He sat very still, watching her with narrow calculation. She shifted under his scrutiny. A scrap of Miss Tarkwell’s nearby conversation rose through the throng: “A most thrilling story, Mr. McDonald.”
“It was no coincidence,” he said, finally. “I had ordered a man to watch your house. He was delivering his report to me.”
He was having her watched?
“But what about Berta?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t see your girl that morning.”
Did she believe him? It was hard to make a judgment when he was so adept at masking his expression.
“Read me,” he said, obviously seeing her mistrust. “I will not stop you.” He sat back, arms still crossed. The offer was as much challenge as it was invitation.
She took a deep breath, trying to see past the overwhelming physicality of him to the tiny signs that would tell her the truth. The fact of his eyes upon her made it near impossible to find the calm she needed to read so deeply. A phrase from a poem came to mind, by a little-known poet named Blake: fearful symmetry. An apt description for his lordship’s countenance. Before her was the classic correspondence of strong chin, angled cheekbone, and sensuous curve of lip that she had seen so often in Roman sculpture. Yet within that masculine grace something chilled her blood. Perhaps that was not so surprising: he dealt in destruction. She slowly took in the shapes and textures of him, seeing both the parts and the whole of his face as an ever-changing map of emotion.
“Did you take Berta?” she asked again.
There were the quicksilver markers of distrust, apprehension, concern, but no sign of guilt. At least no guilt around Berta. She felt an odd lift of gladness: it was almost certain he had not harmed the girl. Yet something was harming him. The intuition settled into certainty. She drew in another steadying breath, testing the unconscious knowledge. Yes, on her search for the truth she had also recognized the shapes of a puzzle within his face—dark and subterranean. Gathered together, the separate pieces formed a shadowy picture of suffering. Old and never-ending and, for the most part, masterfully concealed. Helen hesitated—she had her answer about Berta—but the temptation was too great. Pushing deeper, she followed the secret path of pain through the hard, unforgiving lines of his face, the traitorous shift of jaw and mouth, the strain around his dark, watchful eyes. She had never seen anything like it before. Something vital within him was fighting for survival: years of struggle etched into every breath he took, every blink, every tiny flick of muscle. And he was losing the battle.
She saw him tense, heard a startled, indrawn breath. “That is enough,” he said, ending her inspection by the simple expedient of turning his face.
Wrenched out of her narrow focus, Helen blinked, eyes aching and dry. Still, she had not missed the flare of the finely modeled nostrils—resentment—or the astonished widening of his eyes. He had not thought her able to go so deep. Nor had she. Her elation lasted only a moment, swept away by shame.
“How did you do that? It was as if you were looking straight into my—” He stopped.
Soul, Helen finished silently. She closed her eyes and pressed her lids lightly with her fingertips. A retreat from the room, from him, from her own deplorable behavior. Yet she could see him still, clear in her mind. Was that what it was: his soul, battling for survival? Against what? Perhaps the death of his wife after all. The burden of murder. Yet she did not want to believe such a thing. Had she fallen prey to a handsome face, just like Lady Margaret?
Helen opened her eyes. That face was pointedly turned from her; perhaps his own retreat. She cleared her throat. “Why can we read at such depth? What use does it have?” A safer subject than his soul.
“The Deceivers have been living in human bodies for centuries, but they are not creatures of flesh. They do not feel emotions as we do. Nevertheless, most of them are now masters at simulating the right response.” He finally looked squarely at her again, his face once more under tight guard. “Occasionally, in moments of high or sudden emotion, it is possible for us to see a false note, a slip so tiny that it would not be discernible to normal eyes. It is a way we can determine who is a Deceiver and who is not.”
“And a way for us to see if humans are telling the truth,” Helen said.
He observed her for a long, chilly moment. “Quite. And so, have you determined if I am telling the truth about your maidservant?”
Helen met his cool stare with her own. “Yes, you are telling the truth.” He tilted his head in sardonic gratitude. “But if you did not take her, who did?”
“How can you be sure she was taken? Perhaps she met with an accident or ran away.”
“She was on an errand nearby,” she said. “An accident would have brought her back to us. And we still have her lockbox.”
“Granted, that could be suspicious. Or indicative of haste.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “There is another explanation, of course. She is a Deceiver.”
“What?” Her voice broke out of the careful tone.
“For God’s sake, keep your voice down,” he hissed, his eyes raking the room.
It had hardly been a shout. Even her aunt had not noticed: she was deep in conversation with Selburn.
“It is possible she is a Deceiver,” Carlston amended. “Did you notice anything different about her?”
A black-ink man and woman flashed through her mind. She blinked away the awful image. That was definitely something different, but how could she tell his lordship? To even admit to seeing such obscene illustrations would be an acknowledgment of depravity. She did not want him to think she was a degenerate. Helen took a sip of lemonade, wincing at its watery sourness. Come now, she chided herself, does his lordship’s opinion matter so much? A glance at him—dark head tilted to one side, his attention sending heat through her—put a sharp end to that self-delusion. His good opinion did matter. Admitting that she had seen and understood those foul images could produce nothing but disgust in him, yet they might give her a clue about Berta’s disappearance. And she had promised Darby.
“I opened Berta’s lockbox,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Hidden within it were cards of a dubious nature.”
“Playing cards?”
Helen shook her head. “Illustrations. Obscene illustrations,” she whispered, forcing the words out. “One of them was by Rowlandson.”
“Ah.” He sat back. It seemed he was acquainted with that side of Rowlandson’s work. She risked a glance: he was frowning, but not from disgust. “It is not conclusive, but it does support the idea that she may be a Deceiver. Specifically, a Luxure.”
Helen shook her head. Surely not. “How?”
“As you have seen, a Deceiver inhabits a human body and lives a human life. In order to do that, it needs to maintain a higher level of energy than ours for the body to survive. Last night you saw one way in which they meet that need—the feeding glut. As you also saw, a glut not only nourishes the creature; it can also provide enough energy for them to build whips. Most do not feed in that manner: it is generally fatal to the human and against the Compact. There is, however, another less destructive way that they feed.”
“Yes, I think I saw it today, on the street.” She described the man reaching out with his foul tentacle and caressing those around him.
Carlston nodded. “We call it skimming: they gather life-forces from a group of people, taking a little from every person. Mr. Carrigan was skimming in the cardroom until I put a stop to it.”
Helen wrinkled her nose. “That is despicable. What does it do to the people they steal from?”
“It can heighten aggression. The skim pulls a person’s violent tendencies to the forefront—most dangerous if more than one Deceiver is skimming in a large crowd. As we have so often seen lately, a crowd can quickly turn into a mob. Even though the creatures do not work together, they sometimes gather at the same event to feed, and t
he effect can be catastrophic. That is when we must defuse the situation.”
“I see.” Good God, she was expected to defuse mobs, too?
“Three of our number are in Nottingham monitoring the Luddite riots. As you can imagine, with all the unrest around the country, our resources are stretched. Right now I should be in Liverpool.”
Helen saw the shift of his jaw. “But you are detained here because of me?”
He nodded. “At the moment the priority is to prepare you for duty. We are desperate for another of our kind.”
“I see,” Helen said again.
“Do you?” He gave a soft sound of disbelief.
“I am trying to,” she said tightly.
“Yes, I suppose you are.” He wrapped his hand around the lemonade glass and dragged his thumbnail across the etched design. Helen shifted in her chair, but he still did not look up. He seemed strangely discomposed. “There is a third way in which some of them feed. It could explain the illustrations in your maid’s possession and place her as a Luxure.” He paused, the moment lengthening into awkwardne