Helen saw the tall figure of the Duke of Selburn approaching. His long-boned face was set into pleasant neutrality.
Carlston’s voice quickened. “Lady Margaret will drive past on Piccadilly and offer you a place in her carriage. Take it. And wear your plainest dress.” He looked at her urgently. “Will you do so?”
Reluctantly, Helen nodded just as the Duke arrived. He had obviously been sent by her aunt, and although his company was always welcome, she felt a frisson of frustration. Her “rescue” had come far too soon. She had only begun to get the answers she craved.
His lordship stood and faced Selburn. The men were near equal in height and, as they eyed each other, there was a sense of two dogs circling.
Carlston gave a slight bow. “Your Grace.” It was half a sneer away from insult. Helen held her breath, but the Duke’s face remained tranquil.
“Lord Carlston. Three years, is it not, since we last saw you? I am surprised that you have returned so soon.” He paused. “Very surprised.”
“Three years,” Carlston agreed. “Much has changed.”
“Much has stayed the same.” The Duke smiled, and Helen could see the bared teeth within it. “You can be quite certain of that.” He turned to Helen. “Your aunt would like you to return to the ballroom with her, Lady Helen. May I escort you to her side?”
“I am quite able to return Lady Helen to her aunt, Duke,” Carlston said. “I think you interfere where there is no need.”
Selburn observed him through narrowed eyes. “Lady Pennworth has specifically asked me to escort her niece.”
Helen gathered her gloves from her lap and stood up into the middle of the rising antagonism. “If my aunt requires me, of course I shall come.” She took Selburn’s offered arm and dipped into a curtsy to the Earl. “Thank you for escorting me to supper, Lord Carlston.”
As she had hoped, it broke the tension, her implacable momentum forcing Selburn to move away from the table. Although she longed to look over her shoulder, she did not. Yet she fancied she could feel Carlston’s eyes on her back like the warm press of a hand.
“I hope he did not upset you,” Selburn said.
“No, not at all. He was most moderate in his conversation.” She smiled through the lie.
“I do not like to see you in his company. He is the worst kind of corruptor. Insidious. He brings destruction to everything he touches.”
His vehemence was startling. “You refer to his wife, Lady Elise?” Helen asked.
“I do. It is strange, but you remind me of her. Not in your person—you are not similar in appearance at all—but in your spirit. You have the same quickness of understanding and intelligence as Elise, and a similar sense of curiosity about the world. I think you would have enjoyed her sense of irony. I know she would have enjoyed your wit.” Helen felt heat rise into her cheeks: she was not immune to the implied compliment. The Duke’s face softened. “You would have been good friends. Elise was so full of grace.”
“You paint a lovely picture,” Helen said. She looked away from the intimacy within his voice: the lady’s name used without title, and said with such tenderness.
“If you remind me of Elise, then I am certain you remind Carlston of her too,” Selburn said. “I fear he may be wishing to relive the past. Do not be fooled by him, Lady Helen. His looks may be noble, but his heart is far from it.”
“I am not fooled by him,” Helen said, keenly aware that only minutes before she had been giving herself the same warning.
“Good. Then let us leave his lordship behind and think of more pleasant subjects. Such as dancing. Would you do me the honor of promising me the next?”
“I would be delighted,” Helen said, and she meant it. The Duke was a fine dancer, and she needed to step back into the light, away from Lord Carlston and his shadowy world.
However, as the Duke delivered her to her aunt, and they returned to the ballroom, a rather subduing thought crossed her mind. Perhaps it was Selburn, and not Lord Carlston, who was wishing to relive the past.
Seventeen
Thursday, 7 May 1812
HELEN WENT DOWN to family prayers the next morning in her plainest dress—a brown muslin—with the miniature tucked inside her stays, and a reminder for Aunt that she had plans to spend the whole morning at Hatchards bookshop. Her aunt, however, was still abed with a headache and did not descend for the devotions, nor did she join Helen in the drawing room afterward to await the breakfast hour. Helen made her way to the morning room with a sense of guilty relief: Thursday was her uncle’s day to breakfast at his club, and so, with Aunt upstairs, she would have the luxury of dining alone, and an easy path to her rendezvous with Lord Carlston.
On opening the door, however, she found her uncle at the table, already started upon a pasty and a mound of beef that sent an overpowering smell of charred flesh into the air. But it was too late to back away. He had already looked up from The Times.
Smiling through her dismay, she curtsied. “Good morning, Uncle. You are not at your club this morning.”
He finished his mouthful. “Try not to state the obvious, Helen.”
She closed the door, breathing as shallowly as possible. Surely, there had to be some way of regulating the sudden intensities of her Reclaimer senses. Another thing to ask Lord Carlston. The anticipation of that meeting quickened her step to her chair.
She sat as her uncle grunted at something in the newspaper. Helen readied herself, but he merely shook the pages and squinted more closely at the print. It seemed he had no desire for conversation. A blessing.
She unfolded her linen napkin and considered the morning ahead. Alchemy: just the word brought unease. She had woken with a sharp sense of regret that she had agreed to take part in something so irreligious, yet she had to admit to an equally sharp sense of curiosity. The previous night’s avalanche of information was still making her head whirl with amazement and disquiet.
“Just a sweet roll, please, Barnett,” she said to the butler’s inquiring bow. “And some coffee.”
These were quickly supplied, only the sound of pouring liquid, the ticking of the mantel clock and Barnett’s soft tread across the carpet breaking the silence. From the corner of her eye, Helen watched him take his position by the servery. Could he possibly be a Deceiver—dear old Barnett? Lord Carlston had said it was unlikely that one was within the household, but that was no guarantee. Perhaps Mrs. Grant was a Deceiver. Or Tilly, the housemaid—no, surely not sweet little Tilly. It was impossible to know. Yet if one had insinuated itself into the house, what was it doing? Helen’s shoulders twitched as if the creature’s eyes were upon her. She shot another glance at Barnett. Perhaps they were.
She could use the miniature to check his life-force. She looked down at her bodice, suddenly realizing the rather severe limitations of her hiding place. One could hardly fish something out of one’s stays in polite company. Although, Helen thought with a smile, it would be funny to see Uncle’s face if she tried to do so at the breakfast table. She bit into the roll. Barnett’s life-force had been pale blue when she had last checked. No doubt it still was.
“They’ve brought fourteen hundred militia into Manchester,” Uncle suddenly announced, rattling The Times in approval. “That should keep those Luddite fiends quiet.”
Helen looked up. Fiends. Was it possible that the Luddites—those desperate men attacking their own employers—had been infiltrated by Deceivers? The thought dried her mouth around her bite of bread. No, Carlston had said the creatures did not work together; she was seeing Deceivers in everyone and everything. Still, the Luddite mobs did attract the creatures, eager to skim all that angry energy: it was why the other Reclaimers had been posted to the troubled cities, ready to defuse any violence. Could she do such a duty? It seemed impossible to even contemplate.
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Are they expecting more riots, Uncle?”
/>
“Most likely,” he said, noting her interest with surprise. “They have discovered a written Luddite oath in the pocket of one of those unholy dogs. Apparently, there are thousands who have sworn to it. Listen to this abomination.” He read from the paper:
“I, A. B., of my own voluntary will, declare and swear never to disclose the names of the persons who compose the Secret Committee, or by describing, either by word or sign, their persons, features, clothes, connections, &c. cause them to be discovered, under the penalty of being put out of the world by the first brother who may meet me, and of having my name and character ever held in abhorrence.”
He looked up. “It even goes on to declare that he would commit murder to keep this foul pact. Outrageous, I say!”
Helen nodded, although her mind turned to another secret pact, between the Dark Days Club and the Deceivers. It was a strange thing to know something so important and dangerous when her uncle did not.
The door opened to admit Aunt. She faltered for a moment, then entered the room. “Good morning, Pennworth. You are not at your club: what a pleasant surprise.” She smiled wanly at Helen.
“Perceval has his head on right about these Luddites,” Uncle said as she took her seat. “He is showing true leadership in this dangerous situation. True leadership.”
“Quite,” Aunt said with careful tranquility. She paused as Barnett poured her tea, and then added, “Although the Tory cabinet is in disarray about the American matter, is it not? You said so yourself.”
Uncle grunted his agreement. “Cursed scoundrels.” Helen was not sure if it was Prime Minister Perceval’s cabinet or the Americans who were the scoundrels. Probably both. “We’ll be at war with ’em before long, mark my words.” Uncle shook the newspaper again to punctuate his prophecy.
“Are you feeling better, Aunt?” Helen asked.
“Yes, I took one of Dr. Roberts’s powders and feel much restored.” Aunt took the top invitation from the pile on the silver salver, eyed it dismissively, and put it aside. She squinted across at Helen. “Why are you wearing that gown, my dear? I thought you were going to give it to Darby. The color was a mistake for you from the beginning.” Aunt shook her head. “Do change before we go out.”
Helen straightened. “Out?”
“We have an appointment with Madame Hortense this morning. She sent a note yesterday to say your ball gown is ready for a final fitting. I thought we might visit Mr. Duray, too, and order your new riding habit. Last night the Duke was most interested in your riding prowess. I believe he will soon invite you to accompany him along the Row. You must have a new habit.” Aunt’s smile was congratulatory.
“I see,” Helen said, torn between the gratification of Selburn’s interest and frustration at the disruption of her morning’s plan. “Are you sure you are well enough?”
“Of course.”
Uncle sucked at his teeth thoughtfully. “Duke? Which Duke?”
“Selburn,” Aunt said triumphantly. “He danced with her too, at Almack’s. And was most obliging to me.”
“But, Aunt, I was going to walk to Hatchards this morning.”
“Not today. Your books can wait. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let Selburn know how much you read.”
“But if you are not feeling well—”
“Helen, I assure you I am at the peak of good health. Besides, don’t you want to see your ball gown finished? I certainly do.”
Helen dug her fingernail into the soft center of her roll. She knew that look: nothing would persuade Aunt from the mantua-maker and tailor. There would be no alchemy today.
Somehow she would have to get a note to Lord Carlston as soon as possible. Not via one of the footmen—Darby must take it, and wait for an answer. Helen ground a piece of bread into the white porcelain of her plate. Now that the meeting had been torn from her grasp, she realized just how much she had wanted to keep it. For all her misgivings, there was something tantalizing about the idea of being trained by his lordship. He knew how to navigate this frightening underworld, and seemed to face its unnatural dangers with calm courage. If there was any place safe now, it was most likely by his side. Or, Helen thought wryly, standing a little way behind him.
“Selburn is a Whig,” Uncle said heavily.
“That may be so, Pennworth, but he is a Duke first,” Aunt said. “And he is Andrew’s dear friend. It would be a most fitting match.”
“Being Andrew’s friend is no recommendation,” Uncle said from behind the paper.
“You are running ahead of yourself, Aunt,” Helen said.
“You are not set against him, are you?” Aunt demanded.
“No, I like him very much.” Helen clenched her hands in her lap, arrested by a sudden thought. How could she ever marry if she stepped into the life of a Reclaimer? No man would allow his wife—the potential mother of his heirs—to fight demons. In fact, the very idea that a woman could even do so was absurd. And yet, her father had allowed her mother to face such danger. Why? The reason was so obvious that Helen almost groaned. Not only must he have known about the Dark Days Club, he must have been one of them before his marriage to Lady Catherine. It was even possible that he had become her mother’s Terrene. A rare match indeed. “It is just that the Duke and I hardly know one another,” she finished lamely.
Aunt waved away that foolish consideration. “That will come. You know, he has not shown any particular interest in a girl since Elise de Vraine married Carlston. Poor, poor girl. I think the Duke may finally be over that sad incident and ready to marry.”
“Regrettable business, all that,” Uncle said to Aunt. “Well, if he makes an offer for Helen, she must take him. No one would slander Selburn’s Duchess, and it will get her out of harm’s way and in proper hands.” On that pronouncement, he folded the paper and hauled himself from his chair. He looked back at Helen as Barnett opened the door for him. “Duke of Selburn, hey? Better than I thought you’d get.” He laughed, the rasp of it breaking into a wheezing cough as he left the room.
HELEN LEFT THE breakfast room not long after, ostensibly to change her gown, but actually intent upon writing to Lord Carlston in the privacy of her bedchamber.
The note was surprisingly difficult to formulate. Helen started it twice, burning the first attempt because it read far too stiffly, and the second because it seemed to witter on in no direction at all. The third draft still did not capture the tone she wanted—something between regret and carefree courtesy—but Philip arrived with a request from Aunt to prepare for the carriage, and so it became the final version.
Half Moon Street. 7 May 1812
Dear Lord Carlston,
I hope you will forgive the brevity of this discourse. Circumstances have prevented me from visiting Hatchards bookshop today. My apologies for any inconvenience caused to you or to Lady Margaret.
Saturday morning will be the first opportunity I have to take another walk along Piccadilly.
Yrs, etc.,
Helen Wrexhall
She sealed it with a wafer and pressed the packet into Darby’s hand. “He resides in St. James’s Square, although I do not know the number.”
“It is eighteen, my lady,” Darby said, with a smug smile.
Helen returned the smile; not much escaped her maid. “Wait for an answer.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And if he asks any questions—” She stopped. She had no idea what kind of questions he would ask a servant.
“Yes, my lady?”
She gripped Darby’s hand for a moment. “Say what you think is best.”
Not long after, Aunt ordered the carriage to be brought around, and Helen was soon sitting beside her as they drove along New Bond Street, listening to a list of tasks that still needed to be addressed for her upcoming ball. Three hundred or so six-hour candles had to be ordered, her aunt noted, as did the champagne and the dessert
s from Gunter’s. Aunt was also set upon having white soup, and that necessitated at least five geese. Or was it five ducks? She could not quite remember.
After the appointments with Madame Hortense and Mr. Duray, Aunt decided that they might as well call on her milliner to order a riding hat to match Helen’s new habit. At the finish of that lengthy consultation, Aunt conceived the desire for luncheon, so they stopped at Farrance’s for soup and one of the famous tarts. They then continued on to a number of other shops to buy various little necessities: silk stockings, Asiatic soap, and Ceylon Tooth Powder. Helen endured each foray with a smile, although she longed to return to Half Moon Street and read Lord Carlston’s response. Finally Aunt directed their driver home, sighing with satisfaction at a day well spent. Helen’s sigh was one of relief.
Darby had carefully kept his lordship’s return note tucked within the long sleeve of her gown. She handed it over in the privacy of Helen’s dressing room.
“He sent this, too,” she said, rummaging in the workbox. “I hid it, just in case.” She pulled out a brown-paper-wrapped parcel, unmistakably a book from Hatchards, and handed it to Helen. “He said for you to start reading, and that you would probably not understand most of it, but to read it anyway.”
Helen bristled. “Does he think me a dull-wit?”
She motioned for Darby to bring scissors. A quick snip of the string, and the paper came away to reveal a book with a red leather cover and a gold title: The Magus, or Celestial Intelligencer; being a complete system of occult philosophy by Francis Barrett, F.R.C.
“Occult, my lady?” Darby said, eyes widening with shock.
“Apparently, there is an alchemical aspect to being a Reclaimer,” Helen said shortly. She put the book down on her dressing table, as if it might explode, and broke the blue wax seal on the letter.
St. James’s Square. 7 May 1812
Lady Helen,
Until Saturday.