cheek. There was no room for sentiment now. She had to be brave and put her foolish notions of being rescued behind her. Philip had only behaved like most of the men in her life: taken what was offered and moved on.
Why shouldn't she do the same?
Helene picked up the paper, folded it carefully, and got to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. Whatever the viscount of-fered to do for her, it was imperative she was her own mistress. But what skills did she have to make her way in the world? She'd managed to stay alive through the hell of the Bastille; she'd learned how to flatter men and make them happy in bed.
Perhaps those much maligned skills would save her now. It was time she turned the tables and used her abilities for herself. The faint glimmering of an outrageous idea flowed through her mind as she made her way to the viscount's study. Perhaps she did have something to thank Philip for after all. It was definitely time to discuss her future with Viscount Harcourt-DeVere and ascertain exactly how grateful he intended to be.
To her surprise, there were several men gathered in the viscount's study, and they all stood up and smiled at her. The viscount came around his desk and led her to a chair in the center of the room.
"My dear, I'm not sure if you remember these gentlemen, but please allow me to introduce them all to you."
Helene focused on the youngest of the men and nodded. "I recognize the Duke of Diable Delamere. How are you, my lord?"
The duke inclined his head; his handsome face still bore the marks of his suffering. "I am well, madame."
"And your daughter?"
"She is well too." His smile was crooked. "She misses her brother but..."
Helene held his gaze. "I apologize, sir. I wish we had been able to save your son as well."
He straightened and bowed. "Madame, there is no need to apologize. You risked more than most people would ever do to warn me about my wife's devious plans." He closed the gap between them and kissed her hand. "I owe you my life and my sanity."
"Merci, monseigneur." Helene's eyes filled with tears. "I only wish I had been able to do more."
He released her hand and stepped back into the shadows, clearly unwilling to display any emotion in such a public place.
The elderly man standing next to him cleared his throat. "Madame Delornay, we haven't actually met before. I'm Lord Derek Knowles. You saved my wife, Angelique. Do you remember her?"
Helene was almost relieved to turn away from the duke and allow him some privacy.
"I do indeed, sir." Angelique had almost died of a fever during her time in the Bastille.
Helene was delighted to hear she had prospered. "Is she well?"
Lord Derek's face brightened. "She is." He fumbled inside his coat and handed Helene his large gold watch. "I had a portrait of her commissioned just this year."
Helene opened the delicate gold clasp and studied the miniature portrait of the woman on the inside of the case. Angelique wore a red gown, her prematurely white hair arranged in formal braids tight to her head. Her smile was breathtaking. The artist had caught her uncrushable spirit, the strength of which helped her survive the Bastille and the horror of imminent death.
Helene handed the gold watch back. "Thank you for showing me this. Your wife looks to be in far better health than I remember her."
"Indeed. She was but skin and bone when she returned." Lord Derek smiled benevolently.
"When you are settled in, my dear, I'm sure she'll insist on visiting you herself. She has never forgotten you, and I know she will rejoice at your escape."
Helene glanced at the third man, who was leaning against the desk, his arms folded as he watched her. Something about his long lean frame seemed familiar, but she couldn't remember exactly when they'd met.
He bowed. "Madame? I'm Lord George Grant."
She smiled at him. "I hardly recognized you without the beard and long hair."
Amusement animated his smile and twinkled in his brown eyes. "The life of a spy is never
Why shouldn't she do the same?
Helene picked up the paper, folded it carefully, and got to her feet, hands clenched at her sides. Whatever the viscount of-fered to do for her, it was imperative she was her own mistress. But what skills did she have to make her way in the world? She'd managed to stay alive through the hell of the Bastille; she'd learned how to flatter men and make them happy in bed.
Perhaps those much maligned skills would save her now. It was time she turned the tables and used her abilities for herself. The faint glimmering of an outrageous idea flowed through her mind as she made her way to the viscount's study. Perhaps she did have something to thank Philip for after all. It was definitely time to discuss her future with Viscount Harcourt-DeVere and ascertain exactly how grateful he intended to be.
To her surprise, there were several men gathered in the viscount's study, and they all stood up and smiled at her. The viscount came around his desk and led her to a chair in the center of the room.
"My dear, I'm not sure if you remember these gentlemen, but please allow me to introduce them all to you."
Helene focused on the youngest of the men and nodded. "I recognize the Duke of Diable Delamere. How are you, my lord?"
The duke inclined his head; his handsome face still bore the marks of his suffering. "I am well, madame."
"And your daughter?"
"She is well too." His smile was crooked. "She misses her brother but..."
Helene held his gaze. "I apologize, sir. I wish we had been able to save your son as well."
He straightened and bowed. "Madame, there is no need to apologize. You risked more than most people would ever do to warn me about my wife's devious plans." He closed the gap between them and kissed her hand. "I owe you my life and my sanity."
"Merci, monseigneur." Helene's eyes filled with tears. "I only wish I had been able to do more."
He released her hand and stepped back into the shadows, clearly unwilling to display any emotion in such a public place.
The elderly man standing next to him cleared his throat. "Madame Delornay, we haven't actually met before. I'm Lord Derek Knowles. You saved my wife, Angelique. Do you remember her?"
Helene was almost relieved to turn away from the duke and allow him some privacy.
"I do indeed, sir." Angelique had almost died of a fever during her time in the Bastille.
Helene was delighted to hear she had prospered. "Is she well?"
Lord Derek's face brightened. "She is." He fumbled inside his coat and handed Helene his large gold watch. "I had a portrait of her commissioned just this year."
Helene opened the delicate gold clasp and studied the miniature portrait of the woman on the inside of the case. Angelique wore a red gown, her prematurely white hair arranged in formal braids tight to her head. Her smile was breathtaking. The artist had caught her uncrushable spirit, the strength of which helped her survive the Bastille and the horror of imminent death.
Helene handed the gold watch back. "Thank you for showing me this. Your wife looks to be in far better health than I remember her."
"Indeed. She was but skin and bone when she returned." Lord Derek smiled benevolently.
"When you are settled in, my dear, I'm sure she'll insist on visiting you herself. She has never forgotten you, and I know she will rejoice at your escape."
Helene glanced at the third man, who was leaning against the desk, his arms folded as he watched her. Something about his long lean frame seemed familiar, but she couldn't remember exactly when they'd met.
He bowed. "Madame? I'm Lord George Grant."
She smiled at him. "I hardly recognized you without the beard and long hair."
Amusement animated his smile and twinkled in his brown eyes. "The life of a spy is never
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