The walkway at the back of the bawdy-house was even narrower than the one at the side. Helen followed Sprat apace and found herself squeezing through a twitten, the passage between the two buildings so tight that the bungaroosh walls scraped at her back and belly and left her coat and breeches smeared with a fine sandy dust. They emerged into the middle of busy Black Lion Street, their sudden appearance causing no interest whatsoever from the other pedestrians intent upon their own business.
Helen brushed down her jacket and adjusted the set of her hat, and then they were on their way again, Sprat leading the way past the Free School and up to North Street. They took the downward incline of this steep and very busy road, passing the Chapel Royal and the General Coach Office, the front of which was blocked by the ten o’clock stage preparing to leave for London. Passengers called out directions to the coachmen for the placement of their luggage atop — mostly ignored — and milled around waiting to climb into the large carriage. Helen saw Sprat eyeing a few of the gentlemen whose coats were agape, but the girl resisted temptation and forged onward down the hill.
A left turn brought them onto the Steine beside the Castle Tavern. Helen wondered how much further they were to go. Apparently past the Marine Pavilion, for Sprat marched alongside the carefully planted green that fronted the Prince Regent’s favourite home, not even looking at its splendour. Helen, however, snatched a moment to admire the classical circular building that formed the centre of the residence — its high dome supported by graceful pillars — and the two large wings that extended elegantly on either side of it. There was, she decided, a very beautiful symmetry to the whole. The Prince Regent might not be the most sensible of monarchs, but he did have excellent taste in architecture.
Leaving the Pavilion behind, they crossed the road to Grand Parade, dodging through what seemed an endless stream of wagons, gigs, phaetons and carts. Finally, Sprat stopped beside a grand house and hoisted up her dress again with an air of finality.
‘Is this it?’ Helen asked, looking up at the four-storey townhouse.
‘Across the way,’ Sprat said, jerking her head to the handsome row of houses on the road opposite: Marlborough Row. ‘The one with the green door.’ She considered Helen for a moment then said, ‘I thought you was a man. You really a girl?’
There was no use denying it; Sprat had plainly heard all her conversation with Binny.
‘I am.’ She couldn’t resist asking, ‘Did you really think I was a man?’
‘Yep.’ Sprat squinted up at her, watery eyes earnest. ‘Are you gunna kill Mrs Holt’s brother?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ Helen said.
Sprat’s mouth bunched sideways into disappointment. ‘If I was a man, I’d kill ’im.’
‘You do know that killing is wrong, don’t you?’
Sprat regarded her for a long moment. ‘There’s some people don’t deserve to breathe. Not wiv what they does.’ She held out her cupped hand. ‘You’re ’ere now. All done.’
Helen dug in her pocket again and brought out the promised sixpence. ‘One last thing,’ she said, holding up the coin. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
Sprat shrugged. ‘A swell. That’s all I know.’
Helen dropped the coin into the girl’s cupped hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘Bye, mister.’ Sprat gave a sly giggle and was off, darting back across busy Grand Parade.
Helen pulled her touch watch out of her fob pocket and flicked it open, clicking the three lenses into place. She settled in to wait, leaning against the corner of the end house with her arms crossed in as manly a manner as she could manage.
Thirty-five minutes later, the green door opened. Helen straightened. The little dark-haired man that she had seen at Philip’s side emerged holding a cane. He opened the front gate and stood waiting, his attention fixed upon the doorway. So he was a manservant of some kind — a valet most likely by the good cut of his brown jacket — waiting for his master. She lifted her lens to her eye: the glow around him was bright blue, and a long bruise-black feeder tentacle extended from his back, weaving through the air like a sightless snake. As suspected, another Deceiver.
For a moment, Helen lost sight of him behind a particularly high-set phaeton making its way along Grand Parade, and then she saw the tentacle reaching for the paler life force of a youth walking past the house. It curled for a second across the young man’s belly, unseen by all except Helen, then slid across the top of his thighs and groin. The youth dipped his hat to the Deceiver, never suspecting that some of his life force had just been stolen.
Helen lowered the lens, nauseated. She would never get used to seeing those feeder tentacles. There was something so inherently disgusting about the sickly colour and serpentine weave of them.
The Deceiver’s relaxed posture suddenly stiffened into obeisance. She squinted, making out another man in the townhouse doorway. It was too dim to see the features of his face below the brim of his fashionable beaver, but he was clearly speaking to the Deceiver, for the creature bowed. Helen strained to hear the words above the grind of the passing gigs and carriages.
‘I am dining with the Murrays this evening, Lawrence. The new blue waistcoat, I think?’
She knew that smooth voice, even before the elegant gentleman stepped into the sunlight and full view. Helen’s heart clenched into a hard beat. Philip’s dark companion served the Comte d’Antraigues.
In reflex, she stepped back against the safety of the wall and watched the Deceiver — Lawrence — hand the Comte his cane. What did the association mean? She had seen Lawrence in Philip’s company, and she knew Philip served the Grand Deceiver. Did that mean Lawrence did also?
She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a very female gasp that brought a startled look from a man walking past. Helen turned her face and pretended to cough. Holy heaven, was the Comte d’Antraigues the Grand Deceiver? It was possible, of course; yet somehow it did not seem likely. Not after their interview with him at Lady Dunwick’s rout. Then again, Helen thought, as she watched the Comte stroll out of the gate, he had set Lord Carlston upon the search for the journal, and his man was watching the bawdy-house.
Whatever the case, there was one very sobering truth that could not be denied: the Grand Deceiver, whoever he may be, knew that Lowry had the journal. But did he also know it was a Ligatus?
Chapter Nineteen
Helen’s suspicions about the Comte d’Antraigues and his valet occupied her as she walked back to German Place. She took Marine Parade, alongside the beachfront, but hardly noticed the sun’s warmth and was only momentarily diverted by the amusing sight of two squealing ladies run aground on a pair of cantankerous penny-a-ride donkeys.
There seemed to be enough evidence to suggest that the Comte could be the Grand Deceiver, yet Helen was not convinced. Not that she could say why. Perhaps she had been affected by his charm more than she cared to admit. And that, she realised, was another mark against the Comte: charm was one of the purported traits of a Grand Deceiver. The Comte had also admitted to a lowly start; another characteristic. Still, every Deceiver in the world had been shifting from generation to generation for centuries. Most of them would have started their earthly existence amongst the lower orders.
By the time she turned the corner into German Place, Helen felt even more tangled. Her mind insisted that the Comte was the Grand Deceiver — just look at all the evidence — but her gut instinct shook its head and stood firm, although it offered no support for its spurious claim.
The argument was going around in frustrating circles, so she abandoned it for the moment and instead surveyed the street for any sign of a spy in the employ of the Duke. The stretch of four-and five-storey townhouses stood quietly in the midday sun, only the dipping, wheeling gulls above providing any movement. No footman or groom watched the house. Her letter seemed to have had the required effect.
The real test, of course, would be when she and the Duke next met in public. She sighed. The cut-direct — ignoring someone s
o deliberately and so completely — was the height of incivility, but it would make clear that she did not want any further association. Hopefully it would also sever any attachment he imagined he still felt.
Ignoring the sense of loss that followed that plan, she walked up the side lane to the mews. They gave access to the rear door of the house — a precaution in case anyone noticed that a young gentleman seemed to have joined the household at Number 20. As she neared the stables, a groom led out a big chestnut gelding, one of a curricle pair that she knew belonged to Lord Carlston. Sweat dulled its usually gleaming coat. His lordship had returned. Was he inside or had he returned to his own lodgings?
Helen felt her step quicken and forcibly slowed herself again as she passed the groom and horse. She must control this compulsion to see him.
Geoffrey stood in the rear yard gathering up two portmanteaus. He frowned at Helen’s approach, squaring his big shoulders, then recognised her and dipped his head.
‘Good day, sir,’ he said.
‘Good day. Has Mr Hammond returned?’
The footman glanced down at the cases. ‘He and Lord Carlston have just this minute gone up to the drawing room. I believe they are waiting for your return.’
Waiting for her return: she could not stop a smile. Even so, she must order her thoughts. There were too many secrets and too much at stake to just give in to her desire to run willy-nilly upstairs. Everything had become ten times more dangerous: the Ligatus and Pike’s dangerous belief that his lordship had helped make it, Stokes’s warning, the Comte, and of course the threat to put his lordship down like a rabid dog. She had not seen Lord Carlston for four days; what if his mental state had declined further? She kneaded one fist within the other hand. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let him be worse. If he were, could she really report it to Pike?
She continued through the kitchen door, acknowledged the curtsies from the cook and her girls, and took the stairs two at a time, arriving at the drawing room door with heart hammering. He would probably have heard her ascent. She hoped he had heard it; that would mean he had been listening for her approach. She stopped at the door, focusing her own Reclaimer hearing.
‘There is no reason to think that Canning would be swayed in that direction,’ she heard him say, ‘particularly if Castlereagh favours it.’ She raised her head: was that a smile dawning in his voice? ‘Ah, Lady Helen has returned.’
She pressed steepled fingertips to her lips for a moment, trying to contain her elation. She may have decided to quell her attraction to Lord Carlston, but it seemed her body had not.
The door opened. Mr Hammond, face pale from fatigue, peered out. No wonder he looked exhausted; he and Lord Carlston must have left London before dawn to have reached Brighton by this time of day.
‘Good morning,’ he said, and in just one glance his blue eyes passed a wealth of information: an apology for not keeping his lordship in London, concern for her, and not least, a question: Lowry?
She gave a slight shake of her head, covering them all, and walked into the drawing room. Lady Margaret and Delia were seated on the sofa. She had not expected them to be back as well. Delia smiled a greeting, but Lady Margaret’s eyes were fixed upon his lordship. Her smile was filled with the same kind of exhilaration that Helen felt.
‘Good morning,’ Lord Carlston said, bowing.
He stood by the window, the sunlight catching the ebony shine of his hair and modelling the angles of his cheekbone and jaw, their stern symmetry softened only by the welcoming curve of his lips. Helen felt herself take too many steps towards him; how mortifying that a happy mix of shape and contour should have such an ungovernable effect upon her body. She stopped and rocked back on her heels, concentrating upon the whole of him, not just his lips. He seemed more at ease; the strain and deep snapping energy subdued, and that awful knit of pain between his brows gone. No doubt part of the reason for Lady Margaret’s jubilation.
‘You appear much improved, Lord Carlston,’ she said.
‘I am, thank you.’ He walked across to the table, where a long black leather case had been set. It looked like a box from Rundell’s, but was far too large for jewellery. His lordship placed his fingers upon the top as if calming what lay inside. ‘Mr Quinn told me you have been visiting the town by yourself?’
Clearly the subject of his sickness was not to be discussed.
‘I have. It seemed the right time do so,’ Helen said, keeping her voice determinedly nonchalant.
Lady Margaret leaned forward. ‘I do not see why you felt the need to hide your expedition.’ The statement bordered on the accusatory.
Helen stood silent. Any answer would be wrong.
‘It was foolhardy,’ Lady Margaret added. ‘You need to apprise someone of your whereabouts.’
‘Lady Helen is a Reclaimer, Lady Margaret,’ his lordship said, turning away from the box. ‘She does not need to apprise anyone of her whereabouts.’
Delia made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort, turning it quickly into a small cough.
Lady Margaret stiffened. ‘I thought you believed she was not yet ready to go out on her own, Lord Carlston.’
‘She must be ready.’ He regarded Helen thoughtfully. ‘Was it a successful venture?’
‘Yes, I believe it was.’ Helen paused; every step hereon was treacherous. She saw Mr Hammond shift from one foot to the other. Yes, he felt the danger too. How much could she say? ‘I went into the Lanes. To a bawdy-house.’
‘A bawdy-house?’ Delia exclaimed, blonde curls bobbing with shock.
‘I did not go in,’ Helen said.
‘Oh, of course not.’ Delia smiled her relief.
‘Kate Holt’s house?’ his lordship asked. ‘Lowry’s sister,’ he added for the benefit of the room.
Ah, he knew. His London informer must have told him.
‘Yes.’ Helen caught a sidelong warning from Hammond as he crossed to the hearth into her line of sight. She forged onward. ‘I have asked Mrs Gunn and her people to inform us if he should appear there or in town again, but I decided to go there myself and ask some discreet questions.’
At least most of it was the truth.
‘Did you find anything?’ Hammond asked. He was doing a good job of hiding his nerves, but his hand had closed into a white-knuckled grip around the marble edge of the mantel.
‘I saw a man watching the house. He was, I think, the same man I saw in Philip’s company so I followed him back to his residence. He is the Comte d’Antraigues’s valet.’ She addressed the last to Lord Carlston.
The Earl’s eyes narrowed as he turned over the news. ‘Ah. Now that is interesting. Well done.’
Lady Margaret looked across at her brother. ‘The Comte,’ she said, as if it were a conclusion. ‘He must be the Grand Deceiver.’
‘Do you think it is possible?’ Mr Hammond asked Lord Carlston.
‘Anything is possible,’ his lordship said. ‘It is not extraordinary to think the Comte would be seeking the journal himself, as well as setting me upon its path. That does not immediately make him the Grand Deceiver.’ He stopped, frowning as he considered the proposition. Finally, he hissed out a breath. ‘I certainly hope he is not the Grand Deceiver — I doubt I would receive any cure from him if that were the case. My gut, however,’ he slapped his hand against his green striped waistcoat, over the flat of his stomach, ‘says he is not. Granted he is a Deceiver and deception is their nature, but I cannot see it.’
Helen nodded her agreement. Or was it just hopeful thinking on both their parts?
‘I cannot claim any logic to that feeling, just years of experience dealing with the Comte,’ his lordship added. ‘Even so, we cannot ignore the connection between his valet and Philip. Lady Helen, are you are sure it was the same man in Philip’s company?’
Helen hesitated; she could not be absolutely certain. ‘I saw only a glimpse of him that first time, but I believe it is the same man.’
His lordship rubbed his chin. ‘It is possi
ble the Comte is not aware of the connection between his man and Philip. Either way, it does not change our goal. We must still obtain the journal before anyone else — the Comte, Pike and the Grand Deceiver, if he is in play too. Whoever possesses it has the power.’
More power than he knew, Helen thought.
‘Press your informers,’ he said to Hammond and Lady Margaret. ‘For now, I wish to speak to Lady Helen alone. If you would all leave us, please.’
The abrupt dismissal caught everyone by surprise. Helen directed a wild glance at Hammond — What does this mean? — but it was plain he knew nothing.
Delia rose briskly from the sofa, her alacrity forcing Lady Margaret to stand as well.
‘Please, do not overtax yourself, Lord Carlston,’ Lady Margaret began, then stopped when she saw his lordship’s forbidding expression. She drew herself up. ‘I am pleased to see you so well.’
He gave a small bow. ‘Thank you, Lady Margaret.’
The three of them filed out, Mr Hammond the last to depart. He sent Helen a worried frown before closing the door.
His lordship waited a moment, listening for the sounds of descent, then picked up the black box from the table.
‘Foolish of me to ask them to leave, I know,’ he said, one broad shoulder lifting with self-derision, ‘but I have something for you and I wanted to give it to you alone. I have been waiting for it to be finished, and it was delivered while I was in London.’
A gift from him, delivered alone? The intimacy of it took her breath away. By all rights, a lady should not accept a gift from a gentleman, especially a gentleman who was still considered married. Still, she had already accepted the touch watch from him.
He walked over and handed her the box. ‘One Reclaimer to another,’ he said firmly. He must have seen her discomfort.
It was heavier than she had expected. ‘Most kind of you, Lord Carlston.’
‘I do not know if you should call it kind. Perhaps expedient would be more appropriate.’
It was definitely not jewellery then. She dug her fingernail beneath the gold catch and flicked it free. With a glance at him — both of them smiling at nothing apart from anticipation, it seemed — she lifted the lid.