blue eyes. But rather than rejoice in her ability to wound him, she was defeated at once. She ceased her search, and stood, with one boot on and another uselessly in her hand. St. James reached out, and Lady Helen felt his cool, dry fingers close over her own.
"I felt just like a whore," she whispered. Her eyes were dry and hot. She was far beyond tears. "I'll never forgive him."
"I'll not ask that of you. I've not come to excuse Tommy, merely to say that he was hit squarely in the face today with several monumental truths. Unfortunately, he wasn't prepared to deal with any of them. But he'll have to be the one to explain that to you. When he can."
Lady Helen plucked miserably at the top of the boot she held. It was black and smudged along its upper ridge with a stickiness that made it look even blacker.
"Would you have answered his question?" she asked abruptly.
St. James smiled, a warm transformation of his otherwise unattractive, angular face. "You know, I always envied your ability to sleep through anything, Helen. Fire, flood, or thunder. I would lie next to you for hours, wide awake, and steadily curse you for having a conscience so unclouded that nothing ever got in the way of your sleep. I used to think that I could have marched the Queen's Household Cavalry right through the bedroom and you wouldn't even have noticed. But I wouldn't have answered him. There are some things, in spite of everything that's happened, that are just between the two of us. Frankly, that's one of them."
Lady Helen felt the tears then, a hot fl urry behind her eyelids which she blinked back, looking away, trying to find her voice. St. James didn't wait for her to do so. Rather, he drew her gently towards a narrow bench that rested on splintered legs along one of the walls. Several coats hung on pegs above it, and he removed two of them, draping one round her shoulders and using the other himself to ward off the chill that invaded the storage area.
"Aside from the changes Joy had made to the script, did anything else strike you that might have led up to the row last night?" he asked.
Lady Helen considered the hours she had spent with the group from London prior to the turmoil in the sitting room. "I couldn't say for certain. But I do think everyone's nerves were strung."
"Whose in particular?"
"Joanna Ellacourt's, for one. From what I could gather at cocktails last night, she was already a bit overwrought by the thought that Joy might be writing a play that was going to be a vehicle to resurrect her sister's career."
"That would certainly have bothered her, wouldn't it?"
Lady Helen nodded. "Besides the opening of the new Agincourt Theatre, the production was to celebrate Joanna's twentieth year on the stage, Simon, so its focus was supposed to be on her, not on Irene Sinclair. But I got the impression that she didn't think it would be." Lady Helen explained the brief scene she had witnessed in the drawing room last night, when the company had gathered before dinner. Lord Stinhurst had been standing near the piano with Rhys Davies-Jones, fl ipping through a set of designs for costumes, when Joanna Ellacourt joined them, slinking across the room in a semi-bodiceless coruscating gown that gave new definition to dressing for dinner. She had taken up the drawings for her own perusal, but her face revealed in an instant how she felt about what she saw.
"Joanna didn't like Irene Sinclair's costumes," St. James guessed.
"She claimed that every one of them showed Irene off...like a vamp, I think she said. She crumpled the drawings up, told Lord Stinhurst that his costume people would have to redesign if he wanted her in the play, and threw them all on the fire. She was absolutely livid, and I think that once she began reading the play in the sitting room, she saw in Joy's changes that her worst fears were confi rmed, and that's why she threw down the script and left. And Joy...well, I couldn't help feeling that she enjoyed the sensation and the disruption she was causing."
"What was she like, Helen?"
It wasn't an easy question to answer. Physically, Joy Sinclair had been striking. Not beautiful, Lady Helen explained, she looked like a gypsy, with olive skin and black eyes, possessing the sort of features that belong on a Roman coin, finely