Again she closed her hand around her reticule—the miniature safely hidden inside—and felt another kind of triumph. Perhaps she had stopped the two creatures after all.
AT CHURCH THE next morning, Helen struggled to sit quietly. She had yet to obtain permission from Uncle to ride out early on Monday, and the whole of her plan rested upon his agreement. She stole a glance at his jowly profile, his thick brows drawn together in a thunderous frown at the homily. In celebration of the impending execution, Reverend Haley had decided upon a special hanging sermon, and its vigor was only outdone by its length. Helen stifled a sigh and weaved her gloved fingers together, channeling all her anxiety into the tight clasp. What if Uncle refused?
Finally the good Reverend finished, and Philip was sent to bring the coach around. The sermonizing, however, had not yet ended. On the journey home, Helen and her aunt received a full account of Reverend Haley’s theological failures from her uncle, as well as a scathing account of the fool’s Whiggish ways. The tirade finished just as the coach made its slow turn into Half Moon Street.
“Uncle,” Helen said, seizing the opportunity, “do you think I could stay with the coach to the stables and walk back with Hugo and Philip? I want to organize an early morning ride on the Row tomorrow.”
“An early morning ride? On Bellingham’s hanging day?” Uncle wiped the end of his nose. “I don’t think that would be wise. The city will be under siege by ruffians of all types.”
Helen bunched her toes in her boots. “But surely not at the park, Uncle. The jail is on the other side of the city, is it not? Circe is underexercised, and I am engaged to ride with the Duke of Selburn tomorrow afternoon. I do not want her too fresh for the outing.”
Uncle turned a heavy eye upon Helen. “The Duke, hey?”
“Yes, Pennworth,” Aunt said briskly. “Andrew says Selburn is quite taken with her, and he seeks her out at every opportunity. I rather imagine that Helen’s request is not only to exercise her horse.” Aunt gave her an odd smile of conspiracy. “You want to see the lie of the land too, don’t you, my dear? Prepare for the prettiest ride.”
It had not even occurred to Helen, but she nodded vigorously. The coach drew up to the house. Her uncle did not look convinced.
“Please, sir,” Helen added, bringing out her best argument. “I cannot trust any of the grooms to take off Circe’s edge. They do not understand her little tricks, and if she is lamed, I will not be able to ride.”
“Heaven forbid,” Aunt said. “Pennworth, this ride with the Duke is crucial. It must be perfect.”
Uncle sniffed. “Very well then, but you must take one of the senior grooms. I’ll not have you escorted at such an early hour, and on such a day, by a mere boy.”
“Of course,” Helen said meekly, trying to contain her exultation. “As you wish, Uncle.”
The carriage door opened, and Hugo bent to let down the steps.
“I will send one of the footmen to Mr. Duray’s,” Aunt said, gathering her shawl and reticule. “We shall insist he deliver your habit in the morning, or lose our custom. But your hat will prove a problem—millinery does take so much longer.” Aunt took Hugo’s proffered hand. “We will discuss it when you return.” She looked up at the dull gray sky. “Do be quick, my dear. I think it will soon rain.”
The coach rocked as Aunt and Uncle descended. Helen settled back into the silk cushions with a sigh of relief. She had done it. Well, at least some of it. At the coachman’s call, the carriage jerked into motion again, the town houses passing by in a brisk series of sashed windows and spiked fences. A dark-clad figure caught her eye—a man stepping off the pavement. She pressed her face to the cold window, but a hackney was close behind and blocked the view. Was it Lord Carlston? The sighting had been too fleeting to settle on any firm identity, but she was left with the startling realization that her first thought had been the Earl.
Two streets along, they arrived at Lambeth Mews and the Pennworth stables. The senior groom, Peter, hurried to her side with reassurances that Circe was as bonny as ever, and was her ladyship taking her out today for the promenade? It took only a few minutes to arrange the ride at dawn the next morning, and Peter did not even blink at her unusual order to take Circe straight to Rotten Row rather than bring her round to the house.
Helen smiled to herself. After that initial scare with Uncle, her plan was coming along very nicely; perhaps she could do this after all.
Stocking up on apples from the barrel, she visited Circe, the chestnut mare huffing with recognition over her stall gate. They played Hunt the Treat, Circe bumping Helen’s hands in gentle demand and making short, crunching work of the fruit. With a last pat of the glossy neck and a whispered promise of a good gallop the next day, Helen called Philip and Hugo, and they departed on foot. All she had to do now was keep her impatience in check and continue on through an afternoon visit to the watercolor exhibition at Bond Street, followed by a rout at the Harleys’. And then it would be Monday morning, and she would help keep thousands of people safe. An exhilarating and frightening thought.
It was as they turned into Clarges Street that she saw the man standing on the corner of Curzon. Navy greatcoat and black high-crowned beaver: the man who had followed her and Darby on Piccadilly. Helen stopped, her reticule clutched before her like a shield. He must be a Deceiver. Why else would he be following her? She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. In her mind, once more, she saw the two wicked blue whips snaking from the back of the Vauxhall Gardens Pavor. What if this man had two whips as well, or even three? She wrenched open her reticule, fingers groping for the miniature.
A pale blue shimmer; at least he did not have whips.
Still, how could she fight a Deceiver on her own? She had the strength—if she could control it—but no training. She tried to recollect the battle moves that Lord Carlston had made in Vauxhall: the lunging and rolling. She could not do that in a dress and pelisse. And what about her jewelry? Lord Carlston had said metal meant certain death. She caught at her left earlobe, feeling the smooth gold oval dangling from it. And her gold cross on its chain. Not to mention the pins that fastened her gown and secured her petticoat. No, now she remembered: metal only killed if the creature had whips.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” Hugo asked at her shoulder.
Both footmen must have sensed her alarm, for they had stepped close behind. Deep within, she could feel the savage whisper in her blood, gathering that exhilarating strength.
The man began to walk toward them. He was intent upon her; she could see it. His features tugged at her memory. She had seen him before, some place other than the predatory walk along Piccadilly. But where?
“We will cross the street,” she said, and stepped off the pavement, leading the way swiftly to the other side.
The greatcoated man paused, clearly perturbed. From the alley behind him, another figure emerged. Stocky and dark, barrel chest heaving from exertion. She had seen him before too; he brought an image of night and trees and cold. She frowned. Bales! That was his name: one of his lordship’s men. At Vauxhall Gardens. He was a guard. Her guard. The realization brought a moment of giddy relief.
Her Reclaimer sight caught a flash of metal and polished wood in Bales’s hand. A pistol! Good God, did he intend to shoot the Deceiver? Andrew always said pistols were unreliable. But even a wounding shot would give her a chance.
“What is happening, my lady?” Philip demanded. He was alongside her, large hands clenched, and she could hear the growing excitement in his voice.
She shook her head. What could she say: that a hellish creature in a man’s body was about to attack, and a guard from a secret society was going to shoot him? She scanned the street: a solid line of houses with steps up to the front doors and down into the basement yards. There would be no way out except through a stranger’s home. The man in the greatcoat stepped off the curb. Helen slowed. There was no use rushing
to meet him.
“I think we should see what this flash cove wants,” Philip murmured to Hugo. “What do you say?”
Hugo nodded, squaring up. “I am with you.”
“No, don’t approach him,” Helen ordered. If the man was a Deceiver, he could rip the footmen apart.
“But, my lady, we—” Philip said.
“No, do as I say.” She heard the young footman’s huff of frustration.
Helen tensed, the pound of her heart joining the roar of her blood. She had to do something before Philip and Hugo stepped into a danger they could not even imagine. The miniature had shown her that the man had no whips, and surely he would not attack in the middle of Mayfair. Did she dare approach him and demand what he wanted? She had her strength. And she had the miniature. Perhaps it would frighten him away, as it had the two Deceivers at the concert.
She looked over her shoulder. “Stay where you are.”
Philip’s mouth thinned in mutiny. “My lady, no!”
“I mean it, Philip. Move, and you shall be dismissed.”
Hugo caught Philip’s arm. “You heard her ladyship.”
Gathering her courage, Helen walked forward, hands clenched around her reticule. Five, six, seven paces away from the anxious presence of her footmen.
“You there,” she called to the man standing directly across the road. “What do you want?”
He lifted his hand in a wave. “Lady Helen!” He paused, waiting for a curricle to pass, then hurried across the grit and mud. “It is Sir Desmond. May I speak to you?”
Helen drew in a shaking breath. Of course: Sir Desmond, the Palace official at her presentation. Surely he could not be a Deceiver. Could he?
“I am sorry to have alarmed you, my lady,” he said, stepping onto the pavement. He lowered his voice until Helen could barely hear it. “I have a message for you from Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte.”
“From the Queen?” Helen repeated, suspended between shock and distrust. The pound of her blood pulled her up onto her toes.
“Yes, my lady.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a thick packet, shielding it from curious eyes. “I am to deliver this to you on Her Majesty’s bidding.”
Emblazoned upon the folded parchment was the large red Royal seal. She had seen the same on the summons for her presentation. He really was delivering a message from the Queen. She looked wildly beyond him. Mr. Bales had stepped off the curb and was crossing the road, the pistol in his hand.
“No!” she yelled, waving him back.
Sir Desmond recoiled. “But my lady, this is on Her Majesty’s order.”
Bales halted and gave her a hard stare, but that ominous flash of gray metal and wood was back under his jacket.
“Sir Desmond,” Helen said, wrenching her attention back to the bewildered man, “I am sorry. Of course I will accept it.” Hastily remembering her manners, she curtsied. “My apologies. You took me by surprise.”
“No, no, it is I who must apologize.” He bowed. “It has been quite challenging to find an appropriate moment to place this in your hands. I think I alarmed you last week on Piccadilly.”
“Yes. Forgive me, I did not recognize you.” Helen could not take her eyes from the letter clasped in Sir Desmond’s elegantly gloved hand. “What is this message you bring me?”
He looked past her to Hugo and Philip a good distance beyond. “It is a private matter, Lady Helen.”
“Private?” It was all becoming more and more extraordinary. She turned to the footmen. They were beyond casual earshot, but Sir Desmond’s caution was contagious. “Wait at the corner,” she called.
“But my lady—” Hugo protested.
“Go. Now!” Helen said.
What could the Queen possibly want with her?
Sir Desmond waited until the two footmen were well beyond sight or sound. “Lady Helen, the Queen’s conditions under which I was to deliver this to you were very specific: you were not to be in the company of family or friends, and it was to be in your hands within a month of your presentation. I was beginning to despair of finding such a moment.” He held out the letter. “Her Majesty said to tell you that this is from your mother, Lady Catherine.”
Helen stared down at it. “My mother?” She took hold of the thick paper. It was real. “But how?”
“Her Majesty said that Lady Catherine once did a great service for her, and in return was offered a Royal boon. All that the Countess required from Her Majesty was that she keep a letter for you. It was to be delivered after your presentation if both your parents were no longer living.” He crossed himself, soft sympathy in his face. “May they rest in peace. I have now discharged my duty. There is only one more message to pass on to you. Directly from Her Majesty. She said to tell you, ‘Sometimes there is no good choice.’”
He bowed again, his large brown eyes kind. “I wish you well, my lady. Good day.”
Helen curtsied, the letter from her mother pressed hard against her chest.
Twenty-Three
HELEN WATCHED SIR Desmond walk away, every part of her wanting to rip open the letter and read it. She looked down at the thick wax disc of the Royal seal. No, this had to be done in private. With shaking fingers, she undid the top two buttons of her pelisse and shoved the letter against her gown bodice.
A quick glance along the street confirmed that Bales had gone too, or at least had retreated to a less visible vantage point. Helen waved Hugo and Philip to join her again. Had they seen the Royal seal? She hoped not. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the stiff parchment. Whatever they had seen, it would be all around the servants before long, and then to the ears of Aunt and Uncle. Accepting a clandestine letter from a man was a serious transgression of propriety. They would demand to read it, and when it was discovered to be from her mother, Uncle would most certainly burn it. Somehow, she had to forestall the gossip. She braced her feet more firmly on the pavement flags, an idea dawning. Perhaps she could direct the inevitable whispers toward a tale that would prompt her aunt to defend her privacy rather than invade it—in the name of matrimonial ambition.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Philip asked.
“Yes, quite,” Helen said. “That was a friend of the Duke of Selburn’s,” she added. Both footmen were straining to hide their interest. “He had a message from His Grace.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hugo said blandly, but he sent a salacious glance to Philip.
Helen looked away and cleared her throat. The hallmarks, she hoped, of a lover, caught out. “I would not want to bother my aunt or uncle with the thought that the Duke was corresponding with me.”
“No, my lady,” Philip said quickly. His face, unlike Hugo’s, held sympathy. Helen allowed herself a small inner smile of relief. Philip was a romantic; he would defend her secret.
“Or any of the other servants,” she continued firmly. “I would be most appreciative of such discretion.” She swung her reticule, the movement bringing both footmen’s eyes to it.
“I saw nothing out of the ordinary on this walk,” Philip said.
“Nor I,” Hugo agreed.
Helen nodded her thanks. Hopefully her story and the promise of money would be enough.
THE RETURN WALK was swift, the letter like a burning coal against Helen’s chest. She was lucky: Aunt was still in her dressing room, and Uncle had already retired to the library, as was his wont before Sunday luncheon. She passed through the foyer and up the stairs with only a nod to Barnett.
Inside her bedchamber, all was quiet. The morning fire in the grate had burned out, so only a dull light from the threatening sky came through the unshuttered windows.
“Darby?” she called.
There was no answer. Fingers fumbling at the buttons of her pelisse, Helen peered into the dressing room. Empty. Either Darby was at a task elsewhere, or still at the servants’ dinner. She shut the adjoi
ning door and hurried to the window: it would take too long to light a candle.
She pulled out the packet and turned it over; the front was inscribed with her name in the formal calligraphy of the Court. A letter from her mother: she could barely believe it. A flick of her thumbnail and the wax seal broke with a crack. Inside was another packet, bearing her name in her mother’s neat hand and another seal, this time with the Hayden arms. She cracked the wax, her hands shaking as she unfolded the pages. Shaking so much she could not read the writing. With a soft sob of impatience, she anchored the letter between her hands on the recess of the windowsill and, by the dim light, read the first words she had received from her mother in ten years.
Windsor Castle. 10th April 1802
To Helen, my dear daughter,
It is hard to imagine that you are reading this, aged eighteen and a woman, when I know that at this moment you are sleeping in your bed at Deanswood, only eight years old and as smart and mischievous as a monkey. Or perhaps I should say that you should be sleeping in your bed, for I know that you are probably hunched over one of your books, burning a four-hour candle stolen from Mrs. Lockwood’s household stores.
Helen smiled through a blur of sudden tears. Her mother had once caught her stealing a six-hour candle, and had solemnly advised her to take only the shorter four-hour candles. “Less likely to be noticed,” she’d said. Of course, Helen now knew that a housekeeper as assiduous as Mrs. Lockwood would have noticed even the loss of a pin, but somehow the missing candles had been consistently overlooked. Helen drew a sharp breath. Only her mother and Mrs. Lockwood would have known about the candles. Her mother was using the memory as proof that she had indeed written the letter.
I have rendered a service for Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte—one mother to another. As a reward, she has agreed to deliver this letter to you on the event of your Court Presentation if your dear father and I have already departed this world. Therefore, I write this knowing that if it does come to your hand, you and your brother have been alone for a time, and that our plans to flee did not succeed.