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H elene opened her eyes, her heart racing. A most strange dream had plagued her sleep. She had been locked inside Echo’s birdcage while people spoke clever things for her to repeat.

Shaking off the disturbing image, she reached out to William but found only empty sheets.

She sat up in bed. Lying in William’s place was a white envelope. When she read the impersonal note, her smile faded. William had to leave to attend business, but he requested her presence this afternoon to inspect the house he meant to rent for her. The memory of William’s proposal came back in a rush. She had been so starved for him, so tired, so drunk of the steam and his cologne that she had allowed his offer to wash over her like a cooling rain.

Mistress. She tried to imagine it—this life he proposed. Not Cleopatra or Cressida, but Helene de Beaumont, strolling through a fashionable house with nothing to occupy her but the softness of fur-lined slippers and the rustle of silk dressing gowns. A life devoted to bathing, pomading, pruning, perfuming. French maids to dress her. French chefs to feed her. And a French mirror to watch herself fade. No ballet, no friends, no family, no children, just pampered flesh, exposed in the most favorable light.

But her nights would be for William, and she would be secure. Secure like Echo was secure.

Helene crushed the note against her chest, and a sob surprised her. With a cry, she jumped out of bed. It was impossible to think of it now—William’s cold control, his proposition, these impersonal words. If she didn’t think about it, then she could remember only the sensation of him inside of her and how she had missed it.

Clumsily, she attacked the neat pile of clothes laid out for her, her fingers fumbling with buttons and stays. Once clothed, she crossed the luxurious foyer, her steps unsteady, and slipped back into the secret room. The warmth of William’s bed still clung to her skin, but it vanished the moment she stepped outside.

A rush of gelid wind slapped her cheeks, raw and unrelenting. Park Lane gleamed beneath the sharp sun, too bright, too harsh.

Across the street, the door to Lord Thornley’s house swung open. A flock of dressmakers hurried inside, arms full of gauze and satin.

Maggy’s presentation.

She had promised to support her friend, but how could she now? If falling in love had been her only sin before, now she had firmly stepped into the demimonde. How long before her name ended up in Harry’s book?

Helene hailed a hackney and climbed in, pressing her back to the seat as if the worn leather could shield her from thought. She covered her ears, but the voices in her head whispered all the same—William’s silence, her own desperation, the word mistress echoing like a curse.

The journey to Soho passed in a blur.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, she stepped onto her street and froze. Viscount Montfort lounged outside the coffee house, flanked by two officers from the Horse Guards. His gaze found her instantly. Cold washed over her.

Had he been watching her?

As she passed, he tipped his hat, his piercing eyes narrowing with unspoken calculation.

Had Katherina written to her brother? Perhaps she’d sent word through some shadowy courier—a whisper across borders in the cracks of war. But was Gaetan even in France? What if he had joined Napoleon’s army, preparing to march into Russia?

Her feet grew heavier with each step up the stairs. By the time she reached her apartment, her legs buckled.

She slid to the floor just inside the door, arms wrapped around her knees. Her gaze flew over her barre, her ballet slippers, her tattered wings. The belongings of another person. A vision flashed in her mind of the house William would rent, a grand cube of bricks and glass with bars over the windows. A knot formed in her stomach, and she feared she might get sick. How ridiculous of her. She was being dramatic. The house would not be a cage.

She sat still, looking at the clock, waiting for the appointment that would define her future.

Violin notes pierced the thin wall. Her neighbor practiced Paganini’s Caprice No. 2 again. When would he get the torturous passage right? The melody spiraled upward with dizzying speed, only to crash in a cascade of rapid-fire notes.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the bow sawing furiously against the strings, creating a feverish tension. While he struggled with the same fragment, she rested her head on the wall.

When the clock struck three, a knock at the door brought in Baines. He carried with him the smell of horses and a basket of croissants. Bushy brows meeting above his nose, he gazed at her with sad eyes, as if she had disappointed him.

It felt like a final blow, the weight of it pressing down on her chest.

She bit into the croissant, glaring at Baines through a veil of unshed tears.

He kept silent, hands shoved in his pockets.

“What? Should I be ashamed of it? What should I have done? Denied it? When it pains me to stay apart from him?” Her voice came out high-pitched, her pulse racing in her temples.

Baines’s eyes darkened, but still, he said nothing.

She threw down the croissant, her voice trembling. “I banish you, Baines!” she shouted, the words of Coriolanus exploding from her mouth. “There is a world elsewhere!”

Baines exhaled, his mouth curving downwards.

Helene’s shoulders deflated, and her body never felt heavier. It was a sensible decision. The only one.

“Don’t look at me like that. William cannot weather more scandals, and I, well, my career is over.”

The violinist kept at Paganini’s piece, but he sounded tired now, as if losing conviction.

Baines opened his mouth to speak.

She lifted her hand, silencing him. “I know what you will say. You will criticize me for undervaluing myself. ‘Oh, Helene, I admired you so deeply while you forced him to come here and required nothing in return.’” She closed her eyes, her chin shaking. “I tried. But he came back changed. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

A dry sob escaped her throat, but she swallowed it. She smiled a sad little smile and dropped her weight onto the bed, feeling the mattress sink beneath her.

All was silent. Even her neighbor had given up Paganini.

Helene stared at the old valet, sighing. “Well? Will you say nothing?”

“As an old man who saw His Grace grow up, I might tell you some truths about that stubborn lad, but I won’t. I will let you discover it for yourself, and instead, I will tell you something about you. You are a brave young woman, Miss Beaumont. His Grace is lucky to have found you.”

Helene’s heart squeezed painfully, and tears prickled her eyes.

“Brave? Right now, there is a girl who needs me. She will face Queen Charlotte and a pack of hungry aristocrats alone because I have no courage to go to her. Do you think I’m brave still?”

“Why won’t you go, Helene?”

Helene stood up, her movements stiff. “Has William learned to ask impossible questions from you? I’m a fallen woman, that is why.”

“From where I can see it, you are standing on your two beautiful feet.”

Helene stared at the old servant, chin trembling. Her gaze dropped to her old shoes, and then back at Baines.

Indeed, she was.

Paganini’s Caprice No. 2 invaded her home, the notes sparkling and glorious—her neighbor got the passage right at last. She rose onto her toes, pointing her feet for the first time in days.

Filling her lungs, Helene bit the corner of her lip. “William will be very mad.”

Baines smiled solemnly. “It will do His Grace good to wait for his desires.”

Helene raced to her armoire. So much to do, the dress, her hair—“I won't get to Saint James in time.”

Baines bowed. “My lady, the ducal carriage awaits.”