A Regency Christmas Pact Collection (14 page)

Stanwick’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. 

Stanwick 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 Stanwick, 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 Stanwick 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, Stanwick 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, and Stanwick hoped that it was only a flesh wound.  Good God, he had just injured, no cut, a woman with a rapier. What the hell was she thinking?

Stanwick 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 Stanwick.

“Congratulations” Carrington patted Stanwick on the back.

Stanwick 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 Stanwick 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 Stanwick wanted answers now, he could wait until her injury was treated.  Mirabelle took a step and winced and Stanwick strode forward. 

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 quicker 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 stair. 

“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.

“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 examining 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.

Stanwick 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 don’t understand,” she mumbled before taking a drink.

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

“You can’t mean to stay,” Thorn insisted.

As this was the home of two misses Stanwick 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.”

Stanwick 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.

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.

Stanwick 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.  Stanwick 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 caused 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?

Stanwick 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 rooms.”

Stanwick frowned.
Jordan Trent
? Why was Trent here?

“Thank God,” another voice muttered before two sets of booted feet pounded up the stairs.  Stanwick 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 Stanwick 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.”

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

“Please tell Miss Hélène and Miss Genviève that I require a word with them,” Trent instructed the person Stanwick 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
?  Stanwick 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 sure there is a perfectly good explanation.”

Stanwick 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 gentlemen and it enhanced the vision from last night. Stanwick 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.

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

“I can’t live on my own. I can’t 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 don’t 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. 

Stanwick 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.  Stanwick stopped just out of sight from those in the room. 

“I don’t care what anyone thinks, and neither should you,” she insisted.

“I don’t,” Acker added. “Juliette will continue to dance. Why shouldn’t Hélène 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 Stanwick’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, Stanwick 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 Stanwick. He swallowed against the closing in his throat.