Helena paused, looked up, frowned. Fabien had claimed Ariele’s guardianship as well as her own. Phillipe was Louis’s younger brother; she had not met him in recent years. He’d always been quieter than Louis, but from Ariele’s words, it seemed Phillipe, like Louis, was now engaged in Fabien’s service.
Ignoring the ripple of unease the knowledge brought, Helena read on. After two paragraphs bemoaning the necessity of obeying Fabien, Ariele broke off again.
This time, when she resumed, it was clearly some days later.
I am now at Le Roc. Fabien says if I finish this letter he will send it with one of his. I am well, but alas this place is gloomy. Marie is ill and confined to her bed—Fabien said I should mention it. How I envy you in England, rainy and cold though it may be. It is rainy and cold here—I should have come with you. Still, if you were to find a useful Englishman and marry him, Fabien would be bound to let me come to be your bridesmaid. I most sincerely wish you luck in your search, dearest sister.
I remain, as ever, your loving little sister,
Ariele
Helena’s thumbs were pricking. Why? Fabien never did anything without good reason. What could he want with Ariele? And why did he wish her to know that Marie, his wife, a meek and sickly soul he had married for her connections, was ailing?
Laying aside Ariele’s letter, she reached for Fabien’s.
As always, he was direct and succinct.
As she read his words, Helena’s world—one that had started to glow with rosy hope—shattered, then re-formed into a dark landscape of despair.
As you will see from your sister’s letter, she is now at Le Roc. She is currently well, as happy as might be expected, and intact. There is a price, my dear Helena, for her continued well-being.
The gentleman in whose house you are now residing has something of mine. It is a family heirloom, and I wish it back. I have been unsuccessful over the years in convincing him to part with it, so you will now please me by retrieving it and returning it to me.
The heirloom in question is a dagger in its sheath. It is eight inches long, curved, with a large ruby set in the hilt. It was given to one of my ancestors by the Sultan of Arabia. There is no other like it—you will know it the instant you see it.
One thing—do not seek to discharge this duty by enlisting the aid of St. Ives. He will not part with the dagger, not for any reason. Do not think to appeal to his good nature—it will avail you naught and cost your sister dearly.
I expect you to obey me to the letter in this, and with all reasonable speed.
If you fail to bring me the dagger by Christmas, in recompense I will take Ariele as my mistress. Should she fail to please me, there are houses in Paris always ready to pay highly for tender chickens such as she.
The choice is yours, but I know you will not fail your sister.
I will expect you by midnight on Christmas Eve.
Yours, etc.
Fabien
How long she sat and stared at the letter Helena had no idea. She felt ill; she had to sit unmoving until the nausea passed.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine . . .
Then she did, and that was worse.
“Ariele!” With a muffled cry, she bent forward, covering her face with her hands. The thought of what awaited her precious little sister if she failed swamped her mind, made her wits seize.
Her heart, her whole chest, hurt; a metallic taste filled her mouth.
The lesson was abundantly clear.
She had never been free of Fabien—he’d been pulling her strings all along. The letter she’d felt so clever about obtaining was worthless. She would never get an opportunity to use it.
Fabien had played her for a fool.
She would never be free.
She would never have a chance to live. To have a life that was hers and not his.