A Regency Christmas Pact Collection

by Ava Stone

  Hélène took a deep breath and rubbed her sweating palms against her trousers. What had she gotten herself into? This was madness, but it was too late to back out now. She shouldn’t have challenged Stanwick. It was a foolish mistake, and one she would likely regret. At least it was to first blood. She would have hated to kill such a handsome gentleman.

  Dark, intense eyes studied her as he removed his jacket. Hélène supposed she should do the same, but wasn’t as confident in disrobing. What if there was a flaw to her disguise beneath the outer layers? That was something she had not considered when dressing, but who anticipates removing clothing for a duel before leaving the house? Still the jacket was tailored to perfection and thus too tight for what would be required for fencing. She shook out her hands to hopefully rid them of the tingling that had developed, and then pushed her coat from her shoulders.

  Stanwick’s deft fingers worked at the intricate tie of his cravat. Soon it was loosened, revealing a strong-corded neck. Hélène knew her cravat would remain or he would discover her thin neck. It was bad enough that with the padding from the coat removed he would see how narrow her shoulders were in comparison to the other gentlemen in the room.

  He peeled his waistcoat away as he studied her. She didn’t dare do the same. The lawn of her shirt was thin, and he would be able to see the bindings of her breast and the lumpiness of the pillowing at her waist and stomach. If he did manage to strike her first, which Hélène doubted, she hoped it wasn’t in the abdomen. It would be impossible to explain why she didn’t bleed without revealing the truth

  He turned and tossed his discarded clothing onto the table shoved against the wall and Hélène’s mouth went dry. His shoulders were wide, and his back dipped slightly where his shirt was tucked into form fitting trousers. The very male, strong buttocks was outlined and defined by the black material. Goodness, he was a fine specimen of masculinity.

  Stanwick faced her once again. His head cocked to the side as he studied her. He rocked back on his heels and smirked. “Have you had a change of heart?”

  Hélène took easy breaths to relax and locked gazes with him. “Non! Never.” He was not going to intimidate her.

  Thorn approached and held out the two rapiers. Stanwick nodded for her to choose. Hélène picked up one, tested the hold and sharpness of the blade before she did the same with the other. They were identical from what she could tell. She kept the one she was currently holding. Stanwick accepted the other.

  Facing forward in the center of the room, Hélène fought the urge to wipe her sweaty palms again. She could do this. She had to do this, and win, so she could leave without him knowing the truth.

  Thorn and Carrington separated, one standing on each side of the room.

  “En garde,” Thorn shouted. They brought the blades up and assumed the fencer’s stance with their weight balanced on the right, forward foot.

  “Pret,” Carrington called, and then “Allez.”

  Neither moved. They studied their opponent. Hélène would force him to make the first move. It was a study of skill, and she wanted to see what the man was capable of. Stanwick lunged, and she danced out of the way. He sported the longer reach, but she could use this to her advantage. She would make him work and tire out.

  He advanced. She retreated, preserving her strength. Letting instinct take over, withstanding her opponent’s offense for as long as she could, Hélène spun to the left so as not to get cornered by the wall.

  Hélène’s sword lashed out in a brilliant flare, and she put Stanwick on the defense. But he barely broke a breath at the change of direction. This was nothing like stage fighting, and she began to feel a strain in her wrist. Again, he took the upper hand as they advanced backwards like a lover’s dance.

  Perspiration broke out on her brow, and it trickled down her back. Her breaths were coming shorter now, as were his. She needed to change her maneuvers and bring this to an end. It was just as tiring being on the defensive as it was on the offensive. Each time their swords connected, vibrations riveted through her arm at his strength.

  As they reached the center of the room, Hélène took on the role of the aggressor once again, forcing Stanwick back a few steps before he adjusted and lunged. His blade ripped through the bellow of her sleeve but did not touch skin. That was a little too close, and she once again backed away, looking for another opening. He would weaken and allow her the chance to draw first blood soon. He had to, because she was not going to lose this match.

  Sweat beaded on Stanwick’s forehead. When he lifted an arm to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, Hélène took advantage of the opening and lunged. He countered with enough force that the rapier almost flew out of her hand.

  “That was unsportsmanlike,” Stanwick ground out.

  “So is calling someone a cheat,” she retorted.

  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.