A problem indeed, one fraught with risk. Fabien did not want to choose, to commit her fortune and by inference his support to any of the four. Favor one and the other three would slit his throat at the first opportunity. Metaphorically, definitely; possibly literally. All that, she’d understood; the observation that Fabien’s manipulative schemes had come home to roost with a vengeance she had kept to herself.

“It is no longer an option to approve an alliance for you inside France, yet the pressure to bestow your hand will only increase.”Fabien had eyed her thoughtfully, then continued in his silken purr,“I am therefore of a mind to leave this now-unsatisfactory arena and move to potentially more productive fields.”

She’d blinked at him. He’d smiled, more to himself than her.

“In these troubling times it would, I feel, be in the best interests of the family to develop stronger connections with our distant relatives across the Channel.”

“You wish me to marry an émigré?”She’d been shocked. Émigrés were generally of low social standing, those with no estates.

A frown had flitted through Fabien’s eyes.“No. I meant that if you were to attract the attentions of an English nobleman, one of station and estates equal to your own, it would provide not only a solution to our present dilemma but also a valuable connection against the uncertain future.”

She’d continued to stare, stunned, surprised, her mind racing.

Misinterpreting her silence, Fabien had drawled,“Pray recall that the English nobility is largely if not exclusively composed of families descended from William. You might be forced to learn their ghastly language, but all of any consequence speak French and ape our ways. It would not be so uncivilized as to be insupportable.”

“I already know the language.”It had been all she could think of to say, as a vista she’d never thought to see had opened before her. Escape.Freedom .

Seven years of dealing with Fabien had taught her well. She had held her excitement in, kept it from her expression, her eyes. She’d refocused on him.“You are saying you wish me to go to London and seek an alliance with an Englishman?”

“Not any Englishman—one of station and estates at least equal to your own. In their terms, an earl, marquess, or duke, with considerable wealth. I need hardly remind you of your worth.”

All her life she’d never been allowed to forget that. She’d frowned at Fabien, letting him believe it was because she didn’t wish to go to England and consort with the English, while she’d assembled her plan. There’d been one very large hurdle in her path. She’d let disillusionment and disgruntlement color her face, her voice.“So I go to London and glide about their salons, being oh-so-nice to the English milords, and then what? You decide you do not after all wish me to marry this one. And then later, maybe not that one, either.”

She’d given a dismissive humph, folded her arms and looked away.“There is no point. I would rather go home to Cameralle.”

She hadn’t dared peek to see how Fabien responded to her performance, yet she’d felt his dark gaze on her, intent as always.

After a long moment, to her considerable surprise, he had laughed.“Very well. I will give you a letter. A declaration.” He had sat at his desk, drawn forth a piece of parchment, then picked up his pen. He spoke as he wrote.“I hereby confirm that as your legal guardian I agree to your marrying a member of the English nobility of station equal to your own, of estates more extensive than your own, and with income greater than your own.”

She’d watched him sign and hadn’t been able to believe her luck. He’d sanded the paper, then rolled it and held it out to her; she’d managed not to snatch it. She’d accepted the document with a resigned air and agreed to come to London and search for an English husband.

The document was secreted in her trunk, sewn into the lining. It was her passport to freedom and the rest of her life.

“The Earl of Withersay is an amiable man.” Louis’s dark eyes had fixed on the portly earl in the group she had recently left. “Did you speak with him?”

“He’s old enough to be my father.” And not the right sort of man. Helena searched the crowd. “I will find Marjorie and learn about this duke. There is no one else here suitable.”

Louis snorted. “For a week you’ve been surrounded by the flower of the English nobility—I think you’re becoming too nice in your requirements. Given Uncle’s wishes, I believe I can find any number of candidates for your hand.”

Helena shifted her gaze to Louis’s face. “Fabien and I have discussed his wishes. I do not need you to—how do they say it?—scupper my plans.” Her voice had grown cold. Holding Louis’s stubborn gaze, she haughtily inclined her head. “I will return to Green Street with Marjorie. There is no reason you need feel obliged to accompany us.”

She stepped around him. Allowing her lips to relax into an easy smile, she glided through the throng. Marjorie, Mme Thierry, wife of the Chevalier Thierry, a distant kinsman, was her nominal chaperone. Helena had glimpsed her across the room. She headed in that direction, conscious of the male eyes that tracked her progress. Relieved that, in this season with society caught up in a frantic whirl, her entrance upon it had been much less noticeable than it would otherwise have been. Clusters of tittering ladies and garrulous gentlemen filled the room, spirits soaring, flown on the combination of her ladyship’s mulled wine and the goodwill of the season; it was easy to slip past with a nod and a smile.

Fabien had arranged for Helena and Louis to stay with the Thierrys in lodgings in the best part of town. There was never any lack of funds where Fabien, or indeed, Helena, was concerned. The Thierrys, however, were not affluent and were exceedingly grateful to monsieur le comte de Vichesse for providing lodgings and board, servants, and an allowance permitting them to entertain the numerous friends and acquaintances they had made in their single, regrettably expensive year in London.

The Thierrys were well aware of the influence Fabien de Mordaunt wielded, even in England. Helena’s guardian had a notoriously long arm. They were eager to provide whatever services monsieur le comte required, perfectly happy to introduce his ward to the ton and assist her in securing an acceptable offer.

Helena had carefully nurtured the Thierrys’ gratitude. Despite the fact that Marjorie had a tendency to defer to Louis, she was nevertheless a fount of information on the eligibles within the English ton.

There had to be one who would suit.

She found Marjorie, a thin but elegant blonde of thirty, chatting animatedly with a lady and gentleman. She joined them. Later, they parted, and she drew Marjorie aside.

“Withersay?”

Helena shook her head. “Too old.” Too rigid, too demanding. “Louis said there was a duke present—St. Ives. What of him?”

“St. Ives?Oh, no, no,no .” Eyes wide, Marjorie waggled her head and shook her hands for good measure. She glanced around, then leaned closer to whisper, “NotSt. Ives,ma petite . He is not for you—indeed, he is not forany gently reared mademoiselle.”

Helena raised her brows, inviting further details.

Marjorie fluffed her shawl, then leaned closer still. “His reputation is of the most shocking. For years and years, so it has been. He is a duke, yes, and rich and possessed of estates the most extensive, but he has declared he will not marry.” Marjorie’s brief gesture indicated her incomprehension of such things. “This, the society accepts—they say he has three brothers, and the eldest of them is now married with a son . . .” Another Gallic shrug. “So the duke is not at all an eligible, and indeed, he is . . .” She paused, searching for the right word, then breathed,“Dangereux.”

Before Helena could speak, Marjorie glanced up, then closed her fingers about Helena’s wrist and hissed, “See!”

Helena followed Marjorie’s gaze to the gentleman who had just stepped through the archway from the main salon.

“Monsieur le duc de St. Ives.”

Her wild Englishman, he of the cool, forceful lips gentle in the moonlight.

A picture of elegance, of arrogance, of power, he stood on the threshold and surveyed the room. Before his gaze reached them, Marjorie drew Helena around to stroll in the opposite direction.

“Now you see.Dangereux. ”

Helena could indeed see, yet . . . she still remembered that kiss and the promise inherent within it, the sense that if she gave herself she would be forever cherished. Elementally seductive—more potent than any lover’s entreaties. He was a rake; he’d perfected his art, she had not a doubt. Dangerous—that she would admit and wisely leave him be.

She would never be fool enough to escape one powerful man only to put herself in the hands of another. Freedom had become far too precious to her.

Luckily, monsieur le duc had declared himself out of her race.

“Are there any others here I should consider?”

“You’ve met monsieur le marquess?”

“Tanqueray? Yes. I do not believe he would meet monsieur le comte’s stipulations. From what he let fall, he is in debt.”

“Very possibly. But he is a proud one, that, so I have not heard. Let us see . . .” Passing through a doorway into another salon, Marjorie paused and looked about. “I can see none here, but it’s too early for us to leave. It would give offense. We must circulate for another half hour at least.”