Hosier Lane was still open: a contingent of soldiers was keeping the road clear. The hackney turned into the narrow lane and ponderously made its way to the other end—Giltspur Street—at the bottom of Smithfield Market.
“We will get out here and walk,” Helen said.
Darby twisted around and rapped on the cabin wall. “Stop here,” she called.
The carriage drew to a halt.
“Here we go, my lady,” Darby said, and, with an anxious smile, opened the door and descended, holding out her hand.
Gathering the long train of her habit over her arm, Helen stepped to the wet ground. The sound hit her first—thousands of voices raised in excitement—and then came the stench, a wet-wool smell of damp humanity mixed with the sickening decay from the nearby cattle and meat market.
A surge of people surrounded the carriage as they headed toward the prison, pushing Helen back against the wet, grimy coach door. A man thrust a handbill at her as he passed, his face a pale blur through her veil, and in reflex she took it. The smeared black print stated:
DO NOT ENTER THE CROWD!
Dropping the paper, she pressed the veil over her nose and, with Darby at her heels, edged her way to the front of the coach to hand up the fare to the driver. He squinted down at her as he took the coins. “Are ye sure ye want to be ’ere, madam?” he yelled.
“Quite sure.”
“Good luck to ye then.” He touched his hat and then snapped his whip between his horses, the old carriage lurching off toward the market.
“Stay close, Darby.” Helen pulled her maid’s arm through her own. She had never been in the middle of so many people. “We must not be separated.”
“Are there any of the creatures near us, my lady?” Darby asked, scouring the crowd around them. “Should you check, perhaps?”
A good idea. Lord Carlston had warned that just a few skimming Deceivers could cause a deadly crush. The thought of his lordship brought an anxious skip to her heart. She pulled her glove from her hand, hooked the miniature on its riband out from beneath her habit, and scanned the multitude.
A glow of pale blue sprang up around the mass of people. At the corner of her eye, she caught a flick of brighter blue at the bottom of the hill near Newgate Street. Two—no, three—men standing in a tight group, all of them with tentacles reaching out and skimming energy from the people milling around them. It looked as if the creatures were even conversing. Helen shook her head. She must be mistaken: Deceivers did not band together.
She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the three men, and saw them turn, as if one, in her direction. The miniature! They could sense the miniature when she held it, just like the two Deceivers at the concert. She stuffed it back beneath her coat, watching as the three lost their point of focus. Their heads bent together in obvious discussion. What could such collusion mean?
“You saw some, my lady?”
“Yes,” Helen said. She smiled reassuringly. “But we are far from them.”
Darby regarded her for a moment, clearly sensing her disquiet, but nodded.
Green Dragon Lane, where they were to meet Mr. Quinn, was a good distance past the entrance to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital on the opposite side of the street. Helen made for that entrance, pulling Darby into the crowd. Immediately they were caught up in the frightening push toward the prison. Helen felt Darby’s arm drag on her own as the girl slipped on the carpet of wet handbills underfoot. Helen pulled her upright, glimpsing Darby’s startled eyes at the show of strength. A sudden, astounding realization stopped her in the midst of the maelstrom: if need be, she could force her way out. She had Reclaimer strength. For a moment she felt gloriously invincible, and then sudden, hot pain burst through her exhilaration. Some oaf had stood upon her toes through the thin leather of her boot. An elbow caught her in the ribs. She felt her breath, hot and fast, on her skin, trapped by the screen of her veil.
“Hello, lovely!” a man shouted near her ear, the words reeking of liquor. He grabbed at the veil, but was shoved away by a stout lady using a large basket to gouge her way through the pack of people.
With a tug on Darby’s arm, Helen pulled them into the woman’s wake, gaining immeasurable ground behind the matron’s formidable momentum. They reached the entrance to the hospital, and Helen spied the mouth of Green Dragon Lane less than ten houses away.
“Nearly there, Darby!” she yelled.
“I can see Mr. Quinn,” Darby cried. She pointed ahead.
Helen caught sight of him too, his height and hat placing him a good head taller than the crowd. He stood against a wall, scanning the multitude, his tattooed face fierce with concentration. For all the lack of room, people were giving him a wide berth.
He saw Darby and held up his hand.
“Thank goodness,” she said.
Helen heard the relief in her maid’s voice, and the warmth. She understood it—Mr. Quinn had a sturdy presence that always gave comfort—yet she had to remember that he had also urged his lordship to use her as a vessel. He might be an ally for the moment, but he was not her friend.
The crowd carried them forward. But even as Helen gathered herself, ready to wrench Darby sideways, Mr. Quinn stepped out, grabbed her wrist and Darby’s forearm, and yanked them into Green Dragon Lane like a fisherman hooking two salmon.
“My apologies for manhandling you, my lady,” he said, abruptly letting them go as they stumbled into the relative quiet of the lane.
“Lordy be, I thought we were going to sail right by,” Darby said breathlessly, smiling up at him.
He smiled back. “Nothing to fear, miss. I had you.”
Darby covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. “I daresay you have not!”
Shocked, Helen stared at her maid’s flushed countenance. “Darby!”
The girl looked demurely at the puddled ground, but the edge of the smile was still in her voice. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
Mr. Quinn’s skin had darkened to a deep rosy gold. He cleared his throat. “You are late. It is near half seven, and Bellingham hangs on the hour. We must be swift.”
He led them past a group of well-dressed men and women also taking refuge in the short lane. Although Helen’s veil was still in place, she felt a moment of relief that she knew none of them. “Mr. Quinn,” she said.
The big man looked back. “Yes, my lady?”
“I saw something strange in the crowd: three of the creatures, conversing. I am sure they were together.”
Mr. Quinn frowned, his tattoos angling into ferocity. “That would be most unusual,” he said slowly. “And most unwelcome. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Tell his lordship as soon as you see him,” Mr. Quinn advised. He stopped at a small gap between two houses. “We cut through here.”
Helen peered down the narrow walkway. It looked to be more mud than path, with an overpowering odor of urine and feces in the damp air.
“Pe-ew, that does stink,” Darby said, pinching her nostrils together.
“Aye, it does,” Mr. Quinn said. “But better a stink than be in that crowd out there.”
Helen had no argument with that. She hitched her train more securely over her arm, gathered up her hem, and followed Mr. Quinn into the befouled alley. At each step, her boots sank into the slimy ground, the cold wetness seeping through the leather. Behind her, she heard Darby’s soft grunt of disgust. They would both have to throw boots and stockings away after this expedition.
The alley turned a sharp right. Through open gates and tumble-down brick fences, Helen glimpsed the ramshackle backyards of five dwellings before they came to the last house at the end. By her reckoning, it had to be the corner of Giltspur and Newgate Streets, opposite the prison. The alley narrowed to an opening onto Giltspur, barely three bricks wide. Beyond it, all Helen could see was a solid wall of people on the roadway, waiting for the spectac
le of death. The last house was apparently their destination, for Mr. Quinn hammered on a stout gate set into its intact high brick fence. He stepped back as it rattled—swollen, wet wood sticking—then sprang open. Mr. Bales peered out, a lethal-looking truncheon in his hand. “You, then,” he said.
“Aye,” Quinn answered.
Mr. Bales lowered the weapon and stood back. “Morning, my lady,” he murmured. “His lordship is upstairs.”
The yard was, at least, paved, with a brick privy in the corner, and coal and ash bins set side by side along the wall that bordered Giltspur Street. A large water butt stood beside the back door, collecting rain from the gutters above.
Inside, the house was a pleasant surprise. Helen followed Mr. Quinn through a clean, neat kitchen and felt a moment of regret at leaving such a track of filth on the scrubbed floor. Through the connecting doorway, a gloomy hallway stretched ahead. She could barely see its end through the veil. She stopped, pulling the lace aside. “Darby, can you do something with this, please?”
Darby removed the riding hat and folded the veil back over Helen’s hair, pinning it in place. With deft fingers she tucked back an errant curl, then replaced the hat and nodded her approval. “It looks well, my lady.”
“It does not matter how I look.”
Darby raised her brows but said nothing.
They entered the long hallway, papered in a stylish red-and-gray stripe. A narrow staircase was set along the right wall. Helen looked through an open doorway to the left and glimpsed a glass-fronted bookcase and a wing-back chair: a library or study. This was the house of a gentleman, or at least a professional man.
“Is the owner here?” she asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Aye. But he and his wife are in their boudoir and will not be paid if they come down while we are here. His lordship has leased the whole house.”
He stopped in front of a closed door on the first landing and knocked.
“Come.” It was Lord Carlston’s voice.
“My lady, his lordship wishes Miss Darby to stay here with me,” Mr. Quinn said as he opened the door.
“No!” Darby protested. “I will not leave my lady’s side.”
“It is all right,” Helen soothed. It was a definite step away from propriety, but so was accusing a man of lying and conspiring to destroy a soul. Her soul.
Mr. Quinn stood back and bowed. With a deep breath, Helen walked through the doorway, hearing the latch click shut at her back. She stopped a few steps into the room, held motionless by the bleak view through the front windows: a huge gray brick wall—the prison—with a gallows set on a high platform before it, a noose suspended from the crossarm. She looked away, her gaze ranging across the room to find his lordship, still in his greatcoat, standing before the hearth. And beside him, a yellow silk sofa. With another man seated upon it. Mr. Benchley.
Helen froze.
“Lady Helen,” his lordship said, bowing.
Mr. Benchley rose to his feet and bowed. “Your ladyship, how pleasant to see you again.” He smiled, the silky falseness of it tightening Helen’s scalp. “So soon.”
Helen clenched her reticule, wishing it were a knife or sword. This was the man who had almost destroyed her mother’s soul. And he wanted to do the same to her, too.
She drew in a ragged breath. “What is he doing here?”
Lord Carlston frowned. “Mr. Benchley is here at my invitation. I want him to see your abilities.”
Helen gave a small, pained laugh. At his invitation? Her mother was right: they were in league together.
His lordship stepped forward, plainly seeing her distrust. “I can assure you, Mr. Benchley is here to assist, Lady Helen.” He motioned to a small table with pieces of different cloth laid out upon it. “So far I have seen only ten Deceivers, but let me show you the flag system I have developed.”
“Assist?” Her vehemence stopped Carlston. “That man is here to destroy my soul.” She took a breath, forcing more measure into her tone. “I know about the vestige darkness that comes from reclaiming, Lord Carlston. I know he wants to unload his own darkness into my soul. Has he invited you to do the same?”
His lordship stiffened. “How do you know about that?”
Helen stepped back. Dear God, she was right.
“Yes, how do you know about that?” Benchley asked. He leaned upon his cane, that terrifying smile widening.
“A letter has come into my hands from my mother, written before she died. It explains everything,” she said. “How you forced her to take your corruption. She said I cannot trust either of you, and she was right.”
“Do not be so dramatic, girl,” Benchley said calmly. “It was her duty as a Reclaimer and a woman. As it is yours.”
Carlston rounded on Benchley. “You did not tell me you had done a vestige transfer to her mother!”
Benchley shrugged. “It is why I have been able to continue for the last ten years.” He cocked his head. An invitation. “So, you see, it does work. You will get another decade, William.”
Carlston shook his head. “It is not Lady Helen’s duty to take the darkness from your soul, or mine, Samuel. I believe it would be a waste for us even to limit her to reclaiming progeny—she is not like the other female Reclaimers. She must fight like us. I brought you here to see her strength. To show you the miniature and what it can do in her hands. I tell you, she is a direct inheritor, and she is here to fight a Grand Deceiver. We would be stupid to reduce her to a refuse pit for our own use.”
Through her fury and fear, Helen felt a surge of relief: his lordship was not planning to destroy her soul. But she continued. “You both stand there discussing me as if I have no say in the matter. Why didn’t you tell me about the vestige darkness, Lord Carlston? Why did you lie?”
He straightened as if her words had been the flick of a whip. “Lie? I did not lie. I wanted you to come willingly to the Dark Days Club, Lady Helen, with true conviction. I wanted you to choose to fight. This duty of ours is a heavy responsibility, and it must be done with full commitment.”
“No woman would choose to fight,” Benchley scoffed. “A woman is made to do as men tell her; that is the natural order.”
Carlston rounded on him again. “And that worked out well with her mother, didn’t it?”
“It worked out well enough for me,” Benchley said calmly.
Helen sucked in a breath. “You nearly destroyed her!”
“For the good of England. I was far more valuable than your mother.” He glanced at Carlston. “I am still far more valuable than this chit.”
Such callous disdain! Barely holding her rage in check, Helen said to Carlston, “You kept the truth from me so that I would make the choice you wanted me to make.”
His lordship looked away, conceding the point. “I was waiting until you had your full strength to tell you. I wanted you to feel the power, to enjoy it, before I explained the negative side of our calling.”
“But you didn’t tell me when my strength came, did you?” she accused. Silently, she added, Instead you almost kissed me. Why? Surely he could see the question within her eyes.
“That was a mistake,” he said.
She stared at him. Did he mean failing to tell her, or the almost-kiss? But his face was closed.
Benchley lifted his head, his expression sharp and predatory. “She has her full strength?”
“Do not even think it, Samuel,” Carlston said coldly. “Lady Helen, I wanted you to make your own choice, but do you not see that, in the end, there is no choice? You are a Reclaimer.”
“You are wrong. I do have a choice,” Helen said. She raised her hand to the miniature beneath her coat. “My mother has given me one.”
For a moment there was a heavy silence.
“What do you mean?” Carlston said.
Benchley gave a soft laugh. “The minia
ture. God’s blood, your mother made one, didn’t she?” He bowed his head, shaking it with incredulity.
“Made what?” Carlston rapped out.
“A Colligat,” Benchley said.
The word was Latin based, but strange. Helen translated it as best she could: collect, perhaps, or gather.
Benchley dug his fingers into his forehead as if trying to drive home this new information. He looked up at Carlston. “You said there was some kind of alchemy within this miniature? I would hazard that it does not have two sources of hair in it, but three—one of them a Deceiver—and the ability to strip Reclaimer powers.” He turned to Helen. “I can see by your face, girl, that I am right.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did your mother also tell you that in the hands of a Deceiver, it can be used as a weapon against all Reclaimers?”
Helen drew in a breath. All Reclaimers?
Carlston rubbed his mouth. “I had not even considered a Colligat. It is beyond comprehension that anyone would risk making such a thing.” He looked at Helen. “No wonder it affected Jeremiah in that way. It is extremely dangerous.”
“My mother made it for me,” Helen said. “So I would have a choice.”
Benchley shifted his grip on his cane. “You said she would have it with her, William.”
Carlston held up his hand. “I will take care of this, Samuel.”
Helen stepped back. Good God, they were going to take it from her—she could see it in Benchley’s eyes. He was going to take away her only way to escape this nightmare.
Benchley stepped forward as Lord Carlston said, “Lady Helen, you must understand—”
Helen focused on Benchley, the next few moments projected in her mind in bright, horrific detail. She could see him accelerating, cane raised, reaching for her, ripping the miniature from her neck—
She whirled around and wrenched open the door. Beyond it, Mr. Quinn’s head was bent to a smiling Darby. He drew back sharply, staring past Helen into the room.
“My lady?” Darby said. “Can I—”
“Stop her!” It was Carlston’s voice.
Quinn sprang forward, but Helen blocked him with her shoulder, knocking him against the wall. She ran, stumbling over the train of her habit, her hip hitting the edge of a table in a sharp clip of pain.