“Allons!” Helena waved Louis on. She had little confidence in Louis, but set much more store in Fabien’s good sense. Her guardian was not a man to put at risk anything that was of value to him. If Fabien wished her to meet some gentleman, there would be some sane explanation. Although she railed against Fabien’s hold on her, she was too wis
e not to humor his wishes until she was free of him.
Louis led her to a long gallery, then somewhat hesitantly opened a door and peered in. He stood back. “Bon—this is it. The library.” He waved her in.
Helena glided forward.
Louis lowered his voice. “I will leave you together, but I will not be far, so I can conduct you back to the ballroom if you wish.”
Helena frowned, grateful for her mask as she stepped over the threshold. What was Louis about? If she wished? Why . . . ?
The library door shut softly behind her. She scanned the room, expecting to see some gentleman waiting for her, but there was no one there. No one rose from the large armchairs before the hearth, no one sat behind the desk.
Pirouetting, she scanned the long room. Bookcases lined the walls. The tall windows were uncurtained, but it was dark outside. There were lamps, lit but turned low, set on side tables and credenzas around the room, shedding a gentle glow, revealing the fact that the room was empty save for her. She could see the entire room from where she stood, all except . . .
The huge desk cut off a corner of the room. Beyond it, set in the wall beside the corner, was a door leading to the next room. It was shut. Some way before it stood an armchair; she could see its high back, but otherwise the desk hid it from view. On a side table to the left of the chair sat a lamp, like the others burning low.
She started toward the desk; she may as well check the chair before returning to Louis and telling him that Fabien’s friend had not appeared. Thick Aubusson carpets muffled the click of her heels. She rounded the desk—and saw a hand, relaxed on the arm of the chair. A very white hand, with very long fingers . . .
Premonition washed over her; a tingling awareness told her who it was who waited so patiently. Slowly, disbelievingly, she came around to stand before the chair and looked down at the occupant.
He’d taken off his mask—it lay hanging from the other arm of the chair, glinting dully.
Sebastian sat, effortlessly elegant, watching her from beneath hooded lids. She saw blue flash, then he murmured, “Bon, mignonne. At last.”
Outside in the corridor, Louis chewed his nails. In a fever of uncertainty, he glanced this way, then that, then eased open the library door. As before, it opened noiselessly; he peeked but could see nothing, put his ear to the crack but could hear nothing.
Biting back a curse, he was about to shut the door when he noticed the sliver of a crack that had opened on the hinged side. He put his eye to it—and saw Helena, standing in the far corner of the room, staring down at an armchair. St. Ives must be in it, speaking, but Louis could hear not a word, could not even distinguish the tone. He stared—then saw the door in the wall beyond the chair.
Carefully, he shut the library door.
“This must work.” He whispered the words through gritted teeth. “He must ask her tonight!”
He hurried to the next room. It proved to be an office—empty, unlit, clearly not intended for the use of guests. Thanking the saints, Louis entered, shut the door silently behind him, then tiptoed to the door giving access to the library.
There was no lock on the door—just a knob. Holding his breath, he turned the knob. The door eased open a fraction.
Chapter Seven
HELENA stared at Sebastian. “You?”
He raised his brows. “You were expecting someone else?”
“Louis told me I was to meet an acquaintance of my guardian’s.”
“Ah. I did wonder how de Sèvres would persuade you to hear me out. However, I regret I have not had the pleasure of your guardian’s acquaintance.”
“Bien!” Temper erupting, she started to turn, to sweep to the door and leave—
Sebastian held up a languid hand—caught her attention. And she saw she’d walked into his trap.
To return to the door she had to pass him. If she tried . . .
She swung back to face him. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she regarded him stonily. “I don’t understand.” An understatement.
“For that I fear I must apologize, mignonne, yet before we leave here, I intend that all will be plain between us.”
He studied her for a moment, then leaned forward, slowly reached up and tugged one of her hands free. He sat back, drawing her to the chair. She frowned but consented to move closer.