But she had no choice. Ariele was her sister, and her responsibility.
Sebastian watched her, undeceived by her laughs, by her smiles. Behind them she was increasingly fragile; the light in her eyes was growing dimmer by the day. He’d tried by all means he knew to encourage her to trust him; on all logical levels he knew she did. Emotionally . . .
Despite all, he couldn’t bring himself to press her, not any longer through any lack of self-assurance but simply because he—he who had never before drawn back from a necessary act because of another’s feelings—couldn’t bring himself to torture hers.
Any more than she already was.
He doubted she knew he knew, doubted she had any idea how much he saw every time her gaze grew distant, pensive—before she realized he was watching, put up her mask and put on her smile.
It was the letters, he was sure. They still sat on her dressing table tucked behind her jewel case; he’d entered her room and checked on a number of occasions while she was safely downstairs. Both letters showed evidence of being read and refolded countless times. He’d been tempted, sorely tempted, but he hadn’t read them.
Yet.
If she didn’t confide in him soon, he would.
He’d wanted her to trust him enough to tell him of her own accord, but she hadn’t. He now suspected she wouldn’t. Which left him wondering what—or who—was so powerful, had such a strong grip on her heart, that they could command such absolute obedience.
Such unswerving devotion.
“Villard says it is not in his chamber.”
Helena kept her gaze fixed on the winter landscape beyond the library windows. Shades of brown showed through the hoarfrost that had laid siege to the land. Louis had found her here, alone; she’d retreated here to allow Sebastian to finish in peace some business that he’d admitted was urgent.
Louis closed his hand about her upper arm, almost shook her. “I tell you, you must do it soon.” When she said nothing, he thrust his face close to hers. “Do you hear me?”
She’d stilled; now she turned her head and looked Louis in the eye. “Unhand me.”
Her voice was low, even, uninflected. Centuries of command lay behind it.
Louis shifted, then released her. “We are running out of time.” He glanced around, confirming they were still alone. “We have already been here longer than a week. I have heard there are family members expected in a few days. Who knows when St. Ives will run out of patience and decide we should go?”
“He will not.”
Louis humphed. “So you say. But once his family is here . . .” He glanced at Helena. “There is talk of a wedding, as one might expect, but I do not like it. It is tempting fate to dally. You must get the dagger soon—tonight.”
“I told you, it must be in his study.” Helena turned her head and regarded him coolly. “Why don’t you get it?”
“I would, but Uncle has declared it must be you, and”—he shrugged—“I can see his point.”
“His point?”
“If you steal it, St. Ives will not bruit the matter abroad. He will not make any public accusations nor seek to take any public revenge, because he will not want it known he was bested by a female.”
“I see.” Helena turned once more to her contemplation of the lawns. “So it must be me.”
“Oui—and it must be soon.”
Helena felt the net draw tight, felt its bite. She sighed. “I will look tonight.”
She waited until after the clocks had chimed midnight before she set out. Even then she wasn’t sure that Sebastian would have quit his study, but she could look over the banisters halfway down the stairs and see if light shone from beneath the study door. Determined, she stepped out—she wasn’t fool enough to skulk but wa
lked briskly, confidently, along the corridor, keeping to the runner so her footsteps were muffled.
The corridor led to the long gallery. She reached its end and turned into the foyer at the top of the stairs—
And walked into a wall of muscle and bone.
She gasped. Sebastian caught her before she staggered back.