain in bed, but Hélène couldn’t stay there. It wasn’t in her to be inactive. She’d insisted the maid help her dress before she navigated the stairs. This was as far as she could go before the pain became too much.

  Jordan jumped up as if he had been bit. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You never gave me the chance.”

  “What happened?” Acker asked.

  “I was cut,” she answered simply and prayed they didn’t demand a more detailed answer.

  Acker and Jordan shared a confused look. “How did you cut your leg badly enough to need a doctor?”

  She stared at them, worrying her lower lip. Why hadn’t she simply claimed to have twisted her ankle? At least that wouldn’t require further explanation, unlike a rapier cut in the thigh.

  “Will you tell them, or should I?”

  Hélène jerked her head to the voice, only to find Stanwick standing in the doorway. His hair was mussed as if he had just arisen from bed, and he appeared much as he had last night when they had fenced, wearing only shirtsleeves and his trousers. The only exception was the sleeve of his shirt was stained with her blood.

  Why hadn’t he gone home?

  “Stanwick! What are you doing here?” Jordan demanded.

  “I slept here, actually,” he said as he sauntered into the room.

  “Not with me,” Hélène squeaked. Goodness, all she needed was her brother and Acker thinking she had allowed…well she couldn’t even finish the thought.

  “I was on the settee in the library when your pounding and yelling woke me,” Stanwick drawled.

  Hélène’s eyes met his. “I did not know you stayed.” Why would he do such a thing?

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Jordan whipped around and stared at her. “How would Stanwick know of your injury?”

  Hélène glared at Stanwick. Why did he have to be here? Her brothers and Acker did not need to know about last night. Stanwick even had her winnings, so what did he have to gain by enlightening them about what had been a most humiliating experience?

  “How are you feeling, by the way?” he asked as he crossed the room and took a seat opposite her. “Dr. Brune said you were to remain in bed for a few days.”

  “Is this true?” Acker demanded.

  “I don’t need to be coddled,” she snapped. Perhaps she should have remained in bed. Maybe she would have gotten some sympathy from the gentlemen in the room, or perhaps they would have left her alone. Then she would have had time to think about what she was going to tell her family. As it was, her leg throbbed, and she just wanted to take a few drops of the laudanum Dr. Brune had left and lie down. Unfortunately, now was not the time to show weakness.

  Stanwick leaned forward. “There are seven stitches in your leg. I don’t think lying in bed for a day to heal is being coddled.”

  “Seven?” Acker asked.

  “Stitches?” Jordan stressed.

  Hélène sighed. This was not going well, and she wished Stanwick would just be quiet.

  “How the hell do you know how many stitches my sister has in her leg?” Jordan demanded.

  Stanwick’s eyes widened, and he slowly turned to Jordan.

  “Sister?”

  Acker in turn lifted an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, also looking at Jordan. Exactly how was Jordan going to explain?

  “Hélène’s relationship to me is not important,” Jordan argued. “What is your involvement with her injury?”

  Hélène sighed. She had hoped the conversation would turn from last night, but apparently Jordan wasn’t about to enlighten Stanwick about their kinship.

  Hélène watched Stanwick’s dark eyes as he mulled over what he was going to say. She forced herself to breathe, though she feared he would tell them everything.

  “I’ve brought tea, Miss Mirabelle,” a footman announced as he came in the room.

  “Thank you, Vickary.” Hélène smiled at the young man.

  Hélène gazed at the tea service. A cup of tea was precisely what she needed. As she was the only female in the room, it was her duty to pour. She slowly leaned forward, but winced as the stitches pulled and a sharp pain tore through her thigh. Perhaps she wasn’t as thirsty as she thought.

  Stanwick grasped the handle of the delicate teapot. “Allow me.”

  Their eyes met and held. He looked ruggedly handsome this morning with a midnight, wayward curl resting on his forehead. His chiseled features were all the more defined by the dark shadow on his lower cheeks and chin.

  “Thank you,” Hélène murmured, glancing away from his dark, penetrating gaze.

  Pain sliced through Hélène’s eyes and her mouth grew white and pinched when she attempted to be the proper hostess in pouring tea for his guests. Neither Acker nor Trent moved to assist. Didn’t they note the pain in her eyes? Her face didn’t completely relax until she was once again against the back of the settee. This was his fault.