‘Dear Lord,’ she whispered. ‘What are we to do?’
A knock on the door lifted her head. ‘Yes?’
‘My lady, may I enter with Mr Quinn?’ Darby called.
Had his lordship finally awoken? She reached with her Reclaimer hearing and found his breathing: shallow and regular. Still unconscious. Still.
She rose from the gilt chair. ‘Of course.’
They entered with an air of great purpose. Mr Quinn carefully held a rolled piece of parchment in his big hand.
‘Has his lordship shown any progress?’ Helen asked.
‘A little, my lady,’ Quinn said, rising from his bow. Although he was trying not to show it, his anxiety was writ into every move. ‘The shoulder wound has started to heal and that must mean the Reclaimer fugue is doing its job. It’s just taking a bit longer this time. You’ll see. Lady Margaret is watching over him.’
Helen nodded. Last night, Lady Margaret had ordered Quinn to carry his lordship upstairs to her brother’s bedchamber again, and neither she nor the Terrene had left Carlston’s side the whole night. Helen, agonised by guilt and worry, had stood outside the door for hours, but had not dared enter. What if she harmed him even more? All she could do was listen to his breathing and pray that she had not irreparably damaged him.
Darby swiftly closed the door and made her curtsey. ‘We have come on another matter, my lady. Go on,’ she urged Quinn.
‘My lady, I told Miss Darby everything that happened last night — about the danger you were in, and the power that passed between you and his lordship. We think the two of you need to bond as soon as possible, even without the full moon and his lordship’s direction. You need the protection of a Terrene …’ He faltered, the anguish in his deep voice pulling Darby a step closer. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I could not help you when you took the Deceiver’s power. I tried, but I’m not your Terrene and now his lordship is —’
‘It is not your fault, Mr Quinn,’ Helen said quickly. Quite the contrary, but she could not say so yet. Not until she had explained the terrible truth to Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret, and, God willing, Lord Carlston. ‘I agree that we must complete the ritual as soon as possible.’ She met her maid’s patent relief with a smile. ‘When can we do it?’
‘Tomorrow night,’ Darby said. ‘It will take us a little time to obtain all the elements, and you, my lady, need to learn the ritual.’
With a dip of his head, Quinn passed her the parchment. ‘You need to say the words perfect, my lady. They are in Latin.’
Helen unrolled the thick paper. She recognised the writing upon it immediately. ‘His lordship wrote this?’
‘Aye,’ Quinn said and gave a small smile. ‘I’ll catch an earful when he knows I’ve given it to you without his say-so.’
She found herself touching the written words as if they held a direct link to him; a foolish fancy. The directions for the ritual were brief: a rather gruesome exchange of blood collected from a cross cut into the hand by the other party, then mixed with other alarming elements including fresh goat’s blood, milk and sanctified water. All drunk in a form that promised to be foul. The Latin that accompanied it — uncomfortably close to an incantation — was quite complicated. Even so, she had memorised far longer poems for recitation. And this task was not a schoolgirl chore; it had the impetus of desperate necessity.
‘Tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘I will be ready.’
After breaking her fast, Helen set herself at the table in the drawing room — where the light was best in the house — to study the bonding ritual. The wording of the incantation was, to say the very least, disturbing. Although she knew her Latin translation was not perfect, it began:
Forge this bond of earth and air, ground and sky
Forge this bond of mind and body, strength and soul
Bind these two with blood made one, blood made whole
Bind these two to lives in battle, torn asunder as they die.
It went on in much the same heathen manner for another three verses until the final two lines:
This bond must be forged in love and trust
For suspicion and hate can ne’er be just.
That, at least, Helen thought, was based in godly truth.
She had just finished committing the first two verses to memory, when a knock announced Garner.
‘My lady, there is another child at the door insisting that he has a message for you.’
Helen rose from her chair. Could this be news about Lowry’s new hiding place? If so, Martha Gunn had worked a miracle.
The child was a boy of about eleven standing on the front portico in bare feet with a wary gaze and a letter clutched in his hand.
‘You Lady Helen?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘’Ere you go then.’ He passed her the note. It was on rough paper and sealed with a grubby wafer. ‘Mrs Gunn said to put it into yer ’ands.’ He bobbed a bow and ran down the steps.
Clutching the note to her chest, Helen returned swiftly to the drawing room and closed the door. She broke the wafer and unfolded the page.
My lady,
Last night a man matching your footman’s looks took the 9 o’clock night coach to London. Please forgive the lateness of this message, but my boy went to tell you right after he saw the coach leave, but you was out. He said he waited but then a hackney arrived and brought a lot of commotion. He took affright and hopped it, and didn’t dare tell me he hadn’t passed you the message till now.
Martha Gunn
Not Lowry, then, but Philip. The slight disappointment was quickly eclipsed by the new information. It seemed the Deceiver had left Brighton before she and Carlston had even encountered Lowry last night. Yet that made no sense. If Philip was working with Lawrence, why had he not stayed to help his comrade obtain the journal? She folded the note and slipped it into her morning gown sleeve. Perhaps she had been mistaken and they were not working together at all. No, surely they had some connection. Maybe Mr Hammond would have more insight when he returned from gathering intelligence in town.
She took her seat once again and picked up the incantation, intent upon learning the final verses.
By three o’clock, when Delia came in and suggested they take some restorative tea, she finally felt confident that she had committed the Latin and the disturbing ritual to memory.
‘You need to rest, Helen,’ Delia said. ‘Lady Margaret is burning herself to a frazzle watching over Lord Carlston. I cannot even get her to take some broth. You must not do the same.’
Helen put down the parchment. ‘I should be with Mr Hammond.’
‘You know that is not possible. In your male guise you could be recognised as one of the perpetrators of last night; and you cannot go into company as yourself, not with that bruise on your poor mouth. You look as if you have been engaged in fisticuffs.’
‘I have been engaged in fisticuffs,’ Helen said dryly.
‘Exactly. And we cannot have anyone making that connection, can we? Mr Hammond will return soon and I am sure he will bring news.’
Helen frowned. ‘I should have thought he would be back by now.’
‘He said he would attend church, and then make his way to Donaldson’s and Raggett’s to listen to the gossip.’ She leaned over and squeezed Helen’s hand. ‘I think he is just wishing to be busy until Lord Carlston wakes.’
What if Lord Carlston never wakes?
Helen fought back the fearsome question and rose from the sofa, needing to move herself away from her dark thoughts. Delia, for all her firm optimism, could offer no real comfort. She did not know that Helen was trapped in a web of lies that could, very soon, unravel into a hangman’s noose. At least, a noose for Mr Hammond. For her, a noblewoman, it would be the executioner’s block.
With a shudder at the thought, Helen walked across the room and sorted through the sounds upstairs — the snap of a sheet as a maid aired a bed, a footman prising spent candles from their holders, Lady Margaret’s weary footsteps pacing
across the bedchamber — until she found the shallow breathing of Lord Carlston. No change.
‘Sit down, Helen,’ Delia urged. ‘I know you hardly slept last night. There can be no gain in exhausting yourself with worry.’ She reached over and picked up a pack of cards. ‘Come, you need a break from your studies. Shall we play a hand?’
Helen smiled wanly. Delia could offer no counsel, but she did, at least, offer some distraction.
A game of piquet later, Helen heard the sounds of arrival at the front door. Two men, their voices and footsteps identifying them immediately. She placed her cards down on the table.
‘What is it?’ Delia asked, looking up from making her play.
‘Mr Pike. And the Duke of Selburn.’
‘Oh,’ Delia breathed. ‘Together? Do you think it is a coincidence?’
That hope was quickly banished as Helen stretched her hearing to the conversation at the front door.
‘Take me to Carlston,’ Pike demanded. ‘I know he is here.’
‘Lord Carlston is not seeing visitors at this time,’ Garner said, his voice at its most dignified and polite.
‘He will see me,’ Pike said.
‘His lordship has not yet regained his senses, sir. He is —’
‘If the man is unconscious,’ the Duke interjected, ‘what on earth can you gain by seeing him, Pike?’
‘I can make sure he is insensible.’
Helen rose from her chair and crossed to the doors.
‘What are you doing?’ Delia asked.
‘I do not think we need to wait upon their visiting cards,’ Helen said dryly. ‘This is not a formal call.’
Delia hurriedly pushed back her chair and joined her at the doors. They both leaned closer, listening to the approach of the visitors through the heavy wood.
‘What is going on?’ Lady Margaret’s voice called, sharp and urgent, from the floor above.
‘Mr Pike is demanding to see Lord Carlston, my lady,’ Garner replied.
‘His lordship is in no state to receive visitors.’
‘Stand back,’ Helen whispered, then opened the doors.
The two men were halfway up the staircase: Pike first, like a tall, hunched crow, and then the Duke, impeccably dressed in bottle green and self-possessed as ever. Lady Margaret peered down from the landing above, her dark hair hanging in loose curls around her tired and angry face.
Mr Pike stopped, halting the Duke behind him. ‘Lady Helen,’ he acknowledged tightly. ‘Allow me to inform you that the Duke has been sworn in to the Dark Days Club.’ She saw the silently furious And you are to blame in the jut of his chin.
She gripped the doorjamb. ‘Sworn in?’
All her attempts to keep the Duke safe had been for nothing. Here he was, following her into the Deceivers’ world.
‘Sworn in,’ the Duke said, ‘and set to be your aide if you will have me, Lady Helen.’ He bowed, then inclined his head towards Delia. ‘Always a pleasure, Miss Cransdon.’
Pike looked over his shoulder at Selburn. ‘Your Grace, would you please escort Lady Helen and her friend back into the drawing room. I will be down directly.’ His tone was as close to command as the Duke’s rank allowed.
‘Of course,’ the Duke said amicably.
Helen and Delia retreated into the drawing room. Pike sent Helen a hard look as he passed the doorway on his way towards the next set of stairs.
‘I do not want Lord Carlston disturbed,’ they heard Lady Margaret begin.
‘I don’t give a damn what you want,’ Pike snarled. ‘Where is he?’
‘Mr Pike is somewhat discomposed,’ the Duke said, entering the drawing room and closing the doors. He turned and regarded Helen. ‘I see that you are discomposed too. I imagine my appearance alongside Mr Pike has come as a surprise.’
Helen gave a brittle laugh. Surprise did not even come close to describing the dizzying collision of worlds within her head.
‘How did you even know to go to Mr Pike?’ she asked.
‘Your Grace, would you like to take a seat,’ Delia interposed, gesturing to the armchair. She glanced at Helen, adding sotto voce, ‘Sit down, dear. You look as if you may faint.’
Delia was right; she did feel lightheaded. She grasped the back of the sofa and edged her way around to its seat. Selburn took the armchair, flicking out his jacket tails. A rather fine double-breasted Weston, she noted, then had to fight the irresistible — no, hysterical — urge to laugh at the absurd observation. She gathered her muslin skirts and sat beside Delia on the sofa, the simple action bringing a return of equilibrium.
‘If you recall,’ the Duke said, ‘Mr Hammond told me that you were all under oath to the Home Office. I know Mr Pike serves the new Home Secretary, my good friend Lord Sidmouth. Ergo, I visited Mr Pike and demanded an explanation of last night’s events.’ He smiled tentatively at Helen. ‘I could not believe what you did in that lane. Your courage — it was remarkable.’
Helen clasped her hands together, forcing her tone to stay measured. ‘Pike told you about the Dark Days Club? Just like that?’
‘No, not at all. He adamantly refused to do so until I suggested I would return to London and discuss the matter in Parliament. He quite sensibly, if not graciously, decided it was more expedient to swear me to silence than risk that kind of exposure.’
‘I wish he had not,’ Helen said.
He drew back. ‘Am I not welcome as a comrade in arms?’
‘It is exactly what I did not want to happen. This is a dangerous world, Duke. I did not want you dragged into it.’
He bowed his head, but Helen could see the corner of his smile. ‘Ah.’ He looked up, blue eyes warm. ‘You are worried for my safety.’
‘Of course I am. Have you any idea of what we face?’
‘Indeed. I saw what you faced last night. I also saw that you faced it more or less alone. As far as I could tell, Lord Carlston was more a danger to you than the leader he is meant to be. I am also aware that Miss Cransdon has newly joined you as your aide.’ He nodded to Delia. ‘But with all due respect, Lady Helen, I think you need the help of a man who can offer you real and practical support and protection. Mr Pike agrees with me.’
Of course Mr Pike agreed with him. Helen pressed her hand to her forehead. Carlston hated the Duke and vice versa. They would never be able to work together. If Carlston ever woke up.
‘View it this way,’ the Duke added. ‘You know I have been watching over you since your arrival here in Brighton. Now I have merely formalised my own inclination and cemented my promise to your brother.’
‘I told you I did not want such protection.’
‘I know, because you did not want me to be at risk.’ He leaned forward, casting a glance at Delia, who took the hint and turned away, busying herself with the fringe of her pink silk shawl. ‘I do not care if I am at risk if I can protect you. That is why I hired a room in the townhouse opposite and set a man to watch you and report back on your activities. I am glad I did, or I would not have been on hand last night.’ He smiled, a little gleam of mischief in his eyes. ‘Mind you, I did not know that the young man in the company of Lord Carlston was in fact you.’
Helen felt her skin heat. ‘It is part of what I must do as a Reclaimer.’
‘So I understand. Nevertheless, Lord Carlston should have taken more care with your safety.’
‘It is not Lord Carlston’s fault.’
Selburn’s mouth quirked into disbelief. ‘Come now, the man was out of control. You saw it yourself. You were injured because of it.’
Helen sat up, apprehension stiffening her spine. ‘You did not say that to Mr Pike, did you?’
‘Of course I did. I told him Carlston was like a berserker. He put you in danger.’
No doubt Pike had leaped upon that part of the report.
‘You do not understand,’ Helen started.
‘Perhaps not, but I hope to learn.’
He leaned forward and took her hand, lifting it to his lips and brushing a
soft kiss across her skin. Delia pointedly looked away from the intimacy.
‘There will be no more secrets, Helen,’ the Duke added, still holding her hand. ‘No need to try to protect me. I am in this world with you now, by your side. I will help you in any way you demand. You just have to ask.’
The door suddenly opened to admit Pike. Helen snatched back her hand.
‘How is Lord Carlston?’ she asked, ignoring the Duke’s frown of irritation.
‘Unconscious,’ Pike said, his voice hard and somewhat pleased. ‘Come with me.’ He addressed Selburn. ‘If you will excuse us, Your Grace, I have Reclaimer business with Lady Helen. I am sure Miss Cransdon will be able to answer any further questions you have about your new role as a Reclaimer aide.’
Delia looked at him in alarm. ‘I am not sure I know that much, sir.’
Pike observed her for a heavy, dismissive second, then bowed to the Duke.
Helen rose from the sofa. ‘Your Grace.’ She curtseyed, but could not quite meet his eye. He was so ardent in his desire to protect her against all dangers. Surely she should be glad to have such a man by her side, yet all she could feel was a heavy sense of dread. She would bring harm to him; it felt as inevitable as her next breath.
In silence, she followed Pike out of the room, one hand pressed over the back of the other where the Duke’s kiss still warmed her skin.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Close the door, Lady Helen,’ Pike ordered.
He stood in the middle of the morning room, a shaft of afternoon light through the front window catching a shiny wear patch on the sleeve of his black jacket and showing the wilt of his shirt points. The slight shabbiness, however, did nothing to detract from the menace of the man. He continued to observe her silently, seconds ticking by into an agonising minute. Just a tactic, Helen told herself, and yet her clasped hands were becoming decidedly clammy.
‘Hammond claims neither he nor you informed Lord Carlston about the journal,’ Pike finally said. ‘Is this true?’
‘You have spoken to Mr Hammond?’ A sense of foreboding pushed Helen forward a step. ‘Where is he?’