eyes. What was the point in doing anything else? Helene might think him a romantic fool, but he knew love when he found it. He also suspected he was unlikely to ever meet its like again.
Helene held her breath as the door shut behind Philip and his baggage. In the sudden silence, she stared at the back of the door. Was he still out there? What was he waiting for? For her to beg him to return? She'd hurt his pride, that was all, nothing more. He'd simply been upset when she'd ignored his ridiculous marriage proposal.
A moan escaped her tightly clamped lips. Mon Dieu, it hurt to breathe. In her soul, she knew he'd meant every word. Part of her longed to run after him, to fall into his arms and find happiness. But she couldn't risk it, couldn't allow herself to be used and discarded again when he realized his mistake. And his family would make sure he realized what a colossal mistake she was.
She got slowly to her feet and bent over like an elderly woman with the pain of his leaving, with the pain of denying him. Images of his face when she'd told him what she was, the shock he'd tried to hide, his gallant offer to love her anyway. She didn't deserve such love; she was already beyond redemption. Everyone who had truly loved her was dead.
Tears fell down her cheeks as she crawled back into bed and buried her face in the sheets.
She could still smell him, his scent as familiar now as her own.
London would have to wait until the next passenger coach came through. She had people who were depending on her to succeed. She needed to mourn again, to rebuild her strength and try, if it was possible, to forget Philip Ross had ever existed.
Chapter Four
One last time, Helene checked the address on the battered piece of parchment clutched in her gloved hand. Was this imposing house on St. James Square really the residence of Viscount Harcourt-DeVere? It seemed far too large for one family. The last time she'd seen the viscount, he'd been in rags and manacles, trying to avoid a beating from the guards at the Bastille. Accused of spying for the English, escape was his only option, and Helene had been glad to help him.
She swallowed her sudden nausea and mounted the steps, which gave her an elevated view of the square and the deserted garden in the center. The trees in the central area were bereft of leaves and frosted with ice. A large brass knocker shaped like a church bell loomed in her face. It took all her strength to raise it and let it fall. She almost turned and retreated down the steps when the door abruptly opened.
"May I help you, ma'am?"
The man she assumed was the butler was dressed in somber black that contrasted strongly with the whiteness of his wig and his pale thin lips.
Helene lifted her chin. "I wish to speak to the viscount. Is he at home?"
The butler regarded her for a long moment. "Do you have an appointment, ma'am?"
"I do not, but the viscount told me that if I ever visited London, I was to seek him out immediately." She offered him the scrap of parchment. "He gave me his direction and told me to bring him this."
The butler took the parchment, bowed, and opened the door. "Perhaps you might care to wait in the small morning room while I inquire as to the viscount's whereabouts?"
Helene was too grateful he hadn't shut the door in her face to worry about her less-than-enthusiastic reception. She followed the butler through the shadowed marbled hall and into a room facing the front of the house. Heat from a diminutive fireplace embraced her as she entered the oak-paneled room. She took off her gloves and held her hands out to the flames.
A clock ticked loudly on the high mantelpiece, eventually grinding and wheezing to strike a single note to signify the quarter hour. Helene paced the room, her nerves too on edge to allow her to sit.
"Madame?"
She turned to find the butler at the door.
"The viscount will see you now."
"Thank you."
Helene gathered her courage and followed the butler down another long