‘Are you sure you saw him come down here?’ Lady Margaret asked.
‘I am not sure it was him at all. It was just something about the way he walked that —’
‘Lady Helen! Upon my soul, it is you!’
They all turned.
‘Good Lord,’ Mr Hammond said, raising his quizzing glass to look at the figure waving exuberantly from the main promenade path. ‘Who is that?’
‘Lady Elizabeth Brompton,’ Helen said. ‘And that is her mother, Lady Dunwick, coming behind.’
It was inevitable that she would meet London acquaintances in Brighton; it was one of the most fashionable sea-bathing towns. But why did it have to be Pug and her mother? They were so cheerfully and relentlessly inquisitive. Moreover, they’d both been at her ball and would, without a doubt, have awkward questions about that fateful night.
‘We cannot pretend we have not seen them,’ Hammond said. He gave one last look down the road. ‘If that was indeed the Deceiver, he could be anywhere in that maze of lanes.’
Helen braced herself as Pug, resplendent in pink and green stripes, dragged her mother across the road and bobbed into a breathless curtsey. Her protuberant blue eyes — the reason for her nickname — popped even wider under the tall, luxuriously feathered crown of her bonnet.
‘How are you, Lady Helen? I’ve not seen you since the night of your ball. Are you recovered now?’ She caught Helen’s hands, squeezing them sympathetically. ‘It was such a shock to learn that you had fallen ill straight after dancing before His Royal Highness. Was the dancing too much for you after your fall? Is your darling mare all right? Are you here for your health?’
Helen aimed a curtsey at Lady Dunwick, trying unsuccessfully to extricate herself from Pug’s grip. ‘Yes, here for my health,’ she echoed, ignoring all the other questions. ‘Allow me to present my friends. This is Lady Margaret Ridgewell and her brother, Mr Hammond.’
Lady Dunwick, who had clearly passed on her bulbous eyes to her daughter, nodded graciously to the brother and sister. ‘How do you do.’ Her gaze turned back to Helen, the bulging expanse of white around each blue iris giving her an expression of perpetual urgency. ‘Is your aunt here with you, my dear? I had thought she and your uncle were set upon spending the summer at Lansdale Hall?’
‘Yes, they will be at Lansdale,’ Helen said, fixing a smile upon her face. In truth, she did not know what her guardians intended — not since her uncle had expelled her from his house. ‘Lady Margaret has been so kind as to invite me here for the summer.’
‘Then you must all come to supper next Friday,’ Lady Dunwick said, the abundance of orange feathers on her bonnet nodding vigorously as if to second the invitation. ‘A little announcement of our arrival in Brighton. It will be just those families who are already in town. It is such a shame that all this hoo-ha with the government and the American war is keeping the Prince Regent in London. It leaves us rather light for company. I see you are hesitating, my dear, but I insist. Let me tempt you with dancing. Some of the officers from the 10th Light Dragoons will be attending.’ She raised an emphatic finger and shook it. ‘Elizabeth has told me about your riding accident, so we will make sure you are not overtaxed. Only every second dance, and a rest in between.’
‘Oh, yes, you must come,’ Pug urged. ‘The Prince of Wales’s regiment always has the best dancers. Say you will. Please say you will.’
Under such kind pressure, Helen knew she could not demur. ‘Thank you.’
She saw Lady Margaret’s jaw tighten before she murmured her own thanks, along with Mr Hammond.
‘Wonderful!’ Pug beamed around the small circle. ‘Where are you heading now?’
‘Donaldson’s,’ Helen said.
‘To sign the book?’ Pug asked. ‘We are on our way too. Let us go together.’ She linked arms with Helen. ‘It is across the Steine and very well-placed for watching the street. Have you seen the bathing boxes with their little ponies — aren’t they divine? I’m so keen to bathe, although it is not yet warm enough. Surely you must be considering it too?’
Helen opened her mouth to reply, but was not quick enough.
‘Of course you are, what with your fall and everything. So beneficial to the health. Why, I was just telling Mother …’
And so Pug continued for the whole of the short walk to the library. Helen nodded and smiled and caught the appalled eye of Lady Margaret, who was enduring a similar one-sided conversation with Lady Dunwick.
‘Well, here we are,’ Pug announced unnecessarily as they drew up to the clearly signed frontage of the library. ‘We shall soon find out who else is in town. Everyone subscribes to Donaldson’s.’
A young footman clad in neat drab stood at the entrance. Seeing their intention to enter, he pulled open the doors and bowed as Pug led the way inside. Helen happened to glance at the young man as she passed and as their eyes met, she saw something dawn upon his round-cheeked face: recognition.
Before she could react, she’d been herded over the threshold by Lady Dunwick’s bulk. She looked back, but the young man had already closed the doors behind them and disappeared from his post. Through the large front windows, Helen searched the pedestrians walking along the Parade until she found him again, standing on the corner of the road opposite Raggett’s Club. A rather abrupt departure for a footman. The anomaly hardened into a sudden suspicion: perhaps he was a Deceiver who had sensed her Reclaimer energy and bolted.
Then again, maybe her phantom sighting of Philip had made all footmen into Deceivers. Was she overreacting again? Even if she were, it would do no harm to check. Most of the time it was impossible to prove the identity of a Deceiver. However, if this footman had been skimming life force from oblivious passers-by then maybe she would be able to see his feeding tentacle through her Reclaimer lens. It was a hundred-to-one chance, nevertheless she opened her reticule and scooped up the touch watch, finding the tiny clip that held the case shut.
But how could she assemble the lens and raise it to her eye without causing comment? A swift glance about the room gave her the answer: she could not. There were too many people around, and Pug had already noticed the watch cupped in her hand. Lord, how she missed her mother’s miniature. Somehow, the Colligat alchemy within it had allowed her to see Deceiver energy just by holding the tiny portrait; no need to assemble a lens. But its power was in the hands of the Deceivers now. With one last look at the young man rapidly crossing the road, Helen let the watch drop back into her bag.
‘I say, that is a pretty timepiece,’ Pug said. ‘It looks just like the one that Lord Carlston carries, except his is blue. Are they from the same maker?’
‘I would not know. I have never noticed his lordship’s watch,’ Helen lied, and walked further into the library, leaving Pug in her wake.
Mr Hammond came to stand at her side. ‘Grand, is it not? This is only the first of many rooms beyond.’ He added under his breath, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It is,’ she said to both questions, and turned her attention to the library in an effort to throw off her sense of unease.
A remarkably large skylight in the ceiling allowed the day’s brightness into the long spacious room. The walls were lined with shelves of books — as was to be expected — most of them bound in the serviceable blue cardboard that was the badge of the modern circulating library. A handsome mahogany counter stood to the right, manned by a portly individual dressed in a black coat and with luxurious whiskers who was showing a periodical to a young lady. Three older gentlemen sat bent over newspapers at a long reading table set beneath the skylight; at one end of the table was spread a neat display of that day’s Times, Gazette, Morning Post and the local Brighton Herald. The smell of fresh newspaper ink and the fustiness of the books mixed with a faint trace of rose perfume. A curiously pleasant scent. Helen breathed it in, finding a measure of calm again.
A number of small tables had been arranged around the floor with enough distance between them for a quiet tête-à-tête, and
some were already occupied by ladies and gentlemen conversing in soft tones. Nearby, a pair of young ladies strolled arm in arm past a series of glass-topped display cases, pausing now and again to study an array of jewellery and stationery for sale, their coos of delight like distant doves.
‘Oh, look!’ Pug’s voice cut through Helen’s new-found serenity. ‘They carry rings. I do love a ring. And perfume too!’ She leaned closer to Helen’s ear, although did not drop her volume. ‘It’s probably smuggled from Paris.’
The gentle activity in the room ceased for a moment and all eyes turned to the new arrivals. The portly librarian, having concluded his business with the young lady, rapidly made his way towards them.
‘Lady Dunwick,’ he said in a rich voice that seemed more suited to the stage than a library. A neat bow showed the shiny freckled top of a balding head. ‘It is an honour to see you here again. How may I be of service?’
Lady Dunwick waved an expansive hand, collecting Helen, Lady Margaret and Mr Hammond into its arc. ‘We are here to subscribe, Mr Fountwell.’
‘You are all most welcome,’ he said. ‘Please, come this way and sign the book.’ He gestured to the counter where a large green-bound ledger sat open. ‘Our terms have not changed since last summer, Lady Dunwick, and I think you and your companions will agree they are most moderate. Five shillings for one month or ten shillings for three months.’ He turned his attention to Helen and Lady Margaret. ‘And if you are so inclined, we also sell subscriptions to the concert series.’
‘I do not know if my health will allow me to attend the concerts,’ Helen said, stepping up to the counter, ‘but I will subscribe to the library. For two months.’
‘I believe one month will be sufficient, my dear,’ Lady Margaret said.
Helen met her eyes for a fleeting moment — were they only staying a month more then? — and saw the affirmative.
‘Of course, just a month,’ she amended. Why was she always the last to know these things?
‘Excellent,’ Mr Fountwell said, casting a rather narrow look at Lady Margaret. He offered Helen a well-trimmed quill. ‘If you would be so kind as to sign the register.’
Helen took the pen, dipped it into the ink and bent to the ledger, her eye skimming down the names already written across the page.
‘Who is here?’ Pug leaned in to study the book. ‘Oh, look, the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues. It says here they have a house in Marlborough Row. They must be near us then. You know she was a famous opera singer in Paris?’
‘Yes,’ Helen said, but her attention had fixed — horribly — on another name in the register. In almost the same moment, Pug’s gloved finger jabbed at the bold signature.
‘Oh, my goodness, His Grace the Duke of Selburn is here!’ She turned her head, the feathers in her bonnet brushing Helen’s face. ‘Did you know he was coming?’
‘No,’ Helen managed.
Just six weeks ago, a few days before her presentation ball, the Duke had asked her to marry him — an honour that she had more or less accepted on the condition that he still wished to do so after her ball. Admittedly, it had been a strange caveat, but she had expected to strip herself of her Reclaimer powers that night, and the effect of such alchemy could have destroyed her wit and intelligence forever. She had felt she could not in all conscience accept his proposal as a bright, lively woman, and then expect him to live an entire life with a diminished, idiot version of herself. All that had changed, of course, with Philip’s attack upon her in her bedchamber and her choice to be a Reclaimer, not a Duchess. She had written to the Duke and released him from any obligation, but had not seen him since that letter had been delivered.
Pug’s thick fingertip traced the ledger line across to the date column. ‘His Grace arrived the day before yesterday. I rather thought he would have stayed in the city, what with the new government and all.’
‘Two days ago?’ Helen looked at Mr Hammond and saw a flash of guilt cross his face. He had known; and beside him, Lady Margaret’s face told the same story. Without a doubt, their silence was on Lord Carlston’s orders. Helen’s anger heated her cheeks.
Pug sent her a knowing glance. ‘You are blushing. Perhaps his arrival is a compliment to you, Lady Helen. The general view in London is that there is an understanding between you.’
‘You are mistaken. There is no understanding.’
Helen bent to the page again and signed her name, the nib almost puncturing the paper. She placed the pen back in its stand and stood aside so that Pug could sign the book.
The inevitability of meeting the Duke sometime soon settled like a cold stone within her stomach. She would not be able to avoid him in a town as small as Brighton. What on earth would she say to him? More to the point, what would he say? The man had every right to be angry — she had abandoned her promise with little explanation and, to her eternal shame, by letter. However, that would pale by comparison if the Duke found her in the company of Lord Carlston. At her ball, the two men had nearly come to blows on the dance floor and, if her brother was to be believed, the Duke’s rancour had only increased since that night.
‘Shall we take a turn around the room, Lady Helen?’ Pug asked as her mother bent to the subscription book.
Helen had no objection — a walk would at least channel her anxiety into action — and she allowed Pug to take possession of her arm. They strolled across the floor to the neat line of display cases, nodding to the other pair of young ladies who were studying an array of beaded reticules.
‘To my mind, a ring should not be too plain,’ Pug said, rather forcefully steering Helen towards the jewellery case near the door. ‘Plain rings vex me. I think pearls …’
But Helen did not hear the rest of the sentence for she had looked through the window and seen the library’s footman again, departing Raggett’s Club. And before him strode a familiar tall blond figure: the Duke of Selburn. The footman had not been a Deceiver; he was an informant.
‘Oh, my,’ Pug whispered, her eyes also fixed on the Duke who was now crossing the road. She looked at Helen. ‘You’ve gone so pale. There was an understanding, wasn’t there?’
Helen managed a nod. ‘But not now. It is most … awkward.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Pug asked. ‘Can I be of service?’
‘Don’t leave me,’ Helen whispered. ‘Please.’
She felt Pug squeeze her arm. ‘Of course. Nailed to your side, dear thing.’
Helen fought back the impulse to throw propriety aside and embrace Pug Brompton right there in the middle of the library. She made do with a return squeeze.
‘Let us pretend we are engrossed in the display,’ Pug whispered, leading her to the nearest case. ‘Look, Lady Helen, what lovely stationery,’ she said loudly and with patently false enthusiasm.
Helen stared at the sheafs of paper bound with red ribbon, the bundles of uncut quills, and the stacked boxes of sealing wafers. ‘Lovely,’ she echoed.
Behind her, she heard the front door open, felt the cooler street air push its way into the room and, from the corner of her eye, saw the straightening of male spines and flutter of female hands. She tucked her chin down and stared fiercely at the uncut quills.
‘Your Grace. May I be of service?’ Mr Fountwell’s voice rolled with deference.
‘Not at this time. Thank you.’ He was still near the door.
‘His Grace is coming this way,’ Pug whispered.
Barely time to draw a steadying breath.
‘Lady Helen.’
His voice held a grave note of inquiry. Yet she could not lift her eyes.
Pug’s arm pulled on her own for a moment as she dipped into a curtsey. ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
‘Lady Elizabeth. How pleasant to see you again.’
‘Indeed,’ Pug said. ‘We have not been in Brighton long and —’
‘Excuse me.’ He was moving, and every nerve in her body followed his trajectory around Pug to take the position at her other side. One of his
hands — ungloved — curled around the edge of the glass case near her own. ‘Ah, I see what has your attention, Lady Helen. It is indeed an enthralling display, particularly the pyramid of wafers. Almost on par, I think, with Mr Turner’s epic painting The Battle of Trafalgar.’
She bit her lip. He could always make her smile.
‘The composition is less convincing, I fear,’ she said, and finally looked sideways at him. ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
She met the relief in his warm hazel eyes, then ducked her head in a belated curtsey.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘How opportune to find you here.’
That brought her eyes back to his face. She glanced pointedly at the returned doorman. ‘Opportune perhaps, but not a coincidence.’
‘No.’ He smiled, a wry acknowledgment that made her own lips twitch again. ‘Perhaps not.’ He turned to Pug. ‘Lady Elizabeth, would you please leave us for a moment? I have a message of a private nature to give to Lady Helen. From her brother.’
‘Your Grace, I am … Well, in fact …’ Pug looked wildly at Helen.
‘It is all right, Lady Elizabeth.’ Helen braced her feet more firmly into the thick rug. ‘I will hear the message.’
With another curtsey to the Duke, Pug retreated to the next display case. A flat stare from him moved her further back, out of earshot.
Helen could hear Lady Margaret and Mr Hammond in whispered conference at the subscription counter. Some part of her — not the bravest part — wanted them to cross the floor and save her from the impending tête-à-tête, but another part knew she must hear what His Grace had to say.
For a moment, they were both silent. She had once thought his long narrow face rather plain. Not now. At some point in their friendship, his kindness and humour had subtly rearranged his features into something quite appealing.
‘I received your letter,’ he said. ‘You did not say why.’
She turned from the pain in his voice. It had been the most difficult letter she had ever had to write and she had known her carefully crafted words had not been equal to the task. There was no satisfactory way to tell a man that his accepted offer of marriage was now to be rejected.