A Regency Christmas Pact Collection

by Ava Stone

  All three gentlemen rose at Genviève’s entrance. She glided across the room and settled in the seat Acker had vacated. “I can see for myself that she is fine, though I would like to hear more about this adventure.” Genviève grinned. “She was in no condition to tell me last night when Stanwick returned her to the house.”

  “That adventure, as you put it, earned her seven stitches,” Jordan bit out.

  Genviève blinked up at him. “I know.”

  Mad! Stanwick thought. Both of them are mad. Do they not appreciate the gravity of the situation? At least his blade hadn’t killed Hélène.

  Hélène leaned forward in an attempt to place her cup back on the table but stopped. Her face tightened, and pain shot through her narrowed eyes. She should not be out of bed. How had she even managed to get down the stairs? “I believe Lady Hélène should return to her chamber.”

  She looked up and nodded. All color was gone from her face.

  Stanwick shifted and placed his cup in the saucer.

  “Perhaps it was a mistake to be up so soon.” Hélène groaned.

  Stanwick glanced to the injured leg covered in lavender muslin gown; there were a few spots of fresh blood on the side of her skirt. “Dr. Brune should be sent for to make sure you didn’t tear any of the stitches open.”

  “I am sure I did not,” she insisted as she pushed to her feet, leaning heavily on the cane. Her jaw clenched. The woman was in far more pain than she showed.

  Stanwick took a step toward her as Hélène swayed but steadied herself. “Then explain the blood on your skirt.”

  Genviève gasped and Hélène looked down. The few spots were quickly growing to what would likely be a large stain. If possible, she grew even paler. Hélène looked up. Her crystal blue eyes at first were filled with shock but were quickly going vacant. Stanwick surged around the table, barely reaching Hélène in time before she collapsed.

  “Go for the doctor,” he barked as he scooped Hélène into his arms and marched out of the room. If he had waited for Trent or Acker to reach her, she was fallen and likely struck her head against the table and he wasn’t about to relinquish her to them now.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he climbed to the next floor and carried her to the room he had deposited her in the night before. This time he didn’t wait for a maid to see to her comfort but drew the lavender material up to her thigh to inspect the wound.

  The once-white bandage was soaked with blood. He pulled out his dagger and cut through the cloth until he could see her wound and almost recoiled at the sight. Good God, he had done this to her.

  Two stitches had been torn from her delicate skin and though the slice to her leg had been smooth and even, the punctures from the needle on either side of the cut were swollen and red. Blood seeped from the area that had once been closed. She had to have been in a good deal of pain even before she tried to stand.

  “You are more familiar with my sister than I realized, if you are comfortable taking such liberties with her person.”

  “I hadn’t seen her wound until now.” Stanwick didn’t want to have a confrontation with Trent. He knew his actions were inappropriate but he had to see the damage for himself. “When I brought her here early this morning, I left her in the care of .” What if she had developed an infection?

  Trent didn’t say anything, but shifted closer to the bed.

  “I did this to her,” Stanwick finally said quietly, a weight settling heavy upon him.

  A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’m still not sure what happened, but I know you well enough to know it was not intentional.”

  The circumstances no longer mattered because he had done the one thing he swore he would never do. He had injured and scarred a woman.

  It had been three days since he carried Hélène up to her room but the image of her bleeding and inflamed wound was still fresh in his mind. Jordan had pulled him from the chamber and down to the sitting room where the others waited. It was there he had told them everything that had occurred the night before. After Thorn confirmed the events as he knew them, the man was sent away with a warning not to breathe a word about what happened.

  Stanwick and Jordan remained only long enough for Dr. Brune to repair the torn stitches and deliver orders that Hélène was not to leave her bed or even attempt to walk for a few days.

  Stanwick stared at the purse sitting in the center of his desk. It held Hélène’s one hundred pounds. He still didn’t know what had possessed her to come to his club the other evening. Her words still rang in his mind. “I needed the money.” Why? Her sister was married to Acker and there was a connection to the Trents. Both families were bloody rich. Surely someone could provide her with everything she needed.

  Since leaving her home, Hélène was almost always on his mind: during the day while he worked on the books for his club, in the evening while he was keeping an eye on the gamblers, and even when he dreamed. He woke often in the early morning hours, eaten with guilt by what he had done and equally attracted to the young woman he knew so little about. He longed to visit her to see how she fared, but he forced himself to remain at his club or in his bachelor quarters. Hélène Mirabelle had a strange effect on his emotions, and it was best to avoid her until he could determine if he was still angry or simply wanted her.

  “You don’t look like you have rested much.”

  Stanwick glanced up to find Trent leaning against the frame of the door to his office.

  He sighed and settled back in his chair as he motioned for Trent to come in. “How is Miss Hélène?”

  Trent took a seat in wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Unpleasant.”

  Stanwick cringed. Who would be pleasant in her situation? The pain probably had her out of sorts. “Dr. Brune did leave laudanum, didn’t he?”

  Trent’s eyebrows rose. “It isn’t the pain. Hélène is going mad from being confined.”

  Mad! There was that word again. He needed to remind himself she was mad or she wouldn’t be in this situation. A woman with her fencing skills could fillet a husband before he knew what was happening.

  “She finally convinced Acker to carry her down to the library because she couldn’t stand to be in her chamber any longer.” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “At least it is Acker and Julia who are responsible for her and have taken up residence in the house until she can travel.”

  “Julia?”

  Trent sighed. “That is why I am here. It is about what you heard, about Hélène, Juliette, and Genviève.”

  Stanwick reached behind him and grabbed the bottle of brandy and two glasses. This was one story he wished to hear.

  “You cannot repeat what I am about tell you.”

  Stanwick nodded. “Of course.”

  As Stanwick poured one glass and set it at the front of the desk, Trent rose and closed the door to his office.

  He poured his own as Trent settled back in his seat. “Do you remember that my father’s second wife, Adele, and her daughter, Julia, were killed when their carriage went over the side of a bridge?”

  Stanwick nodded. He had been a boy when it happened but everyone knew the story.

  “We learned last year that they, in fact, didn’t die. Instead, Father sent them to Paris to live, insisted they change their surname, and then let the world believe they’d died.”

  “Juliette is Julia?” Stanwick wished to clarify.

  Trent nodded. “Adele was also increasing, and approximately five months after leaving England she gave birth to twin girls in Paris.”

  “Hélène and Genviève?”

  Again Trent nodded. “Adele remained hidden and eventually took the girls and moved to Milan . Julia was eighteen and the twins were fifteen.”

  “Why did she return, or did you look for her?”

  Trent sighed and took a drink before continuing. “When Father died, Adele thought it safe to finally return to England. Upon arriving, she learned that Father had married a third time and had another daugh
ter.”

  Stanwick leaned back in his chair and took a drink. The warmth spread into his belly.

  “Because my youngest sister wasn’t married, Adele took her daughters on a tour of England and Scotland.”

  “Adele was protecting your step-mother and her daughter?” Stanwick straightened. “If your father married the current dowager while his wife was still alive, that marriage is not legal because I am assuming there was never a divorce.”

  “I am sure Father assumed he could do as he wished, though I don’t know what explanation he thought he could offer if Adele would have returned earlier.”

  “Which brings in the question of your youngest sister’s birth—.”

  “—Being on the wrong side of the blanket,” Trent confirmed. “Adele only returned to London with her daughters when their funds ran out. That’s when we discovered Julia was alive and learned we had two additional sisters.”

  Stanwick sat forward. “How did you manage to keep something like this from the ton?”

  “It hasn’t been easy.” Jordan sighed and took another drink.

  “How does Bentley plan to introduce Hélène in the spring? Is he going to claim the ladies are cousins?”

  “He is going to tell the truth.” Trent shrugged. “Someone would learn eventually, and it is better to face it head on.”

  Trent relaxed and took another sip of his drink. “None of this is your fault, Stanwick.” He placed the glass on the desk. “I know you’ll carry the guilt, but Hélène brought this on herself.”

  “I’ve told myself the same things a dozen times, but I still feel responsible.”

  “In time, perhaps you’ll let it go.” Trent walked to the door and opened it. “And might I suggest you visit her soon?”

  Stanwick hitched a brow in question.

  “She was going on this morning about her winnings. If you don’t deliver them soon, this will be the first place she visits as soon as she can walk further than across the room.”

  Hélène glanced around the library. At one time this had been her favorite room, with the dark cherry wood, cream walls, and soft rose upholstery. Now it was closing in on her. At least she was now allowed to move about with the use of a cane, but she couldn’t go very far. Stairs were her downfall, so once she was on one floor she needed to remain there. She couldn’t keep bothering someone to carry her from one floor to the other every hour.

  The footmen had moved the settee so that she could reach books on the shelves and still be able to look out the window. But neither the books nor those going about their business on the street below held her interest.

  Hélène sighed and let her head fall back. What she needed to do was plan her escape. Not from this house, but England. If all went well, in a month she would be sailing for Milan. If she was frugal with her money, she should be able to live quite well until she was working again.

  “Pardon me, Miss Hélène,” a footman said, interrupting her thoughts. “You have a visitor.”

  Hélène immediately cheered. It must be one of her sisters-in-law.

  “Mr. Sebastain Stanwick.”

  Her breath caught. Why was he here? Was he bringing her winnings? He said they were still hers. “Please, show him in.”

  Hélène carefully turned and placed her feet on the floor. It wouldn’t do for him to find her lounging on the settee, even if it was the most comfortable position for her leg.

  He entered a few moments later, and Hélène’s pulse increased at the sight of him. Few men, if any, were as handsome as Mr. Stanwick. Today he was put to rights with his hair brushed and jaw clean-shaven. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been disheveled. Hélène was torn over which appearance she preferred. There was something wicked about him being in a state of near undress with mussed hair that warmed her to the core, though seeing him turned out neatly was pleasant as well.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Hélène.” He bowed before her. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She gestured towards a chair so he could sit. Stanwick chose the one closest to the settee. He was so close she could smell the citrus scent of his shaving soap. Goodness, why hadn’t he chosen a chair on the other side of the table? He was much too close in proximity to her even if it was perfectly proper.

  Hélène looked back at the young footman waiting in the doorway. “Please bring tea and cakes.”

  When the footman left the room, she turned more fully towards him. “Did you bring my winnings?”

  Stanwick simply stared at her.

  “You did say they were still mine?” Her breath hitched and stomach tightened, but this time it had nothing to do with how handsome Stanwick was but with sheer panic that he may have changed his mind. “I did not misunderstand?”

  “I am simply holding on to them for the time being.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I would like some answers first.”

  She opened her mouth to question him when the footman entered with the tea service. That was certainly quick, but given the hour, cook probably had the tray already prepared. Hélène straightened and waited for the young man to place it in the middle of the table and leave. As she leaned forward to pour, Stanwick did as well. Their fingers brushed, and hers came alive with a current she’d never before experienced. Hélène yanked her hand back as if she had been burned, yet the tingling remained. Stanwick simply grasped the handle and lifted. Had she been the only one to be affected by the touch?

  “I’ll be happy to pour since the last time you attempted it you pulled a few stitches.”

  While she was perfectly capable of leaning forward now, Hélène simply nodded, a bit bewildered by the warmth and tingling that shot through her at the mere brush of his fingers. Had the injury to her leg affected more of her person than she realized?

  He shifted and handed the teacup and saucer to her. Hélène was very careful not to touch him when accepting for fear the same sensation would happen again and she would end up spilling tea into her lap.

  Stanwick prepared a cup for himself but set it aside. His eyes were intense as he studied her.

  Why had she jerked back as if he’d scalded her? The brush of her fingers warmed his in a way he hadn’t expected. Had she experienced the same and it surprised her? Stanwick wanted to grasp her hand in his to see if the warmth would spread. His eyes focused on hers. They were a lovely shade of blue.

  He shouldn’t be thinking about her eyes, or the charming pink flush of her skin, or the lovely rosebud mouth.

  Stanwick leaned closer. The door was open and he didn’t wish for the servants to overhear their conversation. Likely they knew what she had been about the other evening, but he didn’t want to add to the gossip. “Why did you come to my club dressed as a man to gamble?”

  She shifted towards him. Those full lips were close enough that all he had to do was lean further and he could kiss them. Why did he even want to do such a thing? He was still a bit angry and had already deduced she was mad.

  “I told you,” Hélène whispered. “I needed the funds.”

  “I am sure your brothers will see to your welfare.”

  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t wish for the Trents or anyone else to see to my welfare. I wish to make my own way, as I did while Mother was still alive.”

  No woman made her own way unless she was of the lowest class. “Where would you care to go if you made your own way?”

  She straightened and smiled. “Milan.”

  Stanwick rubbed his chin and studied her. “I don’t understand. Isn’t all of your family here?”

  “My brothers will not let me do as I wish.” She crossed her arms across her breasts. “In Milan I can continue as an actress and be a part of the theatre without anyone saying that it’s not proper.”

  “You wish to return to Milan, live alone, and perform on the stage?” This was a lady, a Trent. Trents were respectable. Actresses, for the most part, were not.

  She hitched an
eyebrow but didn’t answer. Of course, she had just told him that was what she intended to do, but he couldn’t grasp the fact she wanted to be on her own. It simply wasn’t done. Especially when one was part of a family Society held in high regard.

  “Who would protect you?”

  Hélène blew out a breath. “Because I am a woman, you think I need someone to protect me?” She stood, balancing her weight with both hands on the head of the cane. “I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Women are supposed to be taken care of,” Stanwick said as he came to his feet. “They are delicate and more vulnerable than a man.”

  “By whose standards?” Hélène demanded. “I will grant you, I am not as strong as you, but my mind is sharp.” She took a step away from him and her jaw tightened as pain sliced through her eyes. “And I recall doing very well fencing against you.”

  He gestured to the cane. “Not all that well.”

  Hélène straightened her spine. “It was simply because you have a longer reach.” She leaned toward him. “Admit it, my skill was not lacking.”

  Stanwick shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit he had been impressed. Such an action would only encourage her to put herself in further danger. Besides, her lips were inches from his. All he needed to do was bend slightly forward and they would be touching.

  They drew him, like an addict to opium. Though he knew this was a mistake he would likely regret, Stanwick could not pull back.

  Hélène’s knees nearly gave way when his lips touched hers. Firm, but gentle, coaxing, and delicious. Thank goodness she was leaning on her cane or she would be in a heap on the floor.

  His hand came around to the back of her head, and he tilted just slightly before tracing the seam of her lips. She parted hers, not sure what to do, allowing her instincts to take control. He delved, and she was lost in a sea of sensations. Her hands lost the grip of the cane. It clattered against the table, upsetting a teacup, but she didn’t care. Bracing all her weight on her good leg, she clutched at his shoulders, dearly wishing the corner of the table did not separate them