“Do you see Deceiver energy?” his lordship asked.
“He is just pale blue, as normal.”
“Perhaps in his eyes?”
She studied Jeremiah’s face. His head rocked from side to side again, the restless rhythm sending a shiver down Helen’s back. She followed his eyes, slate gray and staring, but there was nothing unusual about them. “No.”
“Press the miniature against his skin.”
“But it will—”
“No doubt,” Carlston said.
With misgiving, Helen gently pressed the woven-hair side to Jeremiah’s bare arm.
He shrieked. “Dead, dead, dead!” His staring eyes swung across to Helen, pinning her in their mad depths. “All gone. All gone.”
Carlston grabbed her wrist and held it down, keeping the miniature against the boy’s bare skin. His lordship’s face was almost touching her own. She felt the heat of his breath against her cheek, the fierceness of his focus.
“What do you mean, boy?” he demanded. “What’s all gone? The Deceivers?”
“Dead, dead, dead!” Jeremiah bucked under the pressure, the words trailing off into a howl.
“Let me go,” Helen demanded, but it was as if his lordship did not hear her voice. All his attention was fixed upon the boy’s reaction. Helen raised her voice over the screams. “You are hurting him! You are hurting me!”
Carlston blinked, his eyes sharpening back into the moment. He released her wrist. “I beg your pardon.”
Helen clutched her wrist to her chest. The boy’s shrieks had ceased.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Darby asked, pushing past Quinn.
“I am unharmed.” She opened her hand, the portrait flat upon her palm. “It must be my mother’s and father’s hair that makes him scream so. Do you not agree?”
“I think it is the most probable explanation,” Carlston said. “Some alchemy has definitely been woven into the hair. But I do not know its purpose.”
Helen looked down at the boy, who was once again rocking from side to side. “What does he mean when he says, ‘All gone’? Does he mean us or the Deceivers or himself?”
“I wish I knew,” Carlston said, “but I think he is past making any sense.” He held out his hand again. “Put the miniature aside and let us reclaim him now, before we cannot bring him back at all.”
“Darby, keep these for me,” Helen said. She passed the miniature and reticule to her maid—the shimmers dropping away—then laid her hand in Carlston’s grasp.
“Put your hand on his breastbone, beside his heart,” he said. “This is the gateway to the soul. In Eastern practices, it is where the spiritual energy is centered.”
He pressed her palm against the boy’s chest, his hand covering her own with warm weight. She felt the quick thud of Jeremiah’s heart through her flesh, into her bones. Carlston caged one side of the boy’s head in the span of his other hand, holding it still.
“Take the other side,” he ordered.
She obeyed, her fingers cradling the curve of Jeremiah’s skull through his matted hair. His nostrils flared, eyes widening until the whites showed, like an animal’s. He tried to pull away, a low moan rising into a sob.
“There now,” Helen said, in the tone she used for gentling her mare, Circe, stroking his head with her thumb. “It will be all right.” The boy looked up at her, calming under her touch.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carlston nod his approval. “We must find the soul, break the hold of the vestige, and rip it from the child’s energy.”
“How do you find a soul?” Helen asked, still stroking the matted head. “Though prayer?”
“Through compassion,” Carlston said. “And we find that through meditation. Are you familiar with the term?”
“Lectio, meditatio, oratio, and contemplatio,” Helen recited. “The Lectio Divina, but that is a Catholic practice, Brother William. I am not a Papist.”
“I was referring more to the Eastern tradition,” he said. “A deep internal awareness achieved through the control of breath. We must seek our own compassion in order to find the boy’s soul. To find his light.”
“His light?”
He nodded. “It is no accident that all the great artists paint the soul as pure light. A vestige is like a small dark mass within that bright grace. Once we find it, we can pull it out and restore him to full humanity.”
“How?”
“You will see. Come, breathe with me. I will help you.”
He drew in a breath, nodding as Helen matched it. She could feel his pulse in the hand over her own. The slow measure of his exhalation drew hers with it, a long release. They breathed in and out, in and out, again and again until the boy’s ragged breath slowed to meet their steady rhythm, his eyes hazing.
“Close your eyes. Open them when you feel your heart open,” Carlston said.
Although Helen did not know what he meant, she closed her eyes, her pulse blending with his, with Jeremiah’s, the unified beat drawing her deeper and deeper into each breath. She felt the rise and fall of Jeremiah’s chest beneath their bare hands, the warmth of his lordship’s skin against her own, the gentle pull of an inner rhythm that ebbed and flowed beyond the limits of flesh . . .
Distantly, she sensed time passing, bound into every draw of air and throb of pulse. She heard a low sound, repeated over and over again, seep into her mind. Building and building into a sweet pressure. And then she felt something spring open, bringing a breath so deep and so full of harmony that it must have come from her soul. Or from her heart.
Now she knew what he meant.
She opened her eyes. Jeremiah’s body lay upon the bed, surrounded by a pale, sickly yellow light. Carlston leaned over the boy, his hand held above Jeremiah’s crown. He was surrounded by light, too, but it was brighter and had a denseness to it. It was not, however, as bright or dense as the light that surrounded herself. She held out her other hand, squinting at the intensity. Lud, was she looking at her own soul? She looked across at his lordship again. Something did not feel right. Her eyes were drawn to a deep vein of darkness that threaded through the illumination around his arm and reached into his body. Was that the vestige already leaving Jeremiah? No, that would have to be pulled from the boy’s soul. This was a darkness within the man. An old darkness. She reached toward it, following an impulse to pull it from his body.
“No,” Carlston said. The shock of his voice broke the union of their breath and sent a shiver across her skin. “Stay back. Watch the boy.”
She breathed in, finding the rhythm again, and turned her attention to Jeremiah. Set into the light at the boy’s crown was a nugget of darkness no larger than a walnut, with tentacles that had rooted themselves deep. Here was the vestige. Dear God, how she wanted to reach across and rip it out. Carlston dug his fingers into the light, forcing a way between the tentacles that seemed to heave against his touch. He hooked two fingers around the vestige. Helen felt its resistance, like a backwash of sourness, as his lordship tightened his hold. A heartbeat of hanging silence, a deep-drawn breath of bright compassion—and then he wrenched the dark damage from Jeremiah’s soul. Something screamed. Was it Jeremiah, or the vestige as it ripped free?
Helen watched the sweet light of the boy’s soul brighten into incandescence. She laughed from the sheer joy of the sight.
“Help me undo him,” Carlston said, pulling at a tie around the boy’s wrist.
She blinked, the sudden wrench back into the room like a tearing of something deep within herself. She looked across at Carlston. His hand was shaking so much, he had dropped the end of the binding. “What is wrong?” she asked.
“It is nothing.” He clenched his hand, then opened it again, the shaking gone. “Quinn, undo his ankles.”
Uneasy, Helen bent to the task of unpicking the knot around the boy’s other wrist. It was obv
ious that something was awry: sweat dampened his lordship’s hair, and his mouth was tight with pain.
With Darby and Quinn to help, Jeremiah was soon free. He sat up, rubbing his wrists, his dazed eyes searching the tiny room. “Where is Mamma?” he whimpered. “Please, sir, where is my mamma?”
Carlston pushed the boy’s damp hand into Helen’s. “Take him to the other room. To his mother.”
“Should we not fetch her to him, and let the poor child rest?”
“No, take him out. Now.” Carlston swallowed hard. He was clearly making an effort to speak and move normally, but beneath the rigid control something was wrong.
“You are not well, Lord Carlston,” Helen said. She looked for Quinn. Surely the Terrene could do something to stop his master’s distress, as he had at the Gardens. But Quinn had already crossed to the doorway. “What is wrong with him?” she demanded.
“I just need to rest,” his lordship said before his man could answer. He motioned to Darby. “Now is the time to take your mistress out. And the boy, too.”
“My lady, we must go, like his lordship says.”
“Darby!” Helen said, taken aback by her maid’s firmness.
“Come along, boy.” Darby swung Jeremiah’s thin legs across the rumpled sheet and pulled him to his feet. He buckled, his weakness stifling any more protest from Helen. She took his other arm. Together they helped him across the room.
“Will his lordship be all right?” Helen whispered to Quinn as he opened the door.
Carlston sat on the bed, his head bowed, fists clenched. A tremor passed through his body.
“He just needs to rest,” Quinn said stolidly, and ushered them over the threshold with worrying haste.
Mrs. Coates stood on the landing, anxiously watching. She gave a sobbing cry as Helen and Darby brought Jeremiah from the room, and rushed forward to receive her boy.
“God’s love is great and wondrous,” the Reverend said.
Beyond him, Lady Margaret’s eyes were fixed upon the bedchamber. Helen looked back. The door was closed. And Quinn was not behind her—he had stayed in the room.
Mrs. Coates held her son at arm’s length, peering into his face. “Are you all right, my love?” He nodded and was drawn into a tight embrace. “Oh, thank the Lord!” She smiled over his thin shoulder at Helen. “Thank you, thank you, Sister.” Her attention shifted to the closed door. “Where is Brother William? I want to thank him, too. You have wrought a miracle.”
“He needs to rest,” Helen said. She urged Darby forward. “Help Mrs. Coates take Jeremiah into the other room, Sister,” she ordered, then looked pointedly across the landing at Lady Margaret. “I am sure the boy could do with some food and drink.”
“Of course,” Lady Margaret said, leading the joyous mother and dazed son through the doorway. With a worried backward glance, Darby followed.
Alone, Helen contemplated the closed door of the bedchamber. If his lordship was resting, she should not intrude. Yet there had been something in his eyes that had been most alarming, as if he had been sorely hurt.
With a soft step, she returned to the door, hand poised to knock. She heard a soft moan, so soft, she knew it would be inaudible to other ears. Courtesy warred with curiosity. And concern. With a prickle of shame, Helen stepped closer and peered through the gap in the frame.
She caught her breath. Carlston was no longer on the bed but curled on the floor, his head and shoulders cradled in Quinn’s lap. He shook as if he had the ague, his hair and forehead wet with sweat. Quinn’s arms were locked around his master’s chest, bracing him against the convulsions that rocked his body. She made out the shape of a chair wedged under the door handle: Quinn had made sure no one could enter the room.
“Holy God,” Carlston swore as a harder spasm curled him even tighter upon himself.
Helen winced. She had seen him in pain before, but nothing like this. The agony seemed to come from somewhere very deep indeed.
Quinn grabbed his master’s forehead, holding him still. “You shielded her.” The accusation was pitched for privacy, but no guard against her Reclaimer hearing.
“Of course I did,” Carlston gasped.
Helen pressed her cheek against the rough wood, angling for a better view. Of course his lordship had shielded her from the vestige; that had been the plan. He would reclaim the soul, and she would watch. Did Quinn mean he had shielded her from something else?
The big man hissed out a breath. “I do not like to say it, my lord, but perhaps Mr. Benchley is right.”
Carlston panted as another spasm shuddered through his body. “Benchley can go to Hell.”
Quinn gave a grim smile. “Too late—he’s already there.” He tightened his grip around another violent convulsion. “Benchley is right about one thing, my lord,” he continued after the spasm had passed. “It is madness to think she can fight. Did you even consider what he said?”
Carlston gave a rasping laugh. “Right now it is all I can think about.” He looked up at his Terrene, frowning with the effort of speaking through the pain. “She does not even have her strength yet. Until then, no one can do anything.”
“Sister Helen? Are you coming?”
Helen spun away from the door to face Lady Margaret, heat rising to her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Coates would like to offer you some refreshment.” Lady Margaret stared at the gap in the door, then back at Helen. She licked her lips: a prelude to a question.
“Of course. I will come directly,” Helen said, moving toward the happy gathering in the other room. If she was quick enough, perhaps she could avoid the exchange. Lady Margaret, however, held her ground.
“Is he all right?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Helen said. “Just resting.”
Lady Margaret nodded, her relief flickering into a smile. Helen smiled back, not really knowing why she had lied.
Twenty
Monday, 11 May 1812
TO HELEN’S DISCOMFORT, lying to everyone around her was becoming a habit. Or perhaps not a habit, she amended, but a terrible necessity. Aunt had wondered why she had not returned with any books from such a long visit to Hatchards. She had blithely answered that none had taken her fancy and, instead, she had taken an extended walk along Piccadilly with Darby. And now, in the drawing room of Lord and Lady Farrington, the Duke of Selburn was standing before her and asking if she had been bothered by Lord Carlston recently.
“No, not at all,” she said, smiling up into his grave inquiry.
She took refuge from his scrutiny by taking a sip of coffee, hardly tasting it. She and the Duke had not been table companions—Annabella Milbanke had been the recipient of that pleasure—but he had made his way directly to her side when the gentlemen had finally rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. A situation that had been most flattering and pleasurable until a moment ago, when she had been forced to lie again.
“Carlston?” her aunt exclaimed from beside her on the sofa. “Helen has not seen him since Almack’s. Have you, my dear?”
“No. As I just said.”
“You were most kind to have rescued my niece from his attentions on that evening,” Aunt added.
“It was my pleasure, madam.” Selburn bowed. “I am at her service.”
“It grieves me that he seeks to use my family as an entrée back into society. Although, of course, up until this sixth Earl, the Standfields were unimpeachable.”
“Quite,” Selburn said. “I do not agree with those who think that the sins of one family member must always blacken the reputation of the others.”
Aunt cast a fleeting look of triumph at Helen and then smiled up at him. “I see that you take my own view, Duke.” She sent a searching glance around the room. “Ah, Lady Farrington wishes to speak to me. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
She rose and made her way to Lady Farrington, who,
Helen noticed, was deep in conversation and appeared quite surprised to have Lady Pennworth arrive at her elbow.
“May I sit with you?” Selburn asked.
Helen nodded. “Please do.”
He flicked back his coattails and sat with some grace considering the fact that the shallow sofa offered neither of them much in the way of comfort for their long legs. Helen shifted to allow him more room, meeting his smile of sympathy with her own.
“I was hoping to see you at the promenade yesterday,” he said. “You usually attend on Sunday, do you not?”
“Usually, but I was indisposed,” she replied.
Another lie. She had claimed a headache during Sunday luncheon, and spent the whole afternoon in her chamber trying to make sense of what had happened at the Devil’s Acre, and studying the woven hair at the back of the miniature. There could be little doubt that it had caused Jeremiah’s violent reaction; nothing else about the portrait could have prompted such a fit. Something alchemical—she could not bring herself to allow it to be magic—must have been worked into the tight, smooth pattern, as his lordship had said. Still, he did not know what, and that was most unsettling. It was almost as unsettling as what she had seen through the gap in the door.
Even now, here with Selburn, she could not shake the haunting image of Lord Carlston convulsed in agony. He had told her that he would shield her during the reclaiming of Jeremiah’s soul. Yet from his gasped conversation with Quinn, the agony seemed to be something more—and he had shielded her from that, too. A noble act, but what had caused such torment? And what had Mr. Benchley said that Quinn was urging his master to consider? Perhaps it was irrational, but Helen could not help thinking that anything to do with Benchley held some kind of threat toward herself. There was something about the man that drove hard fear into her heart. Whatever it was that he and Carlston had discussed, it all appeared to rest upon her attainment of her Reclaimer strength: an event that apparently brought far more than just the ability to lift a man with one hand. They seemed certain that it would happen to her, yet it seemed so unlikely that a woman could manifest such strength. Her skepticism brought a strange mix of relief and regret. What would it be like to be so strong?