Page 11

“C ome on, my pets! Don’t be shy.” Verón’s voice bubbled with excitement as he motioned for the company to follow him through the theater’s darkened corridors.

Helene lagged a few steps behind. What did the director want? Her toes were sore, and her instep was a mass of angry muscles.

Sophie drifted to Helene’s side, slipping an arm through hers—a smooth gesture, like a cat brushing against the leg of a chair it had ignored for years.

Helene stiffened. It had been so long since Sophie had shown an interest in her.

Louise’s brows lifted. “Tired of fawning over the principals?”

Sophie smiled, unbothered by the barb. “Oh, don’t be cruel, Louise. I’ve simply been busy.” Her fingers brushed a loose tendril of Helene’s hair. “I forgot how lovely your curls are… Do you remember when I used to braid them? I loved seeing you dance on pointe. Would you teach me?”

Helene blinked at her, a thread of nostalgia pulling at her chest. The Swans of Paris had spent many nights in Katherina’s house, all four of them, sewing ballet slippers and gossiping. “I have a barre in my apartment, and you are always welcome. Are you free this afternoon?”

Sophie pouted. “What if we went to a coffee house instead?”

“Well, we could—“

Sophie clapped her hands. “Perfect! And you can invite the Duke of Albemarle.”

Helene startled. “I beg your pardon?”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed, the green of her irises showing a calculating glint. “Do you know he has an income of over a hundred thousand pounds per year? And he will be the youngest Prime Minister in Britain?”

Helene’s smile faded. What had she expected really? They were all so different—while Helene dreamed of ballet glory, Louise dreamed of France and Napoleon, Celeste dreamed of her perfect prince, Sophie scanned the theater’s boxes, dreaming of the aristocracy.

Exhaling, Helene pressed her temples. “Why would I invite him? I barely know him.”

Sophie’s expression hardened, her grin replaced by a thin, tight-lipped line. “You were lucky to catch his attention.”

Helene pulled away from Sophie’s touch. Was she lucky? Lucky that Verón expected her to entertain the duke and allow him to chase her? Or that she felt attracted to him, and this attraction endangered all she held dear?

Louise lifted her brows. “For once, we agree, Sophie. This duke’s attention is indeed fortuitous. It gives Helene a sweet opportunity to cut his throat and rid Napoleon of an Anglais bastard.”

Celeste placed a hand over her heart. “But he is so handsome.”

Under Louise’s pointed gaze, Celeste lowered her chin. “In a domineering way, of course.”

Their discussion was cut short when Verón halted before the storeroom and, with a sweeping gesture, unlocked the door.

Everyone hushed. Dancers were only allowed inside when seamstresses fitted them for new performances.

Grinning, the director opened his arms. “You are all invited to a masquerade hosted by the Horse Guards at Burlington House. And your Verón is so generous that he will allow you to choose any costume you wish.”

The company clapped and cheered.

Helene’s step faltered. A masquerade? Why now, and why this sudden largesse from Verón? The director’s grandiosity was only surpassed by his avariciousness.

Celeste hugged her. “The Annual Horse Guards ball! It’s impossible to get tickets. How romantic.”

Louise shook her head. “I don’t like the smell of this.”

Helene was still bewildered by the invitation when Verón took her arm and guided her to a corner.

“The Duke of Albemarle expects to know what costume you will wear.”

Helene frowned, her gaze drifting from Verón to the racks. “Why would he—”

Verón’s eyes glinted. “Have you forgotten the chase, Miss Beaumont? I told you, these Englishmen are awfully fond of their foxes.”

Helene swallowed the director’s glee.

The duke had delivered on his promise, then. A place to be anyone they wished to be... A masked ball. He was closing the distance between them. A shiver curled down her spine. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of her wanted him to.

What would she do? The theater was safe. Here, she was in control of the terrain and herself. But outside? How would she keep him at bay? All it took was his voice and his scent to make her legs weak, her heart beating faster than after a series of allegro jumps. It didn’t help that his fingers felt raspy and wonderful against her skin.

As Verón swaggered away, laughing, Helene hugged herself.

“What is wrong?” Louise asked.

Helene shook her head. The words were locked in her throat.

Sophie narrowed her green eyes. “The ball was your duke’s idea, wasn’t it? He wants you there and invited the rest of us. Bold move. I like him already. You should wear a revealing gown. Perhaps Cleopatra’s costume?”

Louise held Helene’s hand. “Is this true?”

Helene nodded, ashamed.

“Oh, what will you do?” Celeste bit her lip. “In As You Like It , Rosalind escaped to the woods as Ganymedes.”

“Or she could grow out of this ridiculous Shakespeare obsession and use the invitation to her advantage,” Sophie said, caressing Helene’s hair. “If you became his mistress, you would have jewels, horses, houses—the world at your feet.”

Louise placed herself in front of Helene. “And sell herself to the Englishman? How long would it take for her to appear on Harry’s list?”

“You may not care about securing your future, Louise, but some of us plan on making the most of every opportunity. If you were less dismissive, you’d see the benefits too.” Sophie exhaled dramatically and sauntered to her more influential friends.

Louise glared at her retreating back. “The arrogance of these aristocrats! If your brother were here, Helene, he would blow him up with grapeshot.”

“Louise, please!” No one could ever suspect her brother was a French general. “We have enough problems already.”

Celeste eyed them, her face flushed. “Why don’t you feign sickness and stay home?”

“Verón was emphatic. If I displease the duke, I’ll be dancing in the gutter.”

Their jobs depended on complying with his wishes.

All around her, the dancers searched through the costumes, their chatter rising under the vaulted ceilings. One ballerina held Juliet’s gown. Another twirled with a Hamlet’s cloak.

“If we must attend, we should make a protest.” Louise caught a crown and inspected the paste jewels. “We can wear red ribbons around our throats and go as guillotine victims.”

Helene shook her head. “The gore would attract too much attention.”

Since she had to reveal her costume, going incognito was not an option.

Helene walked along the storeroom, and halted before La Rosière’s tulle dresses. The duke’s voice replayed in her mind as surely as if he was whispering in her ear.

Tell me something, Miss Beaumont—why do ballerinas have such an excessive fondness for white?

A slow smile formed on her lips, and Helene exhaled all the air in her lungs. “I might have a plan, but I will need help.”

Louise grinned wickedly. “Does it involve sabers? Oh, better yet, cannons?”

Helene hugged the girls who had been dear companions all her life. “What would I ever do without you?”

Celeste laughed. “Why, you could run to the woods, because God knows you would look terrible in boy’s clothes.”

Helene’s chin lifted, and a smile tugged at her lips. Her plan didn’t involve guns or breeches… The duke wanted a chase, didn’t he? Well, she would give him a merry one.