family has endured at the hands of the Lavonnes.”
And yet it seemed they had accepted Christian Lavonne. Surely there was hope in that. Of course, he was but Sir Robert’s half brother whereas she—
“So you will stay, will you not?” Lady Beatrix asked.
Would she? Could she? Helene drew a deep breath. “I shall try.”
Lady Beatrix squeezed her shoulder. “I thank you.”
Helene inclined her head. “I will do what I can for your brother. Indeed, now that night has drawn, I ought to prepare his sleeping draught.”
“I will leave you to it, then.”
Helene watched her depart. Then, ignoring the stares of the servants, she crossed to the cupboard where Cook had earlier cleared several shelves for her medicinals.
After what should have required less than the half hour she took to mix the sleeping draught and gather her pots and cloths, Helene looked around the kitchen that was now empty save for herself. It was still quite warm, her time here having caused her to perspire such that her gown’s bodice fit uncomfortably close and the hair around her temples and the back of her neck clung to her skin.
She glanced down her front and, relieved to find her discomfort was more felt than seen, lifted the tray upon which she had arranged what she would need for her audience with Sir Abel.
“This one last task and the day is done,” she whispered. “’Twill be better come the morrow.” When she would seek Sir Durand, apologize, and, hopefully, learn what he had not told.
Chapter Seven
He had begun to think she would not come again this eve, but here she was. And looking worse for what had transpired between her and Durand—the reporting of which had displeased him far more than he ought to allow.
Tendrils of hair adhering to her brow, she withheld her gaze as she carried the tray toward the bed upon which he sat upright with pillows between his back and the wall. As she lowered the tray to the bedside table, she glanced across the room to the chair and table before the brazier. “You ate well.”
He followed her gaze to the tray she had earlier delivered. “I find my appetite much improved this eve.”
“I am glad of it.” She returned her attention to her more recent offering. “I will not be long. Once I have applied the salves and you have taken the sleeping draught, I shall leave you to your evening’s rest.”
Why he wanted her eyes upon him, he did not know, but it irked him that the direct gaze she had not previously spared him was now not even indirect. “Methinks you are no better for having met Sir Durand,” he said.
He knew he had sprung upon her his knowledge of what had transpired belowstairs, but he did not expect her to react with such intensity.
Sweeping her wide-eyed, angry gaze to him, she exclaimed, “She told you!”
Abel would have laughed if not that she seemed so genuinely offended. “Of course she did. Why would she not?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Though ‘tis true I did not ask that it be held in confidence, Lady Beatrix had no cause to run to you and tell that I struck him.”
She had struck Durand? In Beatrix’s presence?
It was Abel’s turn to overreact. But he did not, for as a boy he had learned his lessons well at Wulfen Castle and knew that one did not reveal the extent of one’s knowledge—if at all—before gaining all that could be had from an opponent who was less likely to hold close that with which he believed the other was well acquainted. Fortunately, if Helene did not rise to the bait, he could always learn from his sister what their mother had not been privy to beyond Durand’s appearance in the hall and Helene’s pursuit of him.
Turning over words that would best draw out the tale of what the knave had done to cause her to strike him—and God help Durand if he had behaved inappropriately which, considering his past, was possible—he stared at Helene.
She set her chin higher. “It is no concern of
And yet it seemed they had accepted Christian Lavonne. Surely there was hope in that. Of course, he was but Sir Robert’s half brother whereas she—
“So you will stay, will you not?” Lady Beatrix asked.
Would she? Could she? Helene drew a deep breath. “I shall try.”
Lady Beatrix squeezed her shoulder. “I thank you.”
Helene inclined her head. “I will do what I can for your brother. Indeed, now that night has drawn, I ought to prepare his sleeping draught.”
“I will leave you to it, then.”
Helene watched her depart. Then, ignoring the stares of the servants, she crossed to the cupboard where Cook had earlier cleared several shelves for her medicinals.
After what should have required less than the half hour she took to mix the sleeping draught and gather her pots and cloths, Helene looked around the kitchen that was now empty save for herself. It was still quite warm, her time here having caused her to perspire such that her gown’s bodice fit uncomfortably close and the hair around her temples and the back of her neck clung to her skin.
She glanced down her front and, relieved to find her discomfort was more felt than seen, lifted the tray upon which she had arranged what she would need for her audience with Sir Abel.
“This one last task and the day is done,” she whispered. “’Twill be better come the morrow.” When she would seek Sir Durand, apologize, and, hopefully, learn what he had not told.
Chapter Seven
He had begun to think she would not come again this eve, but here she was. And looking worse for what had transpired between her and Durand—the reporting of which had displeased him far more than he ought to allow.
Tendrils of hair adhering to her brow, she withheld her gaze as she carried the tray toward the bed upon which he sat upright with pillows between his back and the wall. As she lowered the tray to the bedside table, she glanced across the room to the chair and table before the brazier. “You ate well.”
He followed her gaze to the tray she had earlier delivered. “I find my appetite much improved this eve.”
“I am glad of it.” She returned her attention to her more recent offering. “I will not be long. Once I have applied the salves and you have taken the sleeping draught, I shall leave you to your evening’s rest.”
Why he wanted her eyes upon him, he did not know, but it irked him that the direct gaze she had not previously spared him was now not even indirect. “Methinks you are no better for having met Sir Durand,” he said.
He knew he had sprung upon her his knowledge of what had transpired belowstairs, but he did not expect her to react with such intensity.
Sweeping her wide-eyed, angry gaze to him, she exclaimed, “She told you!”
Abel would have laughed if not that she seemed so genuinely offended. “Of course she did. Why would she not?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Though ‘tis true I did not ask that it be held in confidence, Lady Beatrix had no cause to run to you and tell that I struck him.”
She had struck Durand? In Beatrix’s presence?
It was Abel’s turn to overreact. But he did not, for as a boy he had learned his lessons well at Wulfen Castle and knew that one did not reveal the extent of one’s knowledge—if at all—before gaining all that could be had from an opponent who was less likely to hold close that with which he believed the other was well acquainted. Fortunately, if Helene did not rise to the bait, he could always learn from his sister what their mother had not been privy to beyond Durand’s appearance in the hall and Helene’s pursuit of him.
Turning over words that would best draw out the tale of what the knave had done to cause her to strike him—and God help Durand if he had behaved inappropriately which, considering his past, was possible—he stared at Helene.
She set her chin higher. “It is no concern of
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