Phillipe nodded, opened the gallery doors, looked out—then looked back, nodded again, and went.
They listened to his footsteps, confident and definite as he strode along, fade. Sebastian hunkered down beside Helena. She gripped his sleeve, looked into his face. “And you? How will you join us?”
He caught her hand, raised it to his lips. “I don’t propose to let you out of my sight, mignonne. Once you’re in the coach, I’ll join you.”
Helena accepted his word, marshaled her strength for the battle to come. Although her wound had bled copiously and the blood had seeped into her thick cloak, the wool was dark enough to hide the stain.
They heard the furor as Phillipe sent up a shout and roused the servants. The butler balked at taking his orders, but Phillipe dealt with him with a high-handed arrogance that would have done Fabien proud.
He got the coach ordered. From the shadows of the upstairs foyer, Sebastian and Ariele, with Helena supported between them, watched Phillipe pace agitatedly—for all the world as if he expected Fabien to appear and quietly inquire why he was still there.
His apprehension was contagious. Ten minutes after a footman had been sent flying to the stables, the stamp of hooves heralded the coach. Sebastian pressed his lips to Helena’s temple, held her for an instant longer, then stepped back. “Go!”
Ariele glanced back at him. Then she scowled and muttered, scuffed her feet as if she were being dragged, all the time holding Helena, who clung to her.
From the hall below, Phillipe glanced up. “Where are they?” he inquired of no one in particular. “Come on—come on!” With quick strides he started up the stairs, then Helena and Ariele appeared at the top. “There you are!” Phillipe continued up. He came to Ariele’s side but reached around her to surreptitiously help Helena.
“Into the coach, now. Don’t be difficult. You don’t want Uncle to come down, do you?”
Stepping down on the stairs, Helena gasped, swayed.
Ariele clutched and grouched louder. A trifle breathlessly.
Watching from the shadows above, Sebastian prayed. Saw Helena lift her head, nod all but imperceptibly. They continued on.
The butler was still fretting. He looked to Helena—she waved imperiously. “We must leave at once!”
Her voice was sharp, tight with pain, but they heard it as irritation.
It was enough. Everyone scurried out of their way, solicitously holding the door wide, then piling onto the steps to watch as the trio, clinging together, descended.
The clang of iron-shod hooves on the cobbles of the forecourt covered Sebastian’s footsteps. He descended the stairs quickly, then slid into the shadows alongside the staircase. Everyone was on the front porch. Craning his neck, he could just see the coach. The timing was going to be critical.
Helena entered the coach first; Ariele quickly followed. Phillipe put his foot on the step, then paused, turned to the groom clinging to his perch at the coach’s back, called him down, at the same time waving the footman to put up the steps and close the coach door. Mystified, the footman did as he was bid while Philli
pe walked to the back of the coach to meet the groom.
Sebastian drew in a breath and started for the front door, striding confidently, his boot heels ringing on the marble floor. Startled, the butler and his minions, all still in their nightshirts, swung around, ready to bow and scrape to their master . . .
Their eyes widened. Jaws slackened.
Sebastian looked down his nose at them and walked straight through. They fell back, not daring to inconvenience him.
He strode on, descending the steps, his long stride effortless, eating the distance across the forecourt to the coach. He passed the befuddled footman returning to the house. Was conscious that the man turned and slowed, watching him. All the others were gathered on the porch, doing the same, totally bewildered as to what was going on, what they should do.
Sebastian glimpsed Helena’s white face at the coach window. Raised a hand in salute. They’d done it—they were away.
His stride unfaltering, he shot a glance at Phillipe—nodded. Phillipe turned back to the groom.
Sebastian reached the coach. In one fluid movement he climbed to the box seat. Surprised, the coachman turned to him. Sebastian grabbed the reins, dropped them, grabbed the man and tossed him onto the patch of lawn on the other side of the coach.
Seizing the reins, Sebastian yelled, slapped the horses’ rumps, then sat as the coach rocketed off. He glanced briefly back, saw the groom sprawled in the dust, saw Phillipe hanging on grimly in the groom’s place.
Facing forward, Sebastian whipped up the horses. There were shouts, confused jabbering from behind, but the sounds quickly faded as he took the curve toward the fortress gates at speed.
The gates stood open.
Another carriage was driving in.