He glanced at the letter, let his eyes run over his careful phrases inviting the Thierrys, mademoiselle la comtesse d’Lisle and M. de Sèvres to spend the next week at Somersham Place. He had made it clear that this was to be a private visit, that the only others at his principal estate would be Cynster family members.
That last should make his direction patently clear; such a summons, couched in such terms, could mean only one thing. But with that “thing” unstated, it could not be taken for granted.
He smiled as he considered how Helena might react—he couldn’t, even now, predict it. But he would see her tomorrow night, at Lady Lowy’s masquerade. Whatever her reaction, he was sure he’d learn of it then.
Tipping the sand aside, he folded the parchment, lit the candle, and melted a stub of wax, then set his seal to the letter. Rising, he turned down the lamp, then crossed to the door.
In the front hall, he dropped the letter on the salver on the side table.
Done.
He paused, then headed for the stairs and his bed.
Chapter Six
THE following morning at nine o’clock, Villard pulled back the curtains about his master’s bed. Louis started awake, then scowled.
Villard hurried into speech. “M’sieur, I knew you would wish to have these immediately.” He deposited a package on the bed beside Louis.
Louis frowned at the package, then his face cleared. “Bon, Villard. Très bon.” Louis struggled free of the covers. “Bring me my chocolate, and I will read my uncle’s dispatches.”
Settling against the pillows, Louis ripped open the package addressed in Fabien’s distinctive hand. Three letters wrapped in a single sheet of parchment spilled onto the sheets. There was writing on the parchment, an order: Read my letter to you before you do anything else. F.
Louis studied the three letters. One was for him; another, also from Fabien, was addressed to Helena. The third was also for Helena, but addressed in a girlish hand. After a moment of pondering, Louis decided it must be from Ariele. He set aside Helena’s letters and opened his.
There were two sheets closely covered in Fabien’s forceful black script. Smiling in anticipation, Louis smoothed them out—he looked up as Villard reappeared with his chocolate on a tray. He nodded, picked up the cup, took a sip, then held up the letter and started to read.
Villard saw the smile fade from his master’s face, saw it pale. Louis’s hand shook. Chocolate spattered the sheets, and he swore. Villard jumped to mop the spill. Scowling, Louis set the cup back on the tray. He returned to his letter.
Under pretext of readying Louis’s clothes, Villard watched. When Louis set down the letter and stared blankly across the room, he deferentially murmured, “Monsieur le comte was not pleased?”
“Eh?” Louis blinked, then waved the letter. “No, no—he was pleased with the progress. Thus far. But.” Louis looked at the letter again, then carefully folded it. Villard said nothing; he would read it later.
Some minutes passed, then Louis ruminated, “There is, it seems, more to my uncle’s plans than meets the eye, Villard.”
“It has ever been so, m’sieur.”
“He says we have done well but we must move faster. I was not aware—it seems the English nobility invariably adjourn to their estates in but a few days. I was anticipating another week.”
“The Thierrys have not mentioned this.”
“No, indeed. I will take it up with Thierry when he returns. But for now there is a great challenge facing us, Villard. We must somehow ensure that St. Ives is sufficiently taken with Helena to invite her to visit at his country house. The dagger Uncle Fabien seeks to reclaim is apparently kept there.”
Shaking out a coat, Villard frowned. “Do you think monsieur le duc is liable to issue such an invitation?”
Louis snorted. “He’s been hot after Helena since we arrived, just as Uncle predicted. Don’t forget, these English ape our ways, so yes, as Helena has successfully held him at bay, then the natural course would be for him, a powerful nobleman, to invite her and the Thierrys and myself to stay, with a few others to generate the necessary camouflage, then seduce Helena into his bed. It is the way things are done at home—it will be the same here.”
“Is there not a certain danger there?”
Reaching for his chocolate, Louis smirked. “That is what is most entertaining. It is Helena against St. Ives, and my money is on Helena. She is a prude, that one.” Louis shrugged. “Twenty-three and a virgin yet—what would you do? She isn’t likely to succumb to St. Ives’s blandishments, and you and I, Villard, will be there to ensure he has no chance to force her.”
“I see.” Villard turned to the wardrobe. “So the plan now is . . . ?”
Louis drained his chocolate, then frowned. “The first thing will be to secure this invitation, and that must be done tonight.” He glanced at the folded letter. “Uncle Fabien makes it very clear we are to do everything needful—everything—to ensure that Helena is invited to St. Ives’s estate
.”
“And once the invitation is in our hands?”