“I see.” Helena spent the next ten minutes chatting on general subjects with his lordship. Beside her, she was conscious of Sebastian’s growing impatience. Eventually he drew her away.

She went reluctantly. “He seems a kind man.”

“He is.”

She glanced at Sebastian, unsure how to interpret the hard note in his voice. As usual, his face told her nothing.

He was looking ahead. “I’d better return you to Mme Thierry before she starts imagining I’ve kidnapped you.”

Helena nodded, willing enough to return; they’d been strolling for about an hour.

Despite knowing his ulterior motive in finding her a complaisant husband, she had, on reflection, concluded that there was no point refusing his aid. Once she’d found the right candidate to fulfill Fabien’s stipulations and hers and married him, any subsequent relationship between herself and Sebastian would, after all, still be at her discretion.

She would still be able to say no.

She was far too wise to say yes.

Over the past week she’d spent enough time with him, seen how others reacted to him, to be confident that, regardless of all else, he would ultimately accept her refusal. Despite his reputation, he was not the type of man to force or even pressure a woman to his bed.

She glanced briefly his way, then looked down to hide her smile. The idea was laughable; he had too much pride and too much arrogant self-assurance to need always to win.

The thought reminded her of Fabien. Sebastian and he were much alike, yet there were indeed differences.

A bevy of ladies resplendent in elegant walking gowns hailed them. They stopped to chat. Helena was amused that as the last week had progressed, her acceptance by the female half of the ton had steadily increased. She was still viewed as a too-beautiful outsider by some—primarily the mamas with marriageable daughters to establish—yet many others had proved eager to welcome her into their circles. Contrary to Marjorie’s oft-stated opinion, St. Ives’s squiring of her had helped rather than hindered.

She chatted with the Ladies Elliot and Frome, then turned to Lady Hitchcock. The group formed and re-formed several times. Eventually Helena turned to find the Countess of Menteith turning her way.

The countess smiled; Helena had already accepted an invitation for a morning visit. The countess glanced across the group to where Sebastian stood talking with Mrs. Abigail Frith. “I’ll lay odds St. Ives will be driving out to Twickenham tomorrow. You don’t have any engagements planned with him, I hope?”

Helena blinked.“Pardon?”

Still smiling at Sebastian, Lady Menteith lowered her voice. “Abigail’s on the board of an orphanage, and the local squire’s threatening to force the magistrate to shut it. The squire claims the boys run wild and thieve. Of course, it isn’t so—he wants to buy the property. And, of course, the vile man has chosen this week to make his push, no doubt hoping to turn the orphans out into the snow while no one’s about to see. St. Ives is Abigail’s—and the orphans’—last hope.”

Helena followed her gaze to where Sebastian was clearly questioning Mrs. Frith. “Does he often help with things outside his own interests?”

Lady Menteith laughed softly. “I wouldn’t say it’s outside his interests.” Her hand on Helena’s arm, she lowered her voice still further. “In case you haven’t yet guessed, while he might be the devil in disguise in some respects, St. Ives is a soft touch for any female needing help.”

Helena looked her puzzlement.

“Well, he’s helping you by introducing you around, lending you his consequence. In a similar vein, half of us here owe him gratitude if not more. He’s been rescuing damsels in distress ever since he came on the town. I should know—I was one of the first.”

Helena couldn’t resist. “He rescued you?”

“In a manner of speaking. I fear I was silly and naive in those days—I’d recently married and thought myself well up to snuff. I played deep and thought it fashionable, as indeed it was. But I’ve no head for cards—I ended losing the Menteith diamonds. God only knows what Menteith would have said, and done, had he heard. Luckily, he didn’t—not until I told him years later. At the time, I was deep in despair. St. Ives noticed. He dragged the story out of me, then, the next day, the diamonds were delivered to me with his compliments.”

“He bought them back for you?”

“No, he won them back for me, which, considering the blackguard who’d taken them from me, was far, far better.” Lady Menteith squeezed Helena’s arm. “He rarely gives money, unless that’s the only way. To many of us, he’s our white knight. He’ll drive to Twickenham tomorrow and have a chat with the magistrate, and that’s the last we’ll hear of the orphanage closing.”

The countess paused, then added, “I wouldn’t want you to think ladies run to him with every concern. Far from it. But when there’s no other way, it’s immeasurably comforting to know there’s one last person who, if the thing’s possible at all, will help. And with the utmost discretion. Even if you ask him outright about the Menteith diamonds, even after so many years, he won’t say a word. And by tomorrow evening he’ll have forgotten all about Twickenham.”

Helena was fascinated. “Does he do the same for gentlemen in distress?”

The countess caught her eye. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”

Helena laughed. Sebastian crossed to her side, one brow arching. She shook her head.

“We had best get on. Mme Thierry will be anxious.”

An understatement; Helena nodded. They made their adieus, then walked quickly back to the carriage drive. Their appearance together, Helena noted, drew little attention, even from the most rabid scandalmongers perched in their carriages swapping the lateston-dits .

They reached the carriage, and Sebastian handed her in. Although relieved to see her return, even Marjorie seemed less concerned than previously. Sebastian bowed, then left them, strolling languidly to where his own carriage waited farther along the avenue.

Helena watched him go. She couldn’t imagine Fabien helping anyone for no reason.

ow that her eyes had been opened, Helena saw a great deal more. At Lady Crockford’s soirée that evening, she watched Sebastian make his way toward her, watched as he was stopped again and again, by this lady, then that. Before, she had assumed that it was he who stopped to speak—now she saw it was they who spoke first, who caught his eye with a smile.

Gentle words, grateful smiles.

The ladies were not, in the main, the sort one might imagine would catch his roving eye. Many were older than he, others too awkward or plain ever to have been likely candidates for his less-acceptable attentions.

He’d cut a swath through the London salons with a double-edged sword. Sheer arrogant masculinity on the one hand, unexpected kindness on the other.

He neared, and his gaze met hers. She fought to quell a shiver.

Joining them, he exchanged bows, spoke a few words with Marjorie and Louis, then turned to her. One brow arched.

She smiled and gave him her hand. “Shall we promenade?”

His expression was indulgent. “If you wish.”

Sebastian guided Helena through the throng and tried to ignore her nearness—the subtle warmth of her slender figure, the light touch of her fingers on his. Tried to block out the French perfume she wore, that wreathed about her and none too subtly beckoned the beast, urged him to seize and devour.

Spending so much time with her was fraying his reins, raising expectations yet leaving them unfulfilled. Only his supreme dislike of conducting his affairs in the full glare of the ton’s attention held him back from pursuing her overtly. The news he was to wed would cause a sensation, but if he waited just a few weeks more until Christmas drew close and the ton quit the capital, then the necessary formalities of his offer and her acceptance could be played out in private.

Infinitely preferable, given he was not entirely sure of her.

A surprise and a challenge—she continued to be both.

Taking advantage of his height, he scanned the guests, noting any gentlemen potentially useful for passing the time—for distracting her. Carefully avoiding Were. That had been a misjudgment; Were was a friend. He had never been one to fashion rods for his own back. Helena would not get another chance to consider Were, not if he could help it.

They were leaving a group of ladies who’d waylaid them when George emerged from the throng. One glance at his brother’s face was enough to tell him Martin had opened his lips to one person at least.

George’s delight was unfeigned; he beamed at Helena and didn’t wait for an introduction. “Lord George Cynster, comtesse.” He bowed extravagantly over the hand she extended. “I’m enchanted to meet you, quite enchanted.” The light in his eye declared that no lie.

“And I am equally glad to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Amused, Helena shot Sebastian a glance. “How many brothers do you have, Your Grace?”

“For my sins, three. Arthur, Almira’s husband, you’ve yet to meet. Arthur and George are twins. Martin’s the youngest.”

“No sisters?” Helena shifted her gaze to George. He was not quite as tall as Sebastian but of similar build. He had darker hair but the same blue eyes. The same somewhat dangerous aura hung about him. In Martin that had been less pronounced; in Sebastian it was more powerful, more blatant. Helena concluded that the characteristic developed with age and experience—she judged George to be in his early thirties.