Page 4

"D o you think if we had stayed in France, you would be oiling hinges?" Louise asked without lifting her head from her political pamphlet.

Helene tinkered and twisted with a borrowed screwdriver, attempting to realign her lock's stubborn components. "If we had stayed in Paris, we wouldn't have a head atop our shoulders, so yes, I prefer to oil my door's lock."

Her hand hurt, but no matter what she did, she couldn't make the ward turn. Helene scowled. Why couldn't she use ballet's techniques to navigate the everyday living?

Meanwhile, Celeste lay on her tummy, her perfectly arched feet crossed behind her, leafing through an old La Belle Assemblée magazine, oblivious to Helene's epic domestic struggle.

Louise threw her paper aside and glared at the rain castigating the glass. "I can't stand this dreary weather."

"I enjoy living here," Helene said, kneeling closer to the door. "Celeste likes it too, don't you, dear?"

"Celeste doesn't like the English," Louise said. "They snivel like maggots."

Celeste sighed, an apologetic smile lifting her ruby lips. "Well, if they spent more time in the sun, they would be more emotional. But we're not tan either—it's winter, after all."

Louise scoffed. "Tan or not, I cannot stand them. On my way here, I witnessed another pillorying. A race that humiliates and kills their subjects because they love their own sex? France is different. Napoleon's freedom—"

"Freedom achieved at the mouth of a cannon is no freedom at all." Helene dropped the tool and slid back to the floor. Her knees hurt, and the sole of her left foot was cramping from dancing en pointe.

Celeste looked up from her magazine. "Perhaps if you called the locksmith."

"I can't, not until I receive the paycheck next week," Helene said.

Celeste bit her lip. "You can come back to live with us…"

They had all lived in Madame La Roux's building for years, a haven where the retired opera singer welcomed the theater's artists. But since Helene's promotion to soloist, she had rented the garret. She adored her friends, yet while she danced, her body was not her own. Here, behind her door, she did as she pleased. A wry smile lifted her lips. Well, assuming she could actually close the door.

Louise threw a pin at her. "Why are you so pensive, anyway? You should be thrilled. Langley saw you dancing on the tip of your toes. If he doesn't choose you to be his flying nymph, he's more oblivious than I thought."

Helene sighed. "It is a sylph, and Langley is a genius."

"You better not be mooning over that aristocrat who came to the theater this morning," Louise leaned forward, trying to capture Helene's gaze.

"Absolutely not." Helene averted her eyes, feigning deep concentration on the lock.

She wasn't thinking about him—not at all. Of course, she had to admit his male beauty was impressive, and his eyes had left her quite breathless…

Helene’s hand drifted to her waist, fingers brushing the spot where his hands had steadied her. The fabric there felt different, warmer somehow, as if his touch had never truly left. "Why was he at the stage?"

Louise startled. "You don't know who he is?"

Helene shook her head.

"Do we live on the same island? He's none other than the Duke of Albemarle, better known as the Silent Sovereign."

Helene dropped her tool. She had believed him to be an aristocrat, but royalty? "Silent Sovereign?"

Louise narrowed her eyes. “Because he’s more powerful than the Regent—without the indulgence or the vanity. He leads the Public Safety Committee.”

Helene tilted her head. “I thought that was something from the Revolution.”

“It was. But England formed its own version, after the guillotine started singing across the Channel. To keep the chaos out,” Louise said. “Now, that committee exists for one reason: to fight Napoleon. Every penny of the war budget, every whisper of rebellion, every maneuver on the continent—it all passes through them. Through him.”

Helene’s chest tightened. So that was who he was. Not just a man of power, but a man at war with everything she had once called home.

"The Silent Sovereign is dangerous," Louise said.

Helene renewed her attack on the lock. "He is not dangerous to me."

"I'm serious, Helene. He stared at you."

"Don’t be absurd," Helene scoffed. "Just because he was watching the performance—"

"He wasn’t watching the stage. He was watching you."

Something in Helene twisted, and she forced a laugh.

"Then he will be disappointed. There is nothing else to see." Heat colored her cheeks, but she feigned indifference. "Perhaps he mistook me for an acquaintance."

It wouldn't be the first time. People watched her onstage, projecting their fantasies onto her figure, only to be disappointed when faced with the woman behind the role.

"A brooding duke is falling for Helene? How romantic. Like in Much Ado About Nothing . Oh, you must act as Beatrice and use your wit and banter to reform Benedick's reactionary views," Celeste said, hugging her magazine.

Louise pinched Celeste's shoulder. "Every girl on Harry's list must have worn your dreamy gaze."

"No one is going into Harry's list," Helene said.

Once a ballerina entered the horrid compilation of women who sold sexual favors in London, there was no going out. The list included names, physical traits, addresses, and how they turned to the profession. Every season, they lost corps members to West End gentlemen who relished ruining a girl's life.

To avoid the same fate, Helene lived by two rules—never become a man's mistress and never accept gifts that could not be repaid with her art.

Her waist tingled… he had not hesitated when he caught her—as if she belonged in his hands. She did not know what unsettled her more—the way his touch had stolen her breath, or the way it had felt like the safest place in the world.

Helene sat back on her haunches. "This is pointless."

"You can't stay here. What if a burglar breaks in?" Louise asked.

It wasn't as if she owned anything worth stealing. Helene doubted anyone would covet her barre, her worn slippers, or the faded curtains she had sewn by hand. Still, she could not abide the thought of someone barging in unannounced.

She wedged her hip against the door and worked the latch again. The Silent Sovereign would have no such trouble. She doubted he had done a day of real work in his life. He was the sort who commanded doors to open for him, with no regard for the poor people who actually hurt their fingers to make them openable. What was she even saying?

The latch rattled, useless. Helene swore under her breath and stepped back.

She was no Beatrice... She was a tired ballerina with lousy maintenance skills. Still... A real Shakespearean heroine would work with what she had and solve her problems. Helene's gaze fell on a discarded slipper near her trunk. She retrieved it, filled its hollow with smooth river pebbles, and then looped its ribbon into a delicate snare.

With hopeful precision, she balanced the slipper atop a chair by the door. If anyone tried to enter it would tumble, sending a warning clatter through the tiny room.

Dusting her hands, she admired her work.

A knock came, followed by her landlady's grandson calling her name. She yelled for him to wait, but he pushed the door open.

The pebbles clattered against the floor, scattering in every direction. Helene groaned, eyeing the tiny stones as they rolled under the bed.

Thomas leaned in the doorway. "This is for you, Miss Beaumont."

Helene caught the envelope from the blushing youth and, after inquiring about his grandmother's health, closed the door behind him.

When she saw the strange letter, she forgot about the mess. "It has been franked in Austria," Helene murmured.

"It's from France! They frank it there to bypass the Foreign Office." Louise inspected the handwriting. "What if it's a summons from Napoleon?"

Helene retrieved the letter. "Does he want me to fight the redcoats with my slippers?"

Celeste clapped her hands. "Oh, Helene, do open it. It could be a letter from a long lost intended. A Bavarian prince?"

"As long as it's not a debt..." A sense of foreboding washed over her, and she opened it with trembling fingers. Inside, a brief note and another envelope greeted her.

Her breath caught. The paper was thin, the seal unbroken. France. The word sent a ripple of unease through her. It wasn’t possible. Her family was gone.

Hands trembling, she broke the seal.

The girls circled her, their voices muffled by the drums of her heart.

"Gaetan," Helene's knees buckled as she read her brother's name, a beloved melody she hadn't hummed in years. Tears blurred her vision, and a sob caught in her throat.

The memories came uninvited, transporting her to a summer garden. Plums bursting their casings in the heat. Arms overflowing with lilies of the valley. Her legs trampling the buttercups to keep up. A song, soft and inviting. Laughing male voices and a boy with long golden hair.

The letter was taken out of Helene's hand.

Louise sat beside her, scanning the lines. "Did you know your father had been a marquis?"

Helene closed her eyes. "They took my parents to La Force during the revolution. But Katherina wouldn't tell me more."

Louise lowered the letter, her face pensive. "Your brother is not only alive, but he is also a general in Napoleon's army. He recovered your family's estate."

"My brother Gaetan is alive." Helene's chin trembled, and she placed a hand over her mouth.

"He is alive, and he is now the Count of Wagram." Louise's voice dripped with admiration. "I bet the Emperor himself gave him the title."

Helene’s fingers clenched around the letter. It was absurd. She was not a nobleman's sister. She was Helene de Beaumont. A ballerina. Nothing more.

Celeste traced the wax seal. "How marvelous to have a brother who is a dashing soldier, and a nobleman! What does he want?"

"He wants Helene to come back to him," Louise said.

Panting, Helene grabbed the counterpane, trying to recover her balance against a word that spun.

Celeste's eyes turned moist. "Will you leave The Swans of Paris?"

Louise embraced Celeste. "Of course, Helene must—"

Shaking her head repeatedly, Helene took the letter from Louise's hand.

"As the sister of a French general, you are in danger. Spies lurk and—"

"This stays between us." Helene lifted her brows at Louise and then at Celeste. They were different, but they shared this common trait—loyalty.

Her arms shook as she speared them into her coat.

"Where are you going?"

"To Covent Garden. I must speak with Katherina."

The ballet teacher brought them all to England. She was the only link with their past.