Page 5

H elene raced through Firth Street, her breath harsh against her freezing nose. Soho’s slick pavement nearly sent her stumbling. She crossed her arms, protecting the letter she held close to her chest. People stared at her as if aware she was the sister of the enemy.

Could Gaetan be alive? How many nights had she cried herself to sleep? Yearning for the big brother who would take her on missions to find eagle nests, promising that once they found one, the mother eagle would give them wings... They would spend hours rambling through the hills, only returning when they were thoroughly exhausted and utterly happy.

Helene stifled a sob. Her brother was dead. Who would send these cruel lies?

As she turned the corner, the towering facade of Covent Garden Theater came into view.

Helene halted, panting, and stared at the colossus made of Italian marble and English ambition. The columns soared high, reaching for Apollo, the dancers’ God. The grand portico opened its arms as if saying, ‘Come, bring me your pennies, and I will give you dreams, and if you are lucky, I will teach you to fly.’

A vendor passed by her, shouting his wares, and a carriage clanged its bell as the chauffeur shooed her out of the way. The letter inside her coat pulsed, a beat more insistent than the peddlers. Bracing herself, Helene circled to the back entrance. The cacophony of the street faded behind her, replaced by the muffled sounds of the orchestra warming up as she strode through the dimly lit corridors.

Katherina paced the green room, instructing the gathered dancers for the evening’s performance.

Helene's hands trembled, and she fisted them by her sides. She would demand answers from Katherina—no more secrets.

“I need to speak with you.”

The older woman shot her a sidelong glance. “Where is your costume? The presentation starts in forty.”

“Would you spare me five minutes?”

Katherine exhaled, flicking her hands in that familiar, impatient way. “Helene, the barre won’t wait.”

“I received a letter from my brother.”

Katherina’s face blanched underneath her heavy makeup, and she turned to the corps de ballet. “Pliés, grand plié, port de bras. Then, rehearse the divertissement. Go along, merci.”

Helene followed Katherina into her cramped dressing room.

Katherina warmed her hands by the small stove. “After spending the winter of 1794 in prison, I'm never warm enough. Did you know there was a brigade of servants in Versailles whose only task was to heat our rooms?”

Usually, Helene drank Katherina’s reminiscences from her time as Marie Antoinette’s maid of honor, but not now.

She pulled the letter out of her coat. "This came today. It says it’s from my brother. How is it possible when all my family is dead?”

The older woman frowned while scanning the lines, and the corners of her lips lifted. It was strange, that smile. It made Helene uncomfortable.

“Your brother was a petit gentleman when you two were little. Now, he has become a dashing officer. Your father would have been proud.”

“Is this true, then? I’m a nobleman’s daughter?”

Katherina’s smile faltered. She pressed her lips together, her gaze shifting to the letter again as if searching for meaning in its lines. After drawing a slow breath, she closed her eyes.

“Do you think I would leave Paris carting a brood of peasants?” Her voice seemed tired as she reached for a shelf and brought out a square bundle.

Helene accepted the offer, peeling back the edges of a yellowed handkerchief to reveal a lock of hair lighter than her own and a sheet of music. The melody was familiar—a sweet ballad she often hummed before falling asleep. Beneath it waited a miniature of her mother.

“I look like her.” Helene’s voice caught on a sob.

She closed her eyes, and her mother’s scent brushed against Helene’s nose, so close, yet so cruelly out of reach—lily of the valley. Her mother’s favorite flower. She believed it brought good luck.

Tenderly, Helene traced her mother’s cheeks and the hooped skirts—a fairy-tale princess.

“We were inseparable. Your mother and me," Katherina said. "When they dragged her to La Force prison, I went mad, I—”

“This is not about you. Can you, for once, pretend you care about us? Why leave us in the dark about our origins? Me, the others?” Helene’s voice broke as she clutched the miniature.

“Don’t be bitter, Helene. Once her heart sours, a ballerina can only dance the part of hags and witches. You know I’m—”

“Incapable of love. Robespierre robbed you of that, too. We all know.” Helene’s shoulders sagged.

Thank God Langley didn't believe her. Otherwise, they would have starved. Poor Langley’s unflinching hope in Katherina’s love had placed a roof over their heads.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I promised your mother. She thought it would make you perpetually angry. Since it was all lost—the estate, the Paris townhouse, your inheritance—it was best if you didn’t hear about it.”

Helene dropped to the floor, her legs stretched in front of her.

The theater’s first bell rang.

“Gaetan wants to take me back to France.”

“I see. Ballet or the family you never had… A dilemma to make even Shakespeare proud.”

Helene’s fingers stopped twirling her mother’s lock. “I have a family. The girls, you, Langley, the theater.”

“It is different. What happens on the stage… it is not true, Helene.”

For her, it was. In a dancer’s rehearsed moves lay a truth that no real-life clumsy attempt could mimic. She had lived inside that truth since she arrived in England. How could she live in any other place? Ballet was her identity. How did one walk away from one’s identity?

Katherina squeezed Helene’s shoulder. “You have been too sheltered. What do you know about life? What of the pleasures of being a mother, of having your own family?”

Helene averted her gaze. She hadn’t trained all her life for living out of ballet. The mere thought made her shiver. What if she failed? “Ballet is my life. Should I abandon it to be a tame lady in a Parisian home?”

“Times are changing. This new director, Verón, has strange ideas. Langley can no longer protect you girls from—”

“Times are changing for the best. Langley never gave us the leading roles in his ballets. The new director might give us a chance.”

The bell sounded the second warning.

Helene stood, her eyes darting from her family’s treasures to the door. She took a deep breath. “I love my brother and wish him all the glory. But my life is here.”

***

The box’s drapery was partially closed, muffling the cries of orange girls, chattering women, and the orchestra tuning their instruments. William asked the footman to dim the lamps, concealing his presence from the rest of the audience.

This early in the season, most of his peers were in the country, yet William wanted to avoid attracting a throng of well-wishers and social climbers. He told himself he came tonight to witness Verón’s improvements. But as the third bell sounded, his heart sped, and his mouth went dry. The same breathless exhilaration that coursed through him in his dreams, when he was about to catch the sprite.

Nonsense. Watching her dance would prove she was another face at the ballet, not the being who haunted his nights.

William grabbed the program, scanning the French names for the tenth time. Which one could be hers? He knew nothing about her. Not even her name. If she disappeared, he wouldn’t know where to find her. The lack of knowledge was intolerable. He shut the vellum.

The gilded lettering of the ballet’s name— Orpheus and Eurydice —flickered under the candlelight. Yet another tale of a man ensnared by love. Orpheus journeyed to the Underworld to save his dead wife. All he had to do was avoid looking at her. Despite remarkable talents and divine favor, Orpheus failed this most simple task and died, undone by his passion.

The curtains rose, revealing a pastoral setting with painted green hills and cardboard trees. Orpheus and Eurydice sauntered together, hands clasped. William knew the principals. The male dancer was Vestris, a virtuoso of jumps and turns, and the prima ballerina was Sara Parker, a company veteran.

While they danced a minuet, the corps de ballet hopped onto the stage.

Frantically, feverishly, William studied each dancer, searching for the girl. How could he find her? All moved alike, dressed alike, their Greek costumes flowing alike.

William leaned forward, supporting his elbows on the balustrade, straining to distinguish her from the rest.

And then he saw her.

How could he ever not see her? She flitted between the fake trees, weightless, prancing, whirling, and leaping, her legs slicing saucy arcs in the air. She was thin—sheer muscle, bones, and determination. But there was nothing thin about her presence. It filled the stage, soaking up all the light until she was lit from within.

As in the dreams, she stirred everything around her, commanding the very air, a goddess of the wind. Next to her, the others looked like amateurs.

William’s gaze lingered, ensnared.

The audience erupted into applause as she gracefully retreated backstage, but he remained still, his hands clenched on the armrests, his eyes burning from not blinking.

When the curtains fell on the first act, his mouth went dry, as if he had spent the day indulging in spirits. It felt like his dream, and yet it didn't. His dreams flowed like water, elusive, while the stage before him stood sharp and all too real. He should leave. His father used to say unbridled passion was a lake covered in thin ice—those who tread its surface risked drowning. Yet despite the warning ingrained in him, William remained rooted. He had seen her, hadn't he? He couldn't unsee her now.

William was counting the minutes until the second act when the footman opened his private box and admitted Cavendish.

His friend sauntered inside, bringing in a scent of tobacco and brandy. “I saw movement in your box and knew my luck had turned.”

William had stopped drinking after realizing it only intensified the dreams. Now, he couldn’t stand the smell of spirits on others.

The intermission bell sounded.

“Sit if you must, drink if you wish, be quiet if you care to stay,” William said, keeping his eyes on the stage.

Cavendish pulled the flaps of his coat and dropped into a chair. The curtains opened, revealing a new set—brimstone and darkened pits.

The music swelled, and William’s heart sped, sensing her return. He wasn’t mistaken. Clad in tattered white, her arms and calves bare, she danced around Orpheus, her movements dripping with sensuality.

William willed Orpheus to look at Eurydice and die, so the girl would stop dancing with him.

Cavendish sighed. “I love it when they twirl with those gauzy skirts. It almost makes me wish I was poor to sit in the pit and see if they wear garters.”

“Such commentary certainly belongs to the pits.” William restrained the urge to make Cavendish swallow the glass. "Why did you miss the committee again?"

Cavendish grinned. "You are in a terrible mood. Perhaps a joke is in order. Do you know the difference between the circus and ballerinas?"

William didn't move his gaze from the stage.

Cavendish cleared his throat. "The circus has cunning stunts... And the ballerinas have stunning cunts.”

“Bravo. Our late oratory master would applaud your rhetorical prowess.” William should earn a medal for tolerating Cavendish’s sense of humor.

Leaning back in the chair, Cavendish crossed his leg at the knee. “This new theater director knows how to pick his dancers. Their talents are a pleasure to behold. How long do you think it will take for them to be on Harry’s list?”

“They will stay on the stage, where they belong,” William said.

“As a theater investor, you should know it won’t be long until their path leads south. Certainly, you don’t mean to keep them all to yourself.” Cavendish winked. “I would be satisfied with one... or two.”

William’s jaw clenched. “These dancers are artists, not trophies to be claimed.”

“Verón will reserve entrance for his most favored patrons." Cavendish eyed William with raised eyebrows. "Since you invested in the theater, you could put in a good word for me.”

William’s gaze shot from Cavendish to the stage.

The girl’s movements became feverish and trance-like, the unrest of Hades’ lost souls. The music reverberated in his bones, and unease rippled in his stomach.

“I don’t follow your meaning.”

“Verón didn’t tell you? You must have scared him senseless, then. It’s a Parisian tradition. A delicious one, I might add…”

Cavendish’s forehead gleamed in the bluish light coming from the stage.

The music surged into the coda, brass blaring in William’s ears.

William’s grip on the balustrade tightened. “What exactly will Verón do?”

Cavendish ran a hand through his hair. “I thought you knew. He will open the dressing room to patrons.”

Verón would do what? Understanding blasted over William with the last notes of the music.

William shot to his feet. “The hell he will.”

***

William strode outside, brushing the box’s curtains out of his way. His boots struck the marble floor, echoing over the corridors of Covent Garden. Around him, the crowd ebbed, a sea of faces turning in recognition as he passed. Murmurs rose, the crescendo of hushed speculations weaving through the air, punctuated by utterances of his title.

He ignored them. The image of the males from Cavendish’s set converging upon girls dressed in white assailed his mind—a glen of nymphs being invaded by a gang of satyrs. Fisting his hands, he increased the pace.

As William descended into the dimly lit backstage corridors, the air grew thick with mold and sweat. A French tradition? Of course. Leave it to a Parisian to turn a place of art into a showcase of indecency. No wonder French society had imploded.

The sounds of the theater’s inner workings grew louder—the clatter of props, the hurried whispers of stagehands, the rustle of dresses. This was a working place, not a brothel.

Midway through a gallery, he asked a messenger for directions.

Breathing heavily, he opened the appointed door. Light from the warming room spilled into the dark corridor, the air thick with the aroma of rosin and makeup. William’s gaze swept over the clusters of dancers. Some stretched, others conversed in groups.

And then he saw her. How could he ever not see her? She was there, holding the barre, two younger girls behind her. She still wore the indecent dress of her performance, her hair a mahogany cloud around her shoulders. Rosy cheeks, dewy skin, shallow breathing.

William halted, his heart speeding out of control. Dream and reality intertwined. Like moonlight blending with the ocean, making it impossible to discern where light ended and water began, William could not separate the ballerina from the sprite.

This was his first step over thin ice and he had just heard the first crack. Utter stillness descended upon him.

A hand on his shoulder made him start.

“Ah, so His Grace decided to attend the opening night of the Green Room.” Verón’s eyes darted from him to the ballerina. “Would you like to meet her?”

William’s gaze met the girl’s. One look at her startled, gazelle eyes, and the ice beneath his feet collapsed.

His mouth went dry, and a rush of desire coursed through him, so strong it felt like a thunderbolt.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes. Introduce us.”

***

Helene held onto the barre’s fading red velvet and stretched her back, hoping to wind down after her performance. Dancing had not made her problems go away. Her brother’s letter and Katherina’s secrets pressed down on her, stiffening her muscles.

Louise came closer, her arm around Celeste’s waist.

“Celeste, breathe. You will faint.” Louise’s voice sounded shrill.

Celeste fanned herself, her smile as artificial as the flowers she wore in her ruby hair. “They are coming. What would Imogen do? Is there time for us to change our identities and flee?”

What could Celeste be fretting about now? Whatever it was, Helene couldn’t deal with it.

“Still quoting Shakespeare? You three are pathetic.” Sophie, their former friend, passed by them to the front of the room, loosening her corset.

“Better the bard than Harry’s book.” Louise hissed, making an obscene gesture. “Ignore that viper. Soon, she will be there. Blonde, with deadened eyes and pouting lips, started at the life when seduced by a hairy aristocrat. Now lives in Soho and charges eighteen pennies an hour.”

Helene watched the exchange in confusion.

Louise grabbed Helene’s hand. “Verón invited patrons to invade our dressing room. We received a pink slip this afternoon. Our presence is mandatory. When they enter, we need to —”

The door opened at the farthest end of the room. Helene froze.

The reality of their situation clanged in her ears like the notes of an out-of-tune piano. How could Verón expose them like this?

Helene wrung her hands, eyeing Celeste. The poor dear was already hyperventilating, her eyes wide and feverish. Celeste could barely stand the presence of strange men. How would she deal with patrons who would not doubt expect favors from her?

A man crossed the threshold, another by his side. The light was dim, making it impossible to see their faces.

Helene turned to Louise. “Take Celeste home. I will tell Verón she was ill.”

“Are you sure?” Louise asked, her unflappable curls sticking out at odd angles.

How would Helene handle this? She was no Joan of Arc. She gazed at Celeste, and her friend's panic gave her strength. Shakespeare could’ve written a sonnet about it.

Helene tucked Celeste’s hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek. “A Shakespearean heroine would use her wits to persevere, would she not? I can do no less.”

Nodding, they grabbed their coats and hushed out through the back entrance.

The invaders neared.

Under the light of a single gas lamp, Helene prepared herself for the meeting, feet in the fifth position.

She saw a pair of boots first. Black leather, impeccably shined, stopping just shy of the hem of his great coat. Then the legs, as long as an aria’s final note. Her gaze climbed to the rest of him. The waistcoat, charcoal and faultlessly cut. The shoulders, broad and severe. Then to gloved hands which curled and uncurled with quiet control.

When he finally emerged from the shadows, she recognized him. The stranger she'd pirouetted into earlier.

Except he was no stranger. He was the Silent Sovereign.

He closed the final inches with the inevitability of a tide. Power clung to him—a man who didn’t need permission, because the world had always given him the right to enter, to command, to claim.

And now… he was looking at her.

He halted inside her pool of light, and Helene held her breath, refusing to take his scent into her lungs.

“Helene, this is His Grace, the Duke of Albemarle,” Verón said, a condescending sneer contorting his features. “Your Grace, Miss Helene de Beaumont.”

The duke stared at her, his expression cool and in control, a king expecting her deference. But his eyes… His eyes could not hide a subtle glint. As if he resented her. As if she had forced him to be here and not the other way around.

Helene swept one leg behind her, her arms unfolding with exaggerated grace. While her knee brushed the floor in a grand reverence, her mind spun—but unlike last time, she would not allow him to catch her.

What would she do? Posing meekly like a flower on market day wasn’t an option. She would not be plucked.

Verón eyed her shrewdly and departed, claiming some previous engagement. Still, the duke had to be vital to him because he halted near the exit, watching their interaction.

Other males had invaded the warming room, and pairs had formed. Peals of laughter burst from all around her. One couple left, arm in arm.

“I know why you came,” Helene said breathlessly.

He tilted his head to the side. “Is that so?”

“Of course. But first, can you help me with my costume?” Stomach quivering, she turned her back to him.

Helene, what in Apollo's name are you doing?

He hesitated.

Why did he have to be so tall? His shadow engulfed her. Helene chided herself—this was not the time for stage fright.

She tugged her hair to the side. “The closures are hidden beneath the tulle.”

His fingers teased her nape as he worked on the first button. She took a deep breath, and his scent, clean linen and woodsy, invaded her senses. She stopped breathing, startled, as if she was taking it from him without his consent.

"You said you knew why I came." His voice, a smoky bass, wrapped around her like ivy on stone—low, persistent, and entirely at home.

She stole a gaze at him from above her shoulder, and her heart stuttered when their eyes met. His voice was controlled, but his eyes… His eyes were a storm.

Heat spread through her, moistening her palms. “You came to discuss politics, of course.”

“What do you know of politics, Miss Beaumont?”

“Enough to know you are anti-Catholic, anti-reform, and anti-French. Am I correct?”

He chuckled, and his breath bathed the naked skin of her back. “You are quite direct, mademoiselle. Does your understanding of politics go beyond labels?”

A shiver ran down her spine. “You tell me. As a French myself, I cannot understand why anyone would despise me.”

He brought his mouth close to her ear. “So far, your logic is flawless.”

Helene fought the urge to brush her tingling skin. “Indeed? Since the sentiment is not personal… Does it mean a resistance to liberty and equality?”

She felt him stiffen.

“Liberty and equality are dangerous. Noble in theory but disastrous in practice," he said in flawless rhetoric. "They undermine the fabric of our society.”

The reactionary words curdled in her stomach. “A society that stifles its members is worth protecting? That cripples their passions—”

As if guiding her into a pas de deux, his arm slipped around her waist, fingers settling over her hipbones. They were strong, capable—partner’s hands. The kind that could lift a ballerina into the air or hurl her into a turn so fast the world blurred.

But there was no music. No dance.

He drew her in, her back to his chest—a warning. The Silent Sovereign didn’t need words. His grip told her exactly where not to tread.

Helene stopped breathing.

“Passion? Society exists to protect us from such dangerous fires. Without it, we are no different from animals.”

The air cracked with wild energy.

“Animals are not so despicable. I’m fond of winged creatures.”

He chuckled, and just like that, the tension faded. “You are indulging in too much Rousseau, mademoiselle. Should I send you better reading material?”

His amusement must be made of spirits, or sugar, or something equally addictive, because angry, he was dangerous, amiable, he was devastating.

“The buttons, please.” She could not hide the quivering of her voice.

When he finished the row, her bodice gaped open. He traced a finger down her nape to the base of her spine, and the hairs on her arms lifted. Warmth flooded her chest and pooled in her limbs. Perhaps the dry ice fog from the stage had seeped into her mind, making her thoughts hazy.

“My carriage will wait for you at the theater’s back entrance,” he whispered, and caressed her neck, just above her pulse.

Helene craved the sensation of his lips there, where his fingers teased her skin.

Holding her bodice close to her chest, Helene danced away. Cool air surrounded her in a rush, replacing his warmth.

“I’m sorry to tell you we cannot extend our acquaintance.” She delivered the words in bursts, her gaze flitting from his heated gaze to his lips. “I’m afraid our political views are incompatible.”

Turning quickly, she covered herself with the coat so he would not see any more inches of skin, and pushed the costume down her legs.

He stepped back, a frown marking his forehead.

Helene scoffed at his blatant surprise. Women must fawn over him like courtiers to Prince Hal, and the arrogant tyrant assumed she would bow to his wishes. Thwarting his desire had been worth burning her own skin. Still, she would better cease his shock to flee.

Heart speeding, Helene circled him.

He grabbed her arm and leaned forward, trapping her gaze. His eyes changed from almost caressing to hard and forbidding. His stare was formidable. She suspected he had smote lesser individuals with such a fiery display.

“You play with fire.”

“How can that be possible?” Helene forced a valiant smile. “If society exists to protect us from such dangerous flames?”

He released her as if she had burned him.

Helene brushed past him. “ Bonsoir, monsieur le Duc .”