Page 44

H elene left the ballroom and hastened back to the gallery. Separated for over twelve years, and her brother was still the same—willful, arrogant, and impossible. Flee to France tonight? A criminal leaving everything behind? Her steps echoed down the empty corridor, each seconded by a frantic heartbeat. How could she leave her friends? Her chest tightened with the thought. She couldn’t abandon William. Their dance couldn’t end like that.

Why did men think themselves entitled to alter the course of her life? William, Verón, and now her brother. She was tired of it. Tired of being a pawn in their games. She would go back to her apartment and lock the door until she was old and white, and nobody cared about her anymore.

As she stepped into a narrow corridor, a shadow materialized in front of her.

Helene halted, her breath catching in her throat. Dressed all in black, Viscount Montfort loomed before her, blocking her path.

“Leaving the party early? I thought the French were more lively.” A dark edge sharpened his caressing voice, and his eyes glittered with amusement.

This was not good. Not good at all. Did he know about her brother? Was he here to arrest them? She had to get away from him. She glanced beyond his shoulder toward the exit, so tantalizingly close.

“I find I tire easily of British entertainments.” Helene stepped to the side, attempting to circle him.

His gloved hand clasped around her arm.

Her heart pounded like a war drum. “Release me now.”

Rodrick’s grip was unyielding. “I cannot allow you to leave, Miss Beaumont.”

Ice coursed through her veins. She was lost. He would lock her in the tower, and she would face the gibbet.

“Once and for all, I am no spy.” Her voice trembled, rising higher than she intended. “You will make a grave mistake if you arrest me.”

A sardonic smile tugged at his lips, a predator playing with his prey. “Who said I will arrest you? Perhaps I only enjoy your company.”

Helene struggled against his grip, but his hand did not budge. Panic flared, and she jerked with all her force, desperation giving her strength.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Her brother!

“Gaetan!”

Montfort whirled. Heart stampeding, Helene seized on his distraction to break free.

Gasping, Helene retreated until her back pressed against the wall, her eyes fixed on the two men as they closed in on each other, like two carriages hurtling toward a devastating collision. What relief she had felt from her brother’s appearance vanished as a wave of leg-numbing fear paralyzed her. Her brother had the build of a grenadier, and no doubt knew how to use the impressive sword strapped to his waist, but he was a gentleman. Montfort was a savage. He would kill Gaetan.

When her brother lifted his arm, Helene’s breath caught in her throat. Was he about to unsheathe his sword? If they fought, what could she do to stop them? The strains of the orchestra rose, galloping towards the coda. How could people be dancing a few yards away when she was about to witness violence?

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she shifted her weight nervously.

In one swift motion, Gaetan clasped Montfort’s hand. Her unrepentant brother grinned while he shook hands with England’s most ruthless spy! Helene pushed away from the wall, rubbing her arm. She looked from the Viscount to her brother, her mouth agape. What was going on? Did he know who her brother was?

Gaetan gave a paper to Montfort, who pocketed it in his black coat.

What could it be? Before she could ask what sort of transaction could exist between her brother and this villain, Montfort pointed at her with his chin.

“Next time you require my favor, find a sister who is easier to protect.”

Helene gasped. “Protect? You’ve threatened and bullied me to—”

“The Horse Guards are on your heels, Wagram. I cannot guarantee your safety if you don’t leave tonight.”

Oh, they were friends. The cunning man who persecuted her was Gaetan’s friend. They were in league all this time.

“You two are well fit for each other. Why don’t you take him back to France?”

She replayed their interactions, now under this new light. Montfort hadn't actually threatened her, did he? She had assumed, because of his cryptic words and William’s rage at the masked ball, that Montfort meant her harm. Shame crept to her cheeks, and she glared at the two culprits.

Montfort laughed, elbowing Gaetan. “Good luck with her.”

Her brother grinned back, and after a vigorous shake of hands, the Viscount left.

Gaetan caught her wrist and tugged. Helene planted her heels firmly on the carpet, resisting.

“You heard Rodrick. I’m a general in the Emperor’s army. What do you think will happen if they catch me? Do you want to see my limbs scattered across this dreadful city? You know how I hate the cold.”

Helene shook her head numbly, hugging herself. Everything was happening too fast. “Why did you come?”

Gaetan caressed her cheek. “To take you back, of course.”

“Why now? I’ve been alone for years, and—”

“I’ve been busy reclaiming our estates, Puce.” Gaetan rubbed his forehead with his thumb, like he did when they were children. “I’ve restored our mother’s chateau. You have something to return to. I thought you’d want to go home.”

A wave of longing washed over her, a deep ache for her family and the past she’d left behind. Of course, she missed it.

Helene sighed, closing her eyes. There was no escaping the truth. “I’m in love.”

“With a man who wants to make you his mistress?” Gaetan’s voice was laced with pity.

Helene hated seeing her relationship with William through someone else’s eyes. Gaetan didn’t know him—didn’t know how good, honorable, and noble he was. It wasn’t William’s fault he had obligations.

Her brother embraced her, his breath ruffling her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

She buried her face in Gaetan’s chest, inhaling his familiar scent. “How do you know this?”

“Miss Louise Bonnechoix enlightened me. She packed a bag for you. For the crossing. I’ll buy you a new wardrobe when we get to Paris.”

He took her hand again.

Helene hesitated, her thoughts a whirlwind.

Footsteps sounded behind them, somewhere in the gallery. Her vivid imagination conjured a brigade of Horse Guards, converging on them from all sides.

“I need to leave, Helene,” Gaetan’s voice became urgent. “If I go without you, I may never come back.”

***

Helene allowed herself to be dragged into the open, her body moving as if in a trance. She felt like a tree with deep roots, resisting being yanked from the ground. A mist hung like a ghostly veil, filling her lungs and clinging to her skin. Everything was unreal, almost as if she were on stage, playing the scene in La Sylphide when the forest was at its darkest.

Gaetan bade her wait by a lamppost while he called for his carriage. Helene brushed her arms, the chill seeping into her bones. The gaslight flickered above her, failing to warm her on this cold, cold night. She hugged herself, trying to contain the shivers coursing through her body.

Footsteps struck the cobblestones behind her. A figure emerged from the fog. Her pulse quickened as William's tall frame came into view. Shoulders rigid, he frowned, his eyes scanning her.

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "I'll sack Baines. Why didn't he take you to Soho?"

Helene trembled—a violin's string stretched too far. She would break apart. How could she choose between her brother and the man she loved? Her throat was tight, choked with unspeakable words, so she shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.

"You are freezing." He peeled off his greatcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Come, I will take you home."

Helene's body shuddered uncontrollably, her teeth rattling despite his warmth. She wanted to open her mouth, to say the words that hung like a stone in her throat. She couldn't go home. There would be no home for her in England, not after tonight.

The sharp sound of a sword being drawn pierced the fog, snapping her out of her daze. William spun, eyes widening at the sight of her brother advancing, his saber gleaming in the gaslight.

"Step away from her," Gaetan growled.

William pulled her behind him, shielding her with his body. His stance was protective, and his muscles tensed like a drawn bowstring.

"Is this him?" Fury edged Gaetan's voice. "The man who stole your virtue and means to make you a kept woman?"

Helene tried to peek from behind William's shoulder, her heart hammering in her chest. "Gaetan, please—"

"I don't know the discipline they teach in Francis II's army, but in England, an officer doesn't challenge a peer of the realm." William's gaze was locked on Gaetan, his voice dangerously low.

Gaetan ripped the shako off his head and held the hat at arm's length, his eyes narrowing with contempt. "Thank God I don't serve those pussies."

He threw the shako aside, his white teeth showing through his feral grin. "In Napoleon's army, a general takes what he wants from the enemy."

Helene could only watch, dismayed, as Gaetan slashed the sword.

"I'm the Count of Wagram, general of l'Emperor's Grand Armee."

William tensed, his shoulders a stone wall.

He unsheathed his sword. "Helene, go back inside. Find Lord Cavendish in the ballroom and send him to me."

This could not be happening. Her lover would not fight her brother. She refused to be living in a Shakespearean tragedy. A peal of hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest as William advanced, his sword lifted, preparing to defend himself.

A vision of the men she loved crumpled on the wet floor, their eyes staring lifelessly at the night sky, pierced her mind, making her pulse race.

"No!" she screamed, placing herself between them.

"Helene, this man is an enemy of the realm. Do as I told you."

Helene took a shuddering breath. No more lies. "Gaetan is my brother."

William lowered his sword and turned to her.

"Is this true?"

The fog distorted the gaslight above her, bending its glow into strange shapes that danced on William's red coat.

She nodded, unable to find her voice. Helene wrung her hands, her skin cold and clammy.

He looked from her to Gaetan, his nostrils flaring. His grip on the sword hilt slackened, fingers loosening as if the weapon had grown foreign in his hand.

For a heartbeat, he didn't breathe.

The silence between them grew taut.

She could see it—his mind stalling, then whirring to life again, torn between instinct and realization. Would he do his duty? Would he raise the alarm, denounce her brother—the enemy—and condemn her by association?

He didn't deserve this. Why had she placed William in such an unfathomable dilemma? The country he vowed to protect or the woman he claimed to love.

But then his expression shifted, assuming the duke's facade. The blue in his eyes swirled with icy fury, no longer a mere flame or passing tempest but a blizzard that threatened to bury her under its cold.

"What other lies have you told me?"

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through her more cleanly than a blade, and her heart shrank in her chest as if trying to retreat from it.

He thinks I betrayed him.

Her voice cracked on the last word. She took a hesitant step toward him, her slipper skimming the wet cobblestones.

"I promise you. I didn't know Gaetan would come."

Her breath hitched, lodged behind a sob that refused to rise. The look in William's eyes—hurt, disbelief, betrayal—was more than she could bear.

Please don't hate me.

She had never seen him like this—so still, so carved in fury.

He turned to her brother, jaw clenched. "Leave now. Take your secrets back to France. I won't set the alarm."

Then he reached for Helene's arm.

"Come." His voice dropped, tight with dark emotion.

Helene didn't move.

He gazed at her, and his anger startled her. His two sides became painfully clear—the Silent Sovereign would rather lose her in the mist, but the other, the William she loved, couldn't stand to be apart from her, even her being a scandalous ballerina and now, the enemy's sister.

Helene's heart ached so much she couldn't breathe. She couldn't bear the hatred in his eyes. It was as if… as if he resented her and himself for what they had become.

She felt the chill creeping into her core, a bitter cold that numbed her spirit and stole her life force. This would not thaw with time or tenderness. It was a storm that would only fester. They would never have a real life like this. Grief swirled through her like the wings of a dark raven.

"Helene," her brother urged, his gaze flicking toward the palace. "We must leave."

"I'm sorry. About everything."

Swallowing a sob, Helene rose on her tiptoes and pressed a last kiss to William's cheek. "Goodbye."

William's palm covered the place she had kissed. "Where are you going?"

Helene smiled sadly, her lips trembling. "I'm going back to Paris. To my home."

Gaetan sheathed his sword, the tension in his stance easing as he opened the carriage door for her.

William took her wrist. "This is a joke. Tell me this is a joke, Helene."

Helene shook her head sadly.

"You don't have to go with him. Stay. Under my protection. No one needs to know," William's voice sounded desperate.

The clanging of an alarm bell echoed through the night.

Gaetan scanned the deserted street. "We need to leave now, Helene. The Horse Guards are already searching the city. Before the week is out, you will see my head hanging from a gibbet."

Helene's heart lurched. "But what about Viscount—"

"My friend may have bought us a few hours, but that won't hold them back for long. If they find us, you'll be seen as an accomplice. They'll throw you in the Tower, Helene, or worse. We can't stay here."

Helene turned to her brother, her eyes pleading. "Just a moment? Please?"

"Five minutes," Gaetan grunted, turning his back to give her privacy.

Letting out a painful breath, Helene caressed William's cheek. "Our music ended, love. It ended when you left, and the silence was filled with pain. We tried to find our rhythm again, but it only brought more hurt."

Her voice was a whisper, each word slicing through her like a knife.

He interlaced their fingers, his jaw set, his shoulders drawn so tight she could see the tension cords at his neck.

"I gave you the piano. Our music doesn't have to end."

His voice was rushed now—fraying. As if he could rebuild everything through sheer force of will.

"You agreed to this, Helene. You said yes." His eyes searched hers, wild with panic. "Do you want a bigger house? A palace? Tell me, and it is yours."

His grip tightened on her hand—too tight now, like he feared she might vanish if he let go. The duke's practiced composure cracked, and when he spoke again, it wasn't a command but a cry.

"Please."

The word broke apart in the space between them, torn from the most unguarded part of him.

Helene closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against the cold. Her body ached with the weight of his desperation—of her own longing.

"Even if I could live in a cage," she whispered, "I couldn't live in a world apart from you."

"Stay, damn you." His voice cracked like thunder. "I love you. Marry me."

Helene's chest shook with silent sobs. How could she make him understand?

"When we met, we were a dancer and a duke. Our pas de deux created Helene, the woman, and William, the man."

She touched the corner of his lip, then the arches of his brow, her fingers featherlight as if caressing a dream.

"While I embrace this new part of me, you hate the changes I brought into you. Even if society was willing to accept us, William might love me..."—her voice caught—"...but the Duke of Albemarle resents me."

For a moment, he didn't move.

Then he dropped her hand as if it had burned him.

The gesture was quick. Final.

Fog swirled around him, cloaking him like a cape he wasn't willing to cast off. A carriage rattled in the distance. Somewhere in the vast city, a child cried—a lonely sound that echoed inside her chest.

Helene covered her mouth, barely catching a sob.

Why wasn't he denying it? Why wasn't he fighting for her? Why wasn't he saying she was wrong—that he loved her, dancer or duchess, French or not, flawed and fully his?

Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, frantic and bruised.

She held his gaze, pleading in silence, hoping for any flicker of the man who had once whispered music into her skin. But his eyes had shuttered. The storm inside them had stilled—not calmed, but buried. Locked away behind the familiar, suffocating stillness of the Silent Sovereign.

How tragic that she had failed to free him.

He stepped back—not far, just enough to feel like a chasm. Enough to make her breath hitch.

And with that single step, he extinguished the last flicker of hope still burning in her breast.

Brushing her tears away, Helene raced to the carriage.

As the coach sped into the night, she stared out the window, straining to catch a last glimpse of him. Too soon, the mist thickened, swirling around and swallowing him completely.

Gaetan reached over, squeezing her fingers. "You did the right thing."

Helene blinked back her tears as the weight of her decision settled into her bones, impossibly heavy. A shuddering breath left her soul, but she had to be strong. She had to believe that leaving was an act of love—love for herself and for the man William could never fully be.

"Have I?" she whispered.

Then why did it feel as if her heart was being ripped apart?

***

They traveled in silence, hooves clattering against cobblestones, the city’s dense fog swallowing their departure. They left all the lights behind. Fields, woods, cottages, all blurred past. Dawn found them on the coast, the salty breeze making it all too real.

Helene’s legs were stiff and cramping when she alighted at the port of Deal. Darkness enveloped the village. The still, briny air was disturbed only by the horse’s heavy breathing and the ships whispering against the water. Helene watched everything as if she were dreaming.

Two shadows moved in their direction, emerging from the mist. Helene cried out when she recognized Louise and Celeste. She embraced her friends, holding them as a ship clings to its anchor in a storm.

Her brother strode away from them to find the captain of his vessel, and they watched his white uniform blur against the turbulent waters. It was the last time she would refer to the strip of water as the English Channel. Come tomorrow, she would have to say La Manche.

Helene tightened her hold on her friends. “I don’t think Parisians will understand Shakespeare’s quotes.”

Like a deluge, the tears came, and Helene dissolved into sobs.

Louise rubbed her back. “You will learn quotes from Voltaire, Racine, and Molière.”

Celeste clasped her hand, a watery smile on her lips. “Did you say goodbye to him?”

Thinking about William speared her chest.

Helene nodded, her chin trembling. “It happened too fast.”

Celeste caressed her cheek, her face soft with pity. “I was hoping he would make you stay.”

Helene swallowed her whimper. She had hoped the same.

Helene sighed and dried her tears with her brother’s handkerchief. “William hates me for making him fall in love with me.”

And worse, he would hate her even more for leaving him. She had seen in his eyes how she had hurt him. How she wished she had understood it sooner. He loathed how passion robbed him of control. The storm in his eyes that made his gaze so compelling—he despised it. And he condemned her for bringing forth the torment. He hated the part of himself that wanted more—more out of life than his duties as the Silent Sovereign, more from what society dictated.

If she had stayed, they would both be miserable, and she wouldn’t survive seeing the hatred festering in his eyes day by day, knowing she was the cause.

Celeste's eyes turned moist. “What will you do? We all know you look terrible in a boy’s clothes.”

Helene laughed through her tears. “Indeed, I would. So, the only alternative is to escape to the woods.”

A distant, belligerent woods no Englishman could follow her into.

“Care to join me?”

Celeste bit her lip, her gaze fixed on where they came from. “A Bow Street Runner came to the theater today. He might have news about my family.”

Helene kissed her cheek. “That’s wonderful. I hope you find all the happiness you deserve.”

Helene turned to Louise. “And you?”

Louise stared at the fathomless sea longingly. “Not yet. I cannot return yet.”

They stood like this, three French girls, embracing in an English port, lost again after their escape from France twelve years before. The Swans of Paris. The frosty night air bit at their exposed skin, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore added a melancholic rhythm to their silent farewell.

The tide turned, and with a command from Gaetan’s captain, Helene cast off, slipping away into the mist. The English coast was a fading line behind, and the future was a murky horizon ahead.