Lusus Naturae: A Lord Carlston Story

  Holding the device hidden in the cage of his hand, he walked down the steps and into the bright afternoon sunshine. First he would collect Quinn, and then they would make their way to the chapel and Solanski.

  Carlston felt an old discordance. In the library at his country seat he had hundreds of historical papers that called these creatures demons, but he had never come across one that had been perturbed by entering a house of God or by facing any of the old exorcisms.

  Quinn stood waiting with the carriage, broad shoulders leaned back against the polished side of the vehicle. A circle of other servants stood around him, gawking at the fiercely angled lines and swirls tattooed upon his dark face. Quinn ignored them, seemingly at ease, but Carlston could see he was primed for either curiosity or attack.

  He straightened as Carlston approached, the spectators scattering back to their own equipages. “Trouble, my lord?” he asked, dipping his head into a bow.

  Seven years as Carlston’s Terrene – his guard and aide – had attuned Quinn to his every expression.

  “I have been approached by a Deceiver. An offer of information. Most likely a trap.”

  “And you intend to walk into it?” Quinn said flatly.

  He fell in beside Carlston, clearly not expecting an answer. They had walked into many worse situations on the Continent.

  “Perhaps it really does have information.”

  Quinn grunted. “Anything it says will be a lie.” He glanced sideways, voice dry. “The clue is in their name.”

  Carlston smiled. An old joke.

  They quickly made their way through the various inner palace courtyards. Carlston was relieved to see the number of spectators diminish rapidly as they moved further away from the State Apartments. Quinn made one sweep of Colour Court, the closest yard to the chapel, but all was quiet, and so Carlston led the way through the final archway to the Chapel Royal.

  The entrance to the small church was still within palace bounds, but the building’s far wall stretched along Cleveland Row near St James’s Street and the racket of carriages from that busy thoroughfare was loud enough to reach him. Good. If events in the chapel escalated, he would need the cover of that street noise.

  Both of the chapel’s oak doors were closed. He handed his chapeau-bras to Quinn, then drew the ceramic dress sword.

  “Ready,” he said.

  Quinn pulled one of the heavy doors halfway open. With an eye to ambush, Carlston peered inside.

  The chapel was dim and cool, the only light coming from three high windows and a line of sunlight through the opened door. The famous wooden ceiling was decorated with carved octagons and crosses, white paint picking out the shapes in stark outlines. A bank of wooden box pews stood along each wall, a single central aisle between them. The Royal balcony box was set high on the left wall, opposite the pulpit and the darker rectangle of an open vestry door. If he recalled correctly, that side chamber also held an exit to the street. Another escape route.

  “Lord Carlston, do come in,” Solanski called. “Or do you intend to remain in the doorway?”

  The Deceiver stood near the pulpit with another, slighter man in black vestments. A priest. Or more to the point, a hostage.

  Ignoring the jibe, Carlston lifted the Reclaimer glass to his eye and looked through the line of prisms. The priest’s body was surrounded by the soft corona of pale blue light that belonged to all humans. Beside him, the violent ultramarine of Solanski’s body pulsed with a long energy whip curling out from his left shoulder. Only one, but at least four feet long and bright with charge. The priest absently scratched his thin shoulder, unaware that the itch came from the lethal energy whip hovering above him.

  “Damn,” Carlston breathed. The distance between him and the Deceiver was too great. If Solanski attacked the priest, he’d not get there fast enough.

  “How many whips?” Quinn asked quietly, squaring up.

  “Only one.”

  Even so, it was going to be difficult with just a glass knife and ceramic sword to hand. Carlston palmed the prisms and the workings back into the case and pocketed the watch, its metal clinking against the girl’s miniature.

  “Is that your man Quinn behind you?” the Count called, stepping closer to the priest. “I really must insist that he stay outside, my lord.”

  Quinn shifted uneasily. Carlston gave a small shake of his head. He could not risk the priest.

  “Quinn will stay back,” he said, then stepped fully into the chapel, allowing the door to thud shut between him and his Terrene.

  The Count gestured towards the priest. “Allow me to present the Reverend Alexander.”

  “My lord.” The priest bowed, his thin pale face matching his slight frame. “Count Solanski tells me that you are both interested in the history of the chapel.” His voice held a note of doubt but he pressed on. “I have a pamphlet you may find illuminating. The ceiling above us, for example, is attributed to Holbein.”

  “Reverend, leave us,” Carlston ordered. He gathered himself, ready to spring into Reclaimer speed. “Count, I swear if you harm him—”

  “Harm?” The priest stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Go, Reverend!” Carlston roared. “Now!”

  Perhaps God did look after his own, for the man jumped as if Carlston had shot at him and rapidly backed away through the side door that led to the vestry.

  Solanski made no move. “I had no intention of harming him,” he said mildly.

  Carlston forced down the clamouring call in his blood. “You have built a four-foot whip,” he said, walking slowly up the aisle. “In my experience, that holds a great deal of intention.” He stopped a pew box away from the pulpit.

  “Your reputation precedes you, my lord. I would be a fool to come without defence.”

  “You approached me. What do you want?”

  “I have come to make a bargain.”

  Carlston snorted. “Again I say, with a whip?”

  Solanski paced into the centre of the aisle, his blond hair catching the soft light. He was giving himself room.

  Carlston casually leaned his hand against the pew box door beside him. It shifted slightly towards him. Box doors that swung out: a veritable line of insulating shields.

  Solanski took in a deep breath. “I will discharge into the ground if you vow, on your honour, to listen to me without attack.”

  Discharge? Carlston studied him. What was his game? He had never come across a Deceiver who wished to parley, let alone one that offered to weaken itself as a sign of good faith.

  “Discharge then.”

  “On your word as a nobleman?”

  Did he want to give such a solemn bond? Yet he could not walk away from the possibility of information.

  He held up the ceramic sword and placed it across the corner of the box pew. “On my word. I will not attack.”

  With a nod, Solanski squatted and slammed his hands against the tiled floor. Carlston did not need his Reclaimer glass to see the energy driving into the ground. The rumbling force sent up spinning stones and tiles. He ducked as they clattered back to the ground and drummed a short tattoo along the wooden pews. Dust plumed into the air, bringing shape to the shafts of sunlight across the ruined floor. The air smelled of dirt and the strange clean odour that came after lightning.

  Carlston held his breath and listened for shouts of alarm. There were none.

  “It will not have been remarked,” Solanski said. He stood and brushed dust off his green silk coat. “The ground has swallowed most of the noise.”

  Carlston straightened. This was all uncharted territory. A slight movement in the vestry caught his attention: the priest peered from behind the door, hands clasped over his mouth. At least the man had the sense to stay there.

  Carlston took out his watch and deftly reassembled the Reclaimer glass. He held it to his eye. The three prisms confirmed that Solanski’s energy was no longer the bright ultramarine of glut, but had been reduced back to the same pale blue corona of a
human. And the whip was gone.

  “So we have both kept our word,” Carlston said, clicking the instrument back into the watch case and sliding it into his pocket. “What is this bargain?”

  Solanski wet his lips. “I have been delegated by some of my kind to speak to you.”

  “Your kind does not work together.”

  Solanski inclined his head. “That is true. This agreement did not come easily to us. However, if centuries of living in flesh have taught us one thing, it is the value of cooperation.”

  Carlston tightened his hand on the smooth edge of the pew box. Deceivers cooperating with each other was the last thing the Dark Days Club needed. “So what do you want to say?”

  “You have a reputation for upholding the Pact with rigour and fairness. Is that still true?”

  “Of course. It is a Reclaimer’s sworn duty.”

  “Yet one of your kind is breaking the agreement. Killing us beyond the allowances of the Pact. All we want is to live our lives in peace, so here is the bargain, Lord Carlston. I ask for your intervention, I ask you to stop him; and in return I will give you information about your Dark Days Club. About the danger you are in.”

  “Who is breaking the Pact?”

  Solanski met his eye. “Your fellow Reclaimer, Samuel Benchley.”

  Carlston gave a sharp laugh. “That does not tally with the man I know.”

  And yet George had just been hinting that something was awry with his old friend.

  “I assure you I am speaking the truth, my lord,” Solanski said. “Just as I am speaking the truth when I say Benchley is also killing humans.”

  Now he knew Solanski was lying.

  “That is ridiculous. There is no bargain to be had here.”

  “Ask your people about Ratcliffe Highway.”

  “Do not try to place that horror upon Samuel Benchley. I assure you I will not believe it for a second.”

  The Ratcliffe Highway murders were the worst killings in London in recent memory. Seven innocent people slaughtered in their homes, hammered to death with a maul for no apparent reason. One of them an infant.

  “I tell you, Benchley is the perpetrator, and your people know it. There is something rotten at the core of your Dark Days Club, Lord Carlston.”

  “What reason could he have for such a heinous crime?”

  “He thinks he is preparing for a Grand Deceiver.”

  Carlston stepped forward. Here was a chance for real information. “Has a Grand Deceiver arrived in England?”

  “That is what I hear.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I do not know.”

  Carlston shook his head – that was no answer; but Solanski showed his palms, an insistence of sincerity.

  “A Grand Deceiver has many faces. I swear upon the lives of my offspring, and thus upon my own existence, that I do not know.” Solanski laughed; a hollow sound. “You have no idea what is coming your way. A Grand Deceiver is not like us. I have heard your kind called Lusus Naturae, because of your speed and strength that matches our own. Well, a Grand Deceiver is our Lusus Naturae. As normal humans are to you, weak and slow, so we are to a Grand Deceiver. Can you conceive of that kind of power? Are you ready to battle it?”

  “Stand aside, man, I wish to enter!” A woman’s voice, outside the oak door.

  Damn, they had company.

  “Lady Drummond, please!” Quinn’s voice. “There has been an accident within. It is not safe.”

  Lady Drummond: one of the more pious courtiers.

  “Will you keep your word, Lord Carlston?” Solanski asked, skirting the hole in the floor, heading towards the vestry door. “Will you stop Benchley?”

  “I will inquire,” Carlston said.

  Solanski nodded, a last sideways glance meeting Carlston’s own. For an instant, that strange unnatural stillness wiped the humanity from the man’s face, then it softened back into smiling bonhomie. He quickened his pace through the side door, the little priest holding up his cross and flattening himself against the wall as the Count passed.

  Carlston slumped back against the pew. Did he believe Solanski? Perhaps it was just a sophisticated Deceiver trick to undermine the Dark Days Club. Yet if a Grand Deceiver had arrived and was as powerful as Solanski claimed, it was going to take much more than a united Dark Days Club to defeat him. It was going to take a Grand Reclaimer.

  One of the oak doors swung open, sending a shaft of sunlight across the ruined floor.

  “Lud!” Lady Drummond stood in the open doorway, the gold silk of her gown flaring in the bright light. “What has happened here?”

  Carlston straightened and bowed. “An unfortunate collapse of the foundations,” he said hoarsely. “You should withdraw, Lady Drummond, for your own safety.”

  The woman stared at him for a hard moment, then backed away. The door closed again and the sound of her shrill astonishment receded.

  “Collapse?” The priest was at his side, staring at the hole in the floor as if it were a doorway to Hell. “I saw what happened, my lord. What was that creature?”

  “I think it best that you stay with the story of an accident, Reverend. I am acquainted with your Bishop, and he will agree. I shall, of course, recompense the chapel.” He pulled the diamond pin from the folds of his cravat. It would be at least two years’ income for the man. “Here, take it. For yourself.”

  The priest hesitated, then reached for it. “I will take it for the poor,” he said fiercely.

  “Very worthy,” Carlston murmured, but he liked the little man for his hesitation and unexpected backbone.

  Holding the pin away from himself, the priest asked, “Do you know what diabolic forces you are dealing with, my lord?”

  “It is not what you think.” Then again, he thought tiredly, maybe it was. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead.

  The priest crossed himself. “Did he harm you?”

  “No.”

  Dear God, if Solanski was telling the truth, there was no one in the Home Office he could trust. Surely that was a lie?

  The priest took a step closer. “I shall pray for your soul, my lord.”

  Carlston pushed himself upright and picked up the sword. He walked stiffly to the chapel entrance and opened the heavy door. A bright shaft of sunlight barbed his eyes.

  He squinted back into the dim chapel at the lone figure in the aisle. “Don’t pray for me, Reverend. Let your prayers be for a girl. Pray that she is everything she needs to be.”

  “What girl?”

  Carlston stepped out of the chapel and let the door shut behind him. “Lady Helen Wrexhall,” he said softly. “Pray for Lady Helen Wrexhall.”

  If you enjoyed this exclusive chapter, read on for Lady Helen’s point of view in an extract from

  Book One in the Lady Helen trilogy

  St James’s Palace London

  THURSDAY, 30 APRIL 1812

  Keeping the miniature hidden was proving harder than Helen had imagined. The bump and bustle of so many people making their way along the Palace corridor made it almost impossible to move without using both hands to steer her hoop through the melee. It was no easy task to keep hold of gown, train, presentation card, fan and attached miniature all at once.

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t bunch your dress so tight,” her aunt said, noticing her death grip on the spangled net. “Here, let me carry something for you.”

  Before Aunt could reach for her fan and the hidden miniature, Helen handed over her presentation card. Thankfully, their arrival in the crowded State Room diverted any further offer of help.

  “It is going to be a tedious wait,” Aunt said. “The visiting dignitaries will be received first. Still, we should start making our way towards the presentation chamber now. I don’t want to push our way through the entire guest list when your name is called.”

  Although it was just past noon and the day was bright, a huge crystal chandelier blazed overhead, the mass of candles adding to the oppressive heat in the roo
m. At the far end, Palace officials milled in the doorway of the Grand Council Chamber, readying themselves for the proceedings. Helen ran a quick eye over the paintings that lined the walls: portraits of Kings, Queens and one particularly handsome pastoral. By Ricci, if she was not mistaken. A pity she would not have the chance to view it properly.

  “I think I see a clear space near the door,” Aunt Leonore said loudly in her ear while graciously acknowledging the apology of a gentleman who had set her lilac gown swaying. “Keep close to me, my dear.”

  Helen nodded, her hold on the miniature finally secure enough for her to start searching for Millicent. The multitude of shifting gowns and undulating feathers – a dizzying array of pastel pinks, soft purples, whites, creams, stately blues and sudden yellows – made it almost impossible to focus on any one person. Particularly one diminutive blonde amongst so many other diminutive blondes dressed in the paler shades of presentation. Delia’s name suddenly rose up through the chatter, a snide laugh following it. Helen turned to glare at the perpetrator, but whoever it was had already moved past.

  “Can you see Millicent?” she asked her aunt.

  “La, child, I can barely see who is three in front of us.”

  They moved another foot or so forward. Helen, with her superior height, noted a break in the crowd: a wide space had been left around a dark-haired man standing before the huge marble mantelpiece. She caught sight of his face for a moment: young, but made harsh from some kind of suffering, with a savage intensity in his eyes as he scanned the room. There was a coiled quality to him as well, for all his loose-limbed height.

  “Let us stop here,” Aunt Leonore said, drawing Helen’s attention from the tall gentleman to a space beside a blue Chinoise urn in the centre of the room. “The doorway is too densely packed now.”