Lady Disguised (Tenacious Trents Novella) (Tenacous Trents)

by Jane Charles

  Stanwick jerked awake and glanced about the unfamiliar room. Where the hell was he? He laid back and groaned as the events of the night before came back to him. He was in Hélène Mirabelle’s home. He had wanted to speak with her but Dr. Brune insisted she not be disturbed. Stanwick knew she couldn’t sleep forever and he’d made himself comfortable in this library after helping himself to some of the best brandy he’d ever enjoyed.

  His sleep had been fitful, filled with dreams. Damn it all, he was horrified at the damage he’d caused her person, angry at her deception, and irritated at lustful thoughts plaguing his mind from the way her body filled out gentleman’s clothing. His emotions were in complete contrast with each other. He’d probably scarred her, and it was not something he could reconcile within himself. Women were to be protected and cherished, not participants in manly sports. Yet he couldn’t help but admire her skill.

  The sharp pound of a fist against a door brought him back to a seated position. Is that what had awakened him? Who would be pounding on the woman’s door and were there no servants in this house? Did the sisters live alone without any male to protect them?

  Stanwick pulled the watch from his pocket. It was just past eleven in the morning.

  “Are they here?” someone demanded.

  “Yes, Mr. Trent,” an unfamiliar male responded. “I believe they are resting in their rooms.”

  Stanwick frowned. Jordan Trent? Why was Trent here?

  “Thank God,” another voice muttered before two sets of booted feet pounded up the stairs. Stanwick lay back down on the settee. Until he knew what was happening and what they wanted with the sisters, he’d remain hidden.

  “The three of them are too damned independent for their own good,” Trent was saying as he marched past the parlor.

  “One of them happens to be my wife.”

  Was that Acker? It made sense that he would call on his wife’s sisters, but Stanwick still didn’t understand why Trent accompanied him.

  “I knew Bentley should have insisted Hélène and Genviève remain with him and Eleanor while they were in London.”

  Stanwick rose from his place on the settee and quietly walked to the door. Why would the women live with Bentley?

  “Please tell Miss Hélène and Miss Genviève that I require a word with them,” Trent instructed the person Stanwick assumed was a footman or butler.

  Had Acker learned what happened at Dagger’s? Is that why they were here?

  “They have wanted to live here from the beginning.” The two gentlemen paused in the corridor not far from the library. “What lady does such a thing?”

  Were Hélène and Genviève Mirabelle ladies? Stanwick shook his head. It wasn’t possible. Acker’s wife was a ballerina and they were the woman’s sisters. Besides, ladies didn’t dress as gentlemen, gamble, or fence.

  Why was Trent concerned about these two women? Didn’t he have his own wife to worry about?

  “You really should calm yourself,” Acker offered in a slower tone as they moved further away. “I am sure there is a perfectly good explanation.”

  Stanwick edged toward the door to listen further.

  “There you are,” Jordan announced from what must be the sitting room next door. “Why didn’t you return to Acker’s last night?”

  “Jordan, what are you doing here?” Hélène asked in a sleepy voice.

  There was warmth in her tone, now that she was not trying to sound like a gentlemen and it enhanced the vision from last night. Stanwick had gone to her room in the early morning hours because he was concerned with her health. The wig had been removed and thick, warm chestnut hair was spread out across the pillow. The sideburns had been discarded, and her eyebrows looked more feminine. He’d opened the draperies and the moonlight had shown on her full, rosy lips and rounded cheeks. How had he ever thought her a man?

  “I knew you were feeling out of sorts, and Bentley said you seemed to be suffering from melancholy. I came by this morning to see if you wished to go riding, only to learn you and Genviève never returned last night.”

  “We left Acker and Juliette a note,” she stated as if affronted. “Besides, I am not suffering from melancholy; I am being suffocated to death.”

  That sounded more like the Hélène he had met last night, without the husky lower register in her voice.

  “Nobody is suffocating you,” Trent argued.

  Stanwick stepped out into the hall and quietly made his way to the sitting room.

  “I can’t live on my own. I can’t be a part of the theater and act or create costumes. I must go to Yorkshire for Christmas, and Bentley insists I have a Season because I am unwed.”

  What was wrong with all those things? She was a lady, apparently, and it should be her focus to find a husband.

  “It is too dangerous to live on your own, especially here,” Acker added.

  “There is nothing wrong with having a Season,” Trent said a little more quietly.

  “I am two-and-twenty, far past the age of being presented.”

  So she had been telling the truth about her age.

  “You need to marry,” Trent said in a soothing tone. “Or you will be stuck living with Bentley the rest of your life.”

  “Why?” She cried out. “Maman, Juliette, Genviève, and I got along perfectly fine until we came here.”

  “But your mother is gone,” Acker said quietly.

  “And Juliette is married,” Trent added.

  “You don’t think I know that?” Hélène cried.

  “What will people think when they learn our sisters are living alone, without a companion or chaperone?” Trent asked in a soothing voice.

  Stanwick stilled. Had he heard correctly? How had Bentley and the Trents managed to keep this a secret? Not one sister, but apparently three more that nobody knew about. Stanwick stopped just out of sight from those in the room.

  “I don’t care what anyone thinks, and neither should you,” she insisted.

  “I don’t,” Acker added. “Juliette will continue to dance. Why shouldn’t Hélène be afforded the same opportunity to do as she wishes?”

  “Because she is a Trent!”

  “And every Trent does what is expected of them?” Acker scoffed.

  “That was different,” Trent defended. “I am a gentleman.”

  “So only gentlemen are allowed to do what they wish, and ladies are simply to wait and be told what to do?” Hélène demanded.

  Those had always been Stanwick’s beliefs, yet hearing the passionate argument in Hélène’s voice gave him pause. Was that why women were prone to madness? They were kept from being allowed to do what they wished?

  If he had been forced to live under his uncle’s thumb, as the man wished, Stanwick would be Bedlam-bound. Was that what had driven Lady Arrington to take a fire poker to her husband? Was she frustrated with her life or just her husband?

  These thoughts did not sit well with Stanwick. He swallowed against the closing in his throat.

  Hélène stared at Jordan. Of her four brothers, he was the one she hoped would help her. That was, until he came storming in the house this morning. She understood he once felt responsible for Juliette disappearing as a child, but she and her sisters were grown women now. Hélène did not need him watching everything she did or demanding to know where she went.

  Jordan sank down on the settee, and Hélène tried not to wince. Her thigh throbbed, and the dip in the cushion from his weight only added to the pain when her body shifted. However, she wasn’t about to share that information with him. The last thing she wanted to do was tell of her night.

  Jordan picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I worry about you. You’ve gone through so much this past year. I want to see you protected and your life made easier.”

  “I am not designed to lead the life of a lady. I am an actress. It is my passion,” she said softly.

  “Bentley wishes to see you wed and happy.”

  “What if marriage is not what makes me hap
py?” Tears sprung to her eyes. Would any of them ever understand?

  Jordan studied her. “Is being on the stage so very important to you?”

  “It is as important as dancing is to Juliette. It is who we are.”

  He sighed and shifted. It was too much, and she gritted her teeth to keep from moaning.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “The reason I didn’t return this morning.” How much should she tell him? “I injured my leg, and Dr. Brune said I should not move overly much for a day or two.” He had also told her to remain in bed, but Hélène couldn’t stay there. It wasn’t in her to be inactive. She’d insisted the maid help her dress before she navigated the stairs. This was as far as she could go before the pain became too much.

  Jordan jumped up as if he had been bit. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You never gave me the chance.”

  “What happened?” Acker asked.

  “I was cut,” she answered simply and prayed they didn’t demand a more detailed answer.

  Acker and Jordan shared a confused look. “How did you cut your leg badly enough to need a doctor?”

  She stared at them, worrying her lower lip. Why hadn’t she simply claimed to have twisted her ankle? At least that wouldn’t require further explanation, unlike a rapier cut in the thigh.

  “Will you tell them, or should I?”

  Hélène jerked her head to the voice, only to find Stanwick standing in the doorway. His hair was mussed as if he had just arose from bed, and he appeared much as he had last night when they had fenced, wearing only shirtsleeves and his trousers. The only exception was the sleeve of his shirt was stained with her blood.

  Why hadn’t he gone home?

  “Stanwick! What are you doing here?” Jordan demanded.

  “I slept here, actually,” he said as he sauntered into the room.

  “Not with me,” Hélène squeaked. Goodness, all she needed was her brother and Acker thinking she had allowed…well she couldn’t even finish the thought.

  “I was on the settee in the library when your pounding and yelling woke me,” Stanwick drawled.

  Hélène’s eyes met his. “I did not know you stayed.” Why would he do such a thing?

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Jordan whipped around and stared at her. “How would Stanwick know of your injury?”

  Hélène glared at Stanwick. Why did he have to be here? Her brothers and Acker did not need to know about last night. Stanwick even had her winnings, so what did he have to gain by enlightening them about what had been a most humiliating experience?

  “How are you feeling, by the way?” he asked as he crossed the room and took a seat opposite her. “Dr. Brune said you were to remain in bed for a few days.”

  “Is this true?” Acker demanded.

  “I don’t need to be coddled,” she snapped. Perhaps she should have remained in bed. Maybe she would have gotten some sympathy from the gentlemen in the room, or perhaps they would have left her alone. Then she would have had time to think about what she was going to tell her family. As it was, her leg throbbed and she just wanted to take a few drops of the laudanum Dr. Brune had left and lie down. Unfortunately, now was not the time to show weakness.

  Stanwick leaned forward. “There are seven stitches in your leg. I don’t think lying in bed for a day to heal is being coddled.”

  “Seven?” Acker asked.

  “Stitches?” Jordan stressed.

  Hélène sighed. This was not going well, and she wished Stanwick would just be quiet.

  “How the hell do you know how many stitches my sister has in her leg?” Jordan demanded.

  Stanwick’s eyes widened and he slowly turned to Jordan.

  “Sister?”

  Acker in turn lifted an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, also looking at Jordan. Exactly how was Jordan going to explain?

  “Hélène’s relationship to me is not important at the moment,” Jordan argued. “What is your involvement with her injury?”

  Hélène sighed. She had hoped the conversation would turn from last night, but apparently Jordan wasn’t about to enlighten Stanwick about their kinship.

  Hélène watched Stanwick’s dark eyes as he mulled over what he was going to say. She forced herself to breathe, though she feared he would tell them everything.

  “I’ve brought tea, Miss Mirabelle,” a footman announced as he came in the room.

  “Thank you, Vickary.” Hélène smiled at the young man.

  Hélène gazed at the tea service. A cup of tea was precisely what she needed at the moment. As she was the only female in the room, it was her duty to pour. She slowly leaned forward, but winced as the stitches pulled and a sharp pain tore through her thigh. Perhaps she wasn’t as thirsty as she thought.

  Stanwick grasped the handle of the delicate teapot. “Allow me.”

  Their eyes met and held. He looked ruggedly handsome this morning with a midnight, wayward curl resting on his forehead. His chiseled features were all the more defined by the dark shadow on his lower cheeks and chin.

  “Thank you,” Hélène murmured, glancing away from his dark, penetrating gaze.

  Pain sliced through Hélène’s eyes and her mouth grew white and pinched when she attempted to be the proper hostess in pouring tea for his guests. Neither Acker nor Trent moved to assist. Didn’t they note the pain in her eyes? Her face didn’t completely relax until she was once again against the back of the settee. This was his fault.

  No, it was hers for putting herself in a dangerous situation. Just further proof that women were mad. Yet she was a lovely madwoman. One might forget the insanity that must run through her veins with one look into those beguiling blue eyes framed with dark lashes.

  Stanwick poured a cup of tea. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Hélène answered.

  He used all his will to contain his composure, but being in such close proximity to Hélène was causing him the strangest emotions. He had fallen asleep angry, yet worried. He fully intended to remain here until he received the answers he sought, but relief shot through him when he saw her in the lavender day dress, sitting as if nothing traumatic had happened to her. At least she would heal, or so he hoped. Was there a chance of the wound festering? Shouldn’t she be in bed resting? Perhaps Dr. Brune should come examine the injury again.

  He rose and walked around the small table and placed the cup and saucer in her hands so Hélène would not need to bend forward again.

  She was Jordan Trent’s sister, something he couldn’t reconcile in his mind. She was also older than the current dowager’s daughter. Had Hélène and her sisters been born of the mistress of the former Bentley? If she were born on the wrong side of the blanket, why were any of them thinking of giving her a Season?

  “Thank you.” She smiled up at him, and Stanwick’s heart stilled for a moment. It was the first time he had ever seen her smile, and something shifted inside him. Hélène Mirabelle was not merely pretty, but beautiful. How had he ever thought she was a gentleman?

  Stanwick returned to his seat and lifted another empty cup. Too many questions were making his head ache. Perhaps he shouldn’t have sampled so much of her brandy last night, but it was the only thing he could think of to help him sleep on the settee that was far too short for his frame.

  She must be in a great deal of pain, yet here she sat, playing hostess the best she could.

  Hélène Mirabelle intrigued him. Of course, no woman he knew would have done what she had, and that was just in the past fifteen hours. He almost shuddered wondering what else she had done in her life before they met.

  He poured another cup of tea and added a drop of milk before he relaxed against the back of the chair.

  Seven bloody stitches and he was the cause. Hélène would probably have a ghastly scar for which she would always blame him.

  Trent braced his feet and crossed his arms over his chest before gl
aring at Stanwick. “You have yet to explain what you know of Hélène’s injury and why you spent the night in this house.”

  He should have known Trent would not leave until he had answers. He should have remained hidden and let Hélène weave whatever tale she wished, and confronted her later. “As I said, I remained with her to make sure she would recover.” He took a sip of the hot liquid. “As for how the injury came about, I will let your sister explain.”

  Hélène sighed.

  Ah, so she didn’t wish them to know everything, but what exactly would she tell them?

  The butler stepped into the room carrying a dark wooden cane, which he took to Hélène. “Mr. Thorn has come to call.”

  Hélène grimaced. “Please tell him I am indisp—”

  Before she finished her sentence, Thorn marched into the room. He stopped and looked at everyone gathered. “Trent, Acker, Stanwick.” He nodded before looking to Hélène. “I came to assure myself of your recovery after last night and pay a call on Miss Genviève.”

  Hélène groaned and leaned her head back against the settee, closing her eyes.

  “You know of last night?” Trent asked.

  “Yes,” Thorn blinked. “Did they not tell you?”

  Stanwick cleared his throat. Thorn needed to shut his mouth.

  “No,” Trent said. “They actually haven’t told us anything as of yet.”

  “Oh, well, then I should be going.” Thorn started backing from the room. “It is good to see you are well, Lady Hélène. I will call on you in a few days.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere, Thorn,” Trent bit out.

  Thorn’s eyes met Hélène’s across the room. No doubt Trent would get the story out of one of them before the morning was done.

  Trent turned toward his sister, leveling his eyes on her. “What exactly did you do last night, dear sister?”

  There was no hope for it. Hélène would have to tell Jordan and Acker the truth. As much as she wished she could invent a plausible lie, and was fairly certain Stanwick would go along with it, what of Thorn and the other gentlemen who had been there? Carrington? What if he spoke of the fencing match in the middle of Dagger’s? Of course, nobody knew her name, but Jordan and Acker would know it was her as soon as they heard the story.