Lady Disguised (Tenacious Trents Novella) (Tenacous Trents) (8 page)

Hélène watched him leave as tears
formed in her eyes. She couldn’t understand the emotions rioting within her.
She wasn’t being forced into a marriage. Stanwick accepted that she would
return to Milan and continue acting. Why did she feel like a part of her just
walked out the door?

It was silly, of course. She
sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. Stanwick had simply awakened a passion
she hadn’t known existed. He accepted her for who she was. Hélène regretted
that she wouldn’t have the opportunity to explore that passion a bit further,
but to do so would require marriage. She wasn’t about to give up her dreams to
find out what magic occurred between a man and woman behind closed doors.

“Are you all right?”

Hélène blinked to find Elizabeth
standing inside the room. She hadn’t even seen her enter even though she had
been looking in that very direction.

“I’ll be fine.” She feigned a
smile and moved to refill her teacup.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to
reconsider marrying Stanwick?”

Hélène shook her head. She did
not want to talk about Stanwick or his proposal, or she might very well start
crying. She was getting what she wanted. There was no reason to be maudlin.

“We did come by for a purpose,”
Elizabeth announced as she settled back in the chair she had previously
vacated.

Hélène turned to her with
interest, hoping it was something to take her mind from Stanwick and his
kisses.

“Because of your injury and your
inability to travel, we are not leaving for Yorkshire until December
seventeenth. If the weather holds, we should arrive on the twenty-fourth.”

Hélène simply nodded. Though she
had no desire to travel to Yorkshire, Hélène no longer cared. In a month, she
would be sailing for Milan and that was all that mattered. There she would be
able to put the Trents and Stanwick behind her. It wouldn’t be so easy to go on
without her sisters, especially if Genviève decided to remain in England, but
they had their own lives. It was time she forged on without them.

“And since you are stuck here for
the time being,” Elizabeth continued. “We are going to bring a bit of Christmas
to you.”

“Pardon?” What could she possibly
mean?

Elizabeth walked to the side of
the room and yanked on the bellpull. A moment later, servants entered with
woven stacks and began opening them. The scent of evergreen filled the air,
tickling Hélène’s nose until she sneezed. They had never truly celebrated
Christmas after leaving Paris. They had spent the day much like they did the
rest of the year. In Paris, Grandmother had adorned the rooms with greenery and
candles. The crèch was always placed on the center table, and on Christmas Eve
the tree was set in the corner of the room. Hélène and her sisters would
decorate it with apples, cookies, candles, and ribbons. Despite what was
occurring in France, Grandmother had always tried to make the season festive. 

Elizabeth set about instructing
the servants on how the greenery should be placed, and the bows tied, and at
which doors mistletoe should be hung. While the festive décor should lighten
her mood, it only made her sadder. This would be her last Christmas with her
family and the first without her mother. Hélène swiped a tear from her cheek.
Why was she so emotional? What was wrong with her? 

 Stanwick wandered about Dagger’s
Haven, stopping at each table to watch the play before moving onto the next.
This was how he had spent his nights for years. It was fulfilling because he
was living the life he wished and becoming ridiculously rich.   

Less than half his tables held
players, but that was to be expected. It was getting close to Christmas though
Stanwick found no reason to decorate for the holiday. The gentlemen didn’t come
here for festivities but for a good game of cards and expensive liquor.

If matters continued as they had
in the past, Stanwick would be closing his doors within a few days only to
reopen them after Twelfth Night. Most of his regular members would be off to
the country with their families, as many already were, and would not return
until next year. Those who remained through the Christmas Season did not cross
the threshold often, and it cost Stanwick more to remain open than he earned. 

As there was nothing of any real
interest happening in the gaming room, Stanwick wandered back to his office and
closed the door before sinking into the chair behind his desk. The purse that
held Hélène’s winnings still sat to the side. He should return it to her but if
she had the funds, she would leave. He wasn’t ready for her to be gone from London
just yet, though he could see no reason why she should stay.

He grasped the bottle of brandy
and poured until his glass was half full. 

Her rejection of his offer still
stung. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t been relieved to not be forced into
marriage, but relief was the last thing he felt.

He did, however, feel confused,
hurt, angry, unsettled, and a number of other unpleasant emotions. Happiness
and liberation were not among them.

Stanwick tipped back the glass
and drained the contents. The brandy burned a path to his stomach, warming yet
not calming him. 

Why didn’t she want to marry him?

Perhaps she was holding out for
love, but he couldn’t claim to love her. He admired her, yes. She fascinated
him like no other woman of his acquaintance. She was a card sharper. Under
different circumstances, it would be enjoyable to play against her, perhaps for
higher stakes. The kind of stakes that would only take place behind closed
doors, in private. 

She certainly wasn’t boring. He
would never need worry about insipid conversations. She was an actress. If they
married, she could play a different role each night—in their bedchamber, of
course.

He wanted her. There was no doubt
as to his desire to bed her and discover all the many layers of Hélène Mirabelle,
but that was no reason to marry. He should be thankful he had escaped. 

Hélène pulled the shawl around
her shoulders and returned to sewing a new set of breeches to replace the ones
Stanwick had destroyed with his rapier. Her waistcoat would need to be repaired
as well. She may need to sew a new coat, as it had been left at Dagger’s that
fateful night. 

The fire was built high but it
hadn’t taken the chill from the room.  Since coming to England, Hélène had
rarely been warm. She missed the mild and even hot temperatures of Milan. The
footman had even moved the settee and table as close to the fireplace as he
dared, and Hélène was still chilled. Perhaps she should sew warmer clothing.
The only gowns she had in the house were suited for warmer temperatures.

The house was quiet as Juliette,
Acker and Genviève were across Town at dinner with his mother, and the servants
were below stairs doing whatever it was they did at night. Hélène was alone,
and for the first time the silence was almost deafening. She wished for someone
to talk to only because she didn’t wish to be alone with her thoughts and she
missed Stanwick.

How could she possibly miss
Stanwick? She barely knew the man, but he intrigued her beyond anything she
could imagine. There was no more handsome man in Italy, France, or England, and
his kisses could only be described as wicked. If he were here now, kissing her,
she wouldn’t be freezing. Simply being in his presence warmed her, but Hélène
doubted she would see him again.

“Miss Hélène,” a footman
announced from the doorway, startling her so that she pricked her finger with
the needle. She turned as she stuck her injured finger in her mouth. 

“Mr. Sebastian Stanwick has come
to call. Shall I show him up?”

Excitement bloomed in her breast.
“Yes, please, and bring a tea service, as well as brandy for Mr. Stanwick.”

Hélène hurriedly tidied the stack
of plays she’d read earlier, which were now scattered across the table. She had
just smoothed her skirts into place when he walked in the room, nearly stealing
her breath. He appeared as he had that first night she had seen him, dressed in
dark evening clothes, hair neatly combed back, crisp white cravat tied into an
intricate knot. Self-consciously, Hélène’s hand went to her own hair and
smoothed it away from her face. He smiled, and her heart melted. Damn and
blast, why hadn’t she taken greater care with her appearance?  She was still
wearing the batiste gown she had donned earlier in the day.

“Please, come in.” She gestured
to the small seating area arranged before the fire.

Stanwick didn’t take the chair
across from her but settled at the opposite end of the settee. Her pulse
increased at him being so near. She grasped the material she’d been sewing to
keep her hands from shaking. Why did this gentleman affect her so? Was it
because of that kiss or because he was handsome, pure male, and she wished to
discover more about him?

The footman entered with a tray
and set the service at the center of the table. Stanwick looked at the bottle
of brandy and lifted an eyebrow in question. 

“I thought since its evening you
would prefer something stronger,” she hastily explained.

“I think it is safer if I stick
with tea.” He chuckled.

Did he fear getting inebriated?
Her brothers drank brandy, lots of it, and whiskey, but she had yet to see them
drunk.

Hélène leaned to pour two cups of
tea. Such movement still pulled at her stitches but it was no longer painful.
Stanwick didn’t attempt to assist as he had in the past.

“If I recall, you prefer a dab of
milk.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She prepared his cup and handed
it to him before fixing her own.

Stanwick picked up the stack of
plays and thumbed through them. “How long have you been an actress?”

“Since I was sixteen.” 

“Is it something you have always
wanted to do?”

“No. It was quite by accident.”

He lifted a brow in question as
he sipped.

“I had been at the theatre to
pick up Juliette’s costume. A play was in rehearsal, but one of the actresses
was ill. They asked that I stand in for blocking and to read lines. As the actress
didn’t return for two weeks, she could not catch up and I was cast in the
role.”

“And you’ve been acting ever
since?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “There are
fewer, if any, places I would rather be than on the stage.”

Stanwick turned toward her and
cocked his head. “Where did you learn to fence?”

Hélène laughed. How long had this
question puzzled him? “I’ve often played a male on stage because of my height.
Once, a director brought in a fencing master to train us for a fight scene.”

His jaw dropped at her revelation.
“You gained that skill from a simple play.”

She bristled that he thought
acting was so simple but pushed the emotion away. “I continued to train with
him. I found it was something I enjoyed, and he was not averse to teaching
women.”

Domesticity had been Stanwick’s
first thought when he stepped into the library and saw Hélène settled before
the fire. She wore a simple, grey day dress. Her hair was pulled behind her
head and knotted at the back of her neck, though it was a bit mussed, and
several curls had sprung free of the confines, yet she was more beautiful than
before. Her creamy skin had a healthy glow, and he was no longer concerned that
she would suffer any further consequences from the slash in her thigh. A red,
gold, and blue shawl was pulled about her shoulders, and those blue eyes
sparkled. It could be because of so many candles and the firelight. 

Could this room be any warmer? 
He glanced around. There was more greenery, ribbons, and candles in this room
than probably in most houses in London. Why had she decorated so early and so
elaborately? Hélène hadn’t struck him as someone who would go to such excess. 
How well did he really know her? Perhaps Christmas was more special to her than
anyone else.

The heat of the room and desire
for Hélène that shot through him when he saw her had convinced Stanwick to
forego brandy this evening. He needed nothing else heating his veins. It was
all he could do not to pull her in his arms instantly and pick up where they
had left off when they had been interrupted by her family. Thankfully, he could
control himself well enough to stay away from her, though the chair on the
other side of the table might have been a safer choice.

She lifted the teacup to those
luscious lips, and Stanwick realized he would like to come home to a scene
similar to this every night with Hélène waiting for him by the fire, reading
and sewing. It was not to be, and he knew he didn’t have the words to change
her mind.

“Then you have not reconsidered
remaining in London.”

Hélène frowned. She placed her
teacup back in the saucer and set them on the table. “I would consider it if I
were able to continue acting and live out from under my brother’s control.”

“You could still marry me,” he
blurted out.

She started and drew back. “You
don’t wish to marry me,” she reminded him.

“I’ve given it much thought and I
believe I do.” He leaned forward and grasped her hand. 

Hélène studied him, those blue
eyes darkening. What was she thinking?

“Dagger’s Haven?” she questioned.
“How did you come by that name?”

Her question totally startled
him. He just proposed marriage and she asked about the name of his club? Yet if
she was to consider being his wife, she needed to know his past and what the
future probably held.

“My father gambled,” he answered
bluntly. “When he lost everything we owned and creditors began knocking on the
door, he turned to drink.” Perhaps he should have poured himself a glass of
brandy after all. “My brother and I were away at school at the time, and the
students who came from more affluent families made life difficult for us.”

Any smile Hélène had earlier was
gone, and her face softened with concern. He could not look at her because the
sympathy in her eyes was too much. Stanwick shifted and stared into the flames,
recalling those days at school as if they were yesterday. “After one too many
fights, I began carrying a dagger in my boot. After I pulled it out once, the
others backed away. We were never bothered again.” He turned to face her again.
“I was given the nickname Dagger by a classmate, and it has stayed with me.”

“Do you still carry it?” Her
voice was quiet.

“Yes. It is a part of me.”

“Why a gaming hell? I would think
you would want nothing to do with gambling.”

He chuckled. “Like you, I became
very good at counting cards and calculating the odds.  I left Oxford before my
education was complete and opened the hell. It was my intention to take wealth
from the very men who had ruined my father.”

“Did you?”

 “I’ve become rich off of those
very men and my former classmates, but it wasn’t their fault my father was
ruined.” Stanwick sighed. “My father did this to himself, and his family, and
there is no one else to blame.”

Hélène squeezed the hand he still
held. At least she hadn’t pulled away when she learned of the ugliness in his family.

“If I suspect a gentleman is on
the brink of ruin, such as my father, he is not allowed to return to Dagger’s.
I know other hells are not as concerned, but I refuse to put another family in
the same position if found myself in.”

“Tell me about the rest of your
family.”

“My father drank himself to
death,” Stanwick offered without emotion, not adding that his father had died
in his mistress’s bed. It took years before he didn’t feel angry at what his
father had done. Now it was simply emptiness when he remembered that time. “My
mother could not handle the embarrassment or creditors, and died of heartbreak
a few years later.”

Sympathy clouded her eyes, but
she said nothing. Instead, Hélène withdrew her hand and reached forward to
refill her teacup. He wanted to grasp it back to him, hold on tight, and beg
her not to leave.

What had come over him? Of
course, now that she knew his unimpressive history, she had all the more reason
to reject him.

She took a sip of the tea and
turned toward him once again. In one hand she held the cup and in the other a
saucer. There was no chance of taking her hand back. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how
did you afford to attend Oxford?”

Though this question would have
never been asked in polite society, Hélène was different. He liked that about
her. Of course, everyone in society already knew the answer. “My uncle, the
Earl of Wallcut.”

She straightened. Apparently, she
didn’t realize his connections were almost as high as hers.

“I am his heir. As he is
five-and-sixty and my aunt is nine-and-fifty, and they were blessed with four
daughters and no sons, in all likelihood I will inherit the title.”

Her mouth popped open in
surprise. 

“Of course, my aunt may pass away
and my uncle could marry some young lady to produce the required son, but it is
unlikely to happen.”

“So, you must marry,” she said
sadly.

Why did it bother her so when she
had already rejected him.