Page 12 of To Heist and to Hold
By the time Heloise’s meeting with Sylvia had concluded, Heloise wanted nothing more than to retire to her bedroom and take a nice long nap.
While recounting the details of her morning had helped her to put her thoughts in order and conclude where best to place Euphemia in their scheme—she always took such a vital role in their proceedings, in the very thick of things with her intricate disguises—it had not done a thing to ease her mind over the much-needed seduction of Mr. Sinclaire.
Could she have asked Sylvia for tips on how to insert herself into the man’s bed?
Certainly. But had she? Of course not. It was one thing to talk privately with one of the other Widows.
But Sylvia, as their leader and, most importantly, the one who had taken the biggest gamble in bringing Heloise into their group, was another matter entirely.
And so Heloise was just as much in the dark about that aspect of their plan as she’d been when they’d started.
Her lips twisted wryly as she trudged up the stairs to her private chamber.
No, she rather thought she was worse off now, considering how abysmally things had gone that morning.
Finally her room was in view, the familiar mahogany door beckoning her within.
She nearly slumped with relief, her body eager to relax.
Just then, however, she passed by Euphemia’s open door.
The other woman was bent industriously over a bit of something in her lap, and Heloise recalled belatedly that there was one more important job she had to accomplish before finding the comfort of her bed.
Heaving a sigh that was more than a bit mournful, she turned and rapped softly on the doorframe.
Euphemia started slightly, looking up from the plain brown pelisse she was working on.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, smiling widely at Heloise. “Are you back from Dionysus, then?”
“I’ve been back for some time, actually.”
Euphemia blinked, looking to the clock on the mantel.
“Goodness, is it that late already? I quite lost track of the afternoon.” She laughed lightly, putting aside the pelisse, rising and stretching her arms above her head as she headed for the pair of seats before the hearth.
“But come in and tell me all about it. How did it go?”
“Fine, fine,” Heloise replied, sinking into the chair beside Euphemia, trying for a breezy tone and confident smile. She must have failed spectacularly, however, if the concerned look the other woman gave her was any indication.
“Are… are you certain it was fine?”
Heloise sighed. “Perhaps fine is not the word for it. However,” she continued with determination, “it will be fine. I’m certain of it. Especially as I believe I have found the perfect way for you to infiltrate the club.”
Which, blessedly, seemed to distract the other woman from her worries over Heloise. Euphemia’s gaze sharpened as she sat up straighter. “Splendid. Tell me all about it.”
Heloise smiled, a true one this time. “How do you feel about carpentry?”
Over the next hour the two women went over every aspect of how they could insert Euphemia into the score of craftspeople working day and night on the venue for the boxing match.
A secret set of eyes and ears in the very heart of the proceedings was imperative to obtaining pertinent information—such as which valve controlled the main gas line and where easily accessible exits were—in case Heloise should fail at securing the jewels before the night of the masquerade and they were forced to put their plans in place to infiltrate the club en masse in a last desperate attempt.
Finally done with this all-important piece of the puzzle, Heloise made to rise, her bed already singing a lullaby from the next room.
After her lack of sleep the night before and her stressful morning, she wanted nothing more than to fall into a dreamless slumber—preferably one that did not remind her of her horrendous failures with Mr. Ethan Sinclaire.
Euphemia’s sudden words, however, had her entire body tensing once more, all thoughts of sleep vanishing in a moment.
“And how is the planned seduction of Mr. Sinclaire going?”
“Fine,” Heloise squeaked, fingers clenching the carved wooden arms of her seat. “Everything is fine.”
Which was quite possibly the least convincing response she could have made.
Especially with Euphemia, who was incredibly—and frighteningly—insightful when it came to others’ emotions, more so than all the other Widows combined.
Heloise ducked her head, attempting to hide her grimace as she waited for the barrage of questions that surely must be about to pour from the other woman’s lips.
But, to her shock, not a single question emerged. Instead, Euphemia rose and stood before Heloise, holding her hand out and smiling broadly. Heloise stared at the proffered hand, with its small scars and dry skin and calluses, with a vague kind of confusion.
“That is wonderful to hear,” Euphemia said. “But now that we’ve got that out of the way, come, I’ve a mind to get some exercise.”
With that she grasped Heloise’s hand in hers and pulled her to her feet, dragging her unceremoniously from the room.
Heloise, for her part, could only spare a quick, longing glance back at her bedroom door before they turned the corner.
By the time they reached the stairs, her confusion had worn off.
And when Euphemia glanced back at her as they made the front hall, brown eyes dancing, a giggle bubbling from her lips, Heloise found an answering lightness filling her chest. Where only moments ago she had been about to cry from exhaustion, now she found a new energy running through her.
When they ducked into the music room—despite its name, there were no instruments of any kind here, the place having been cleared for practice in swordplay and self-defense and pugilism—and Euphemia rushed to the wall where a collection of fencing foils hung, she smiled for what felt like the first time that day.
“You wish to practice fencing?”
“And why not?” Euphemia grinned, taking down a foil, balancing its weight on her hand. “Especially when I have the best fencing master in all of London at my beck and call.”
“Poppycock,” Heloise muttered, face heating.
Yet the very thought of taking up a sword and stretching her muscles had the remainder of her exhaustion evaporating in an instant.
Excitement finally thrumming in her veins, she rushed to the armoire in the corner, throwing the doors wide, taking out the necessary equipment.
Soon they were both dressed in their wire masks and high-necked canvas jackets and loose breeches, and they took their positions on the bare floor.
In no time they were lunging, parrying, the metallic clang and scrape of the foils mingling with the sounds of their sharp exhalations and their feet moving over the floor, broken occasionally by Heloise making gentle corrections to Euphemia’s form.
“Watch the alignment of your arm,” she murmured as the other woman lunged forward. “Good, good. Now try to hit the mark. Well done.”
She could just make out Euphemia’s grin through the wire mesh mask. “I’m improving, I think.”
“More than improving. I would say you are a star pupil.” And she meant it. Euphemia, and indeed all the Widows, had shown incredible proficiency at the basics not only of fencing, but of all manner of swordplay.
Euphemia lunged forward, hitting just shy of the small heart on Heloise’s padded leather plastron with the cotton-covered ball tip of the blade.
“Now, that is something I never heard in all my years of schooling.” She let loose a breathless laugh, an almost wicked sound.
“I was always better at other, more intimate things that did not require book learning.”
Heloise choked on a sound between a laugh and a gasp. “Euphemia!”
The other woman shrugged before—taking advantage of Heloise’s distraction—she quickly knocked her foil aside and lunged forward, hitting the mark on her chest once again.
“I am a physical creature. For instance,” she continued archly, “I was able to nab my husband with one kiss, and on our second meeting to boot. Granted, entering into that union was not the best decision I’ve ever made.
” Here she paused, shoulders drooping momentarily.
Then, seeming to rouse herself, she made a particularly forceful lunge.
“But even so, I cannot deny I have always been proficient in such things.”
Which succeeded in capturing Heloise’s attention. She straightened, lowering her foil and removing her mask. Euphemia followed suit, brushing a damp lock of light brown hair from her cheek as she looked at Heloise in some expectation.
“Yes?”
Heloise cleared her throat, stepping closer. “You are proficient, you say?”
“Yes,” Euphemia replied evenly, not so much as breaking a smile. Yet her expression shifted completely to one almost of satisfaction. Why satisfaction, Heloise didn’t have a clue. Nor did she particularly care in that moment. All she knew was that this was too good a chance to pass up.
“I don’t suppose you would care to elaborate on that?”
Finally the woman smiled, bringing to mind the cat that got the cream. “Absolutely.”