“I know you live by your word, William,” Brummell lowered his voice, “but that does not mean everyone around you does the same. I’ve heard disturbing stories, and it cannot be denied that Benchley has failed as a leader. He has not kept the other Reclaimers united, and Pike, from the Home Office, has stepped in.”
“Pike?” Now there was a man without honour.
“Yes, and as you may imagine, he is more concerned with politics and his own power than maintaining the Pact.”
Carlston saw where this was heading. “I will not be staying, George,” he warned.
“What if Lady Helen is like her mother? Will you stay then?”
“You know it is unlikely she has the talent. Her brother does not.”
Brummell’s mouth quirked in shared disappointment. “Nor has he the stuff to join our ranks.”
Carlston nodded his agreement. Andrew Wrexhall, the current Earl of Hayden, was a pleasant enough young blood, but he lacked guile and discipline.
“So, you will stay if Lady Helen is what we need? And if she is not, you will return to your search for Elise?”
“Yes.”
“Elise is gone, my friend.” To the untrained eye, Brummell’s customary sardonic expression was in place, but Carlston saw the tiny shift into entreaty. “There is no evidence that she is still alive. You can do nothing about what happened. We need you here.”
True, there was no evidence. Yet he had found the ruby signet that had been her wedding ring on the floor of the blood-spattered bedchamber. The ring was engraved on the underside with an interlocking W and E. WE: always together; the little pun a foolish, shared delight. Why had she taken it off? He spread his bare fingers, feeling the ghost weight of his own ring.
Solanski was on the move. Carlston watched him bow to his companions and slowly weave through the clusters of young women and their sponsors waiting to be called into the Grand Council Chamber and the presence of Queen Charlotte. The man was smiling again, this time with pleasure. How he must be soaking up the women’s nervous anticipation, wallowing in the energy wash from their sweating, bound bodies. He would be glutted with power before long, and at his most dangerous.
George’s focus was back on the girl. “What if she is what we need, but will not join us? Or does not have the necessary courage?”
“Then she becomes a liability.” Carlston eyed his friend, challenging any judgment. “You know she will be a target for them. They must not have access to Reclaimer energy.”
“Is that how it is now? We dispatch innocents as well?”
“I have had some practice in the area.” Carlston kept all expression out of his voice although self-disgust clogged his throat.
“Good God, man.”
“We can safely say that God has nothing to do with it.”
Yet if he still had any right to pray, he would beg that Lady Helen was her mother’s daughter; as brave and talented, and as willing to step outside the confines of society as Lady Catherine. Then perhaps two souls would be saved: hers and his own. If indeed he had enough grace left in his soul for any kind of redemption.
George shook his head. “William, that young man in Exeter was as much Sir Jonathan’s mistake as he was yours. You cannot take all the blame for his death.”
Carlston raised his hand, silencing the protest. “I believe our friend is making his way towards Lady Helen, and we cannot allow that. Introduce me to her aunt, George. It is time to start.”
Brummell masterfully carved a pathway through the tightly packed room with a touch to a shoulder here, a bow there, and a raised quizzing glass at a particularly intransigent Lady Pembroke. Carlston kept his eyes on their objective, ignoring the low murmur that followed their progress, the slowly converging figure of Solanski always at the edge of his vision.
The aunt saw them coming and clasped the girl’s gloved forearm in warning. If the situation had been less serious, he would have been vastly entertained by the woman’s warring expressions of delight at Brummell’s approach and dismay at his own.
She received George’s bow with a jerky tilt of her head, the plume of long lilac ostrich feathers dipping and shivering. The woman had made liberal use of lavender water, but underneath it was a strong earthy scent of powder, clammy skin and hairdresser’s grease.
“Mr Brummell, how lovely to see you again.”
“It is always a pleasure, madam.” George bowed again and with an elegant flourish of hand made the introduction. “Lady Pennworth, may I present the Earl of Carlston.”
She bent her neck in cold acknowledgment. “Lord Carlston.”
He inclined his head. “Madam.”
Beside the old hen, the girl gathered an object at the base of her fan and closed her hand around it. A neatly executed manoeuvre, but he was attuned to subterfuge. She was hiding something. Had she brought contraband to her own presentation? Perhaps the girl had something of her mother’s daring and initiative, after all. Or was he just clutching at straws?
With some attempt at grace, the Viscountess said, “My dear, allow me to present the Earl of Carlston and Mr Brummell. Gentlemen, this is my niece, the Lady Helen Wrexhall.”
Carlston studied the girl as he bowed, intrigued to see that she watched him just as closely. She kept her expression well controlled, but his impassive face was clearly causing her some frustration. She was used to reading people with ease. He bit down on the tiny hope that it was a first sign of a Reclaimer.
“Lord Carlston,” she said, rising from her curtsey with creditable control of the hoop. Her cool glance also took in George. “Mr Brummell. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She was tall for her sex: past his chin, when most women, and a good number of men, hovered well below. If it came to sword and knife training, it could be an advantage.
“Lady Helen, it is indeed a delight,” he said. “Particularly since we are related.”
“Distantly,” Lady Pennworth said, mouth small.
Carlston smiled his Earl’s smile. “And yet irrefutably.”
The aunt subsided.
George cleared his throat, alerting him to the fact that Solanski was getting closer. Carlston gauged the man’s approach. He was not quite mid-room and still had to make his way through the denser part of the crowd. But George was right – they would need to intercept him soon.
He turned his smile to the girl and targeted her most obvious point of weakness. “Lady Helen, I see that you carry a Vernis Martin fan.”
He had once given Elise such a fan; there could be no mistaking the maker’s high lacquer on the painted sticks. At the remark, the girl’s jaw tensed and she touched the damp, flushed skin on her throat: definitely hiding something, and a little afraid of him too.
“I am a great connoisseur of fans,” he added.
“Really? Of fans?” She kept a tight hold on her own. “And do you have much cause to use them?”
Carlston felt George’s shoulder twitch with a suppressed laugh.
The aunt’s eyes widened in warning at her charge. “Helen, dear, I am sure Lord Carlston merely has an interest.”
“I do, madam,” Carlston lied. “Would you allow me to inspect your example, Lady Helen?”
“It is nothing out of the ordinary, Lord Carlston,” she said with a delightfully false smile. “I’m sure it can be of no interest to such an expert.”
“A Vernis Martin is always out of the ordinary, Lady Helen.” He held out his hand.
She met his gaze but did not move. Such a look in those brown eyes: a mix of stony stubbornness and hunted animal. He almost wanted to step back and save her the ordeal.
“Helen, show Lord Carlston your fan,” the aunt ordered.
“I cannot believe you are serious, sir,” she said, attempting the coquette. “I feel sure you are funning with me.”
There was some native charm in her manner, but it would have to be brought out more if she was to be as effective as her mother.
“You will find that I am alwa
ys serious, Lady Helen,” he said.
“Show him, my dear,” Lady Pennworth hissed, her real message clear in the tilt of her head: Show him the fan so that we may be rid of him.
He used the small diversion to track Solanski. The man was still mid-room, called to the side of Lady Conyngham. He would be held there for a few minutes at least; the famous beauty would not be rushed through the required admiration.
Lady Helen still hesitated. Carlston extended his hand further, the gesture forcing her into either unforgivable discourtesy or compliance.
With her chin up, the girl passed him the closed fan, the riveted head turned to his palm. Her stiffened fingers pushed something round and heavy at its end into his grasp, her expression schooled into indifference. But his training saw the tension around her mouth – dread and a little bit of fury – and the shift of her jaw. A quick mind playing out possible strategies. His hope lifted.
A flick of his wrist opened the carved ivory sticks, her secret locked under the crook of his fingers and shielded from all other eyes.
“A very pretty fan,” he said, pretending to study the pastoral scene on the varnished ivory.
Attached to the rivet on a short blue riband was a miniature portrait of her mother, Lady Catherine. Good God, no wonder she was hiding it. She was about to carry a memento of a suspected traitor into the Queen’s presence. Not to mention what was hidden inside the gold frame: Lady Catherine’s Reclaimer glass. She had shown it to him at the start of his training, and he now had one himself, concealed in the pocket watch on the chain at his waist. Did the girl know what she had hanging by that riband? Perhaps not. Whatever the case, she would not have it much longer, and he would see how she dealt with unforeseen events.
He looked up and paused so that all attention was fixed on his next words. The girl stood as motionless as a hare circled by hounds. He released the knife, sliding it from its sheath up along his palm.
“Was this represented to you as an original Vernis Martin?” he asked.
Calculated words that brought the desired effect: a bantam spine-straightening in the aunt. As she gathered herself for protest, he tilted his hand until the razor-thin glass blade sliced through the riband. He gripped the untethered frame more firmly under his fingertips.
“I will have you know that the fan was a gift from her uncle, Viscount Pennworth,” the aunt said, nostrils pinched.
“A lovely gift.”
He pressed the blade back into its sheath and passed the fan to Lady Helen, the miniature already hidden in his other hand. He watched her reaction.
A quick glance down, a heavy swallow, and a tightening of her fingers around the closed fan, but nothing else. Such control; and she was not giving anything away in the level gaze that rose to meet his own. He almost smiled but fought the impulse to acknowledge their complicity. For an instant, fury narrowed her face – she had seen his enjoyment. His mask was not so foolproof, after all.
“I believe we must make way for others who wish to make your acquaintance, Lady Helen,” he said, bowing. “It has been a pleasure.”
“Lord Carlston, I do hope you will visit us,” she said, stopping his deft withdrawal.
Beside him, George paused in his own bow, eyebrows lifting at the girl’s audacity.
“I mean,” she continued, ignoring the rustle of horror from her aunt, “will you do us the honour of calling on us tomorrow? Since we are family.”
Clever girl, turning his own tactic against him.
“Helen!” Lady Pennworth was almost quivering at the girl’s abandonment of propriety. And, no doubt, at the idea of furthering their acquaintance with him.
“Since we are family, Lady Helen,” he said, “I would be delighted to call tomorrow. As would Mr Brummell.”
The aunt could not refuse a morning call from Beau Brummell.
George rose gallantly to the call to arms. “Yes, a pleasure, madam. Until tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow,” Lady Pennworth said faintly.
They withdrew, their different notorieties easing their side-by-side passage through the crowd.
“Really, William,” George said, pained, “a call tomorrow? I had planned a visit to Hoby’s for a new pair of boots.”
“Lady Helen wants her miniature back.” He opened his hand.
George’s mouth pursed. “Is that what I think it is?”
Carlston nodded, closing his hand around the portrait again.
“Does it mean she has her mother’s talent?”
Carlston heard the hope in his friend’s voice. “Maybe.” He looked back at Lady Helen as he slid the tiny gold frame into his waistcoat pocket, alongside his watch. Through the undulating stands of ostrich plumes, the girl was watching him, her strong jaw mutinous. She held the fan clenched in her hand, and it was clear she wanted to club him around with the head with it. “I will know more after tomorrow’s visit. That is, if you can divert the aunt and give me a moment alone with the chit.”
George nodded. “Consider it done.” He tilted his head at Solanski, freed from Lady Conyngham and heading towards them with purpose writ on his face. “It seems you are his target, not Lady Helen. What do we do?”
Solanski’s behaviour was baffling. If he was intent on assassination, he was possibly the worst assassin in the world. No, he must have some other goal.
A terrible thought took shape as he glanced around the State Room. So many diplomat guests: the American chargé d’affaires with a wondering smile upon his face, the more jaded Spanish and Turkish ambassadors conversing with their Sardinian and Neapolitan counterparts. And those were just the ones he recognised. The Queen’s Drawing Room had brought the world to St James’s Palace. Was suicide Solanski’s plan? Did he intend to display himself in the energy light show that was a Deceiver’s death and destroy his brethren’s hidden existence?
Carlston flexed his wrist at his side, sliding the knife back into his grip.
No, there would be no benefit. For all their lack of cooperation with each other, the Deceivers shared an ultimate goal: to survive like every other creature in existence. If Solanski brought them to the notice of the world, they would be slaughtered in the hysteria, along with countless humans.
For a moment, Carlston was reassured. A short-lived comfort; there was still no good reason for Solanski seeking him out.
“We will improvise,” he said.
“Excellent,” George said dryly. “I had forgotten how thrilling it is to be around you.” He lifted his quizzing glass and watched the approach of the Deceiver.
“Lord Carlston,” Solanski said, bowing with a militarist snap of his heels. “What a delight it is to meet you again. Please forgive me for bringing business to such a grand occasion, but I have some information for you that is to your advantage.”
Carlston met the steady gaze, his heightened senses feeling the prickle of energy from the man’s overcharged body. He had, of course, never been introduced to Solanski and could rapidly escalate the situation by refusing to accept the claimed association. Yet the possibility of information stopped him. Deceivers were not in the habit of contacting their enemy.
He bowed slightly and said, “Count Solanski, a pleasure to meet you again.”
The man’s eyes flickered with relief.
“May I present Mr Brummell,” Carlston added.
The two men bowed to one another.
Carlston fingered the smooth wooden handle of the knife still in his hand. “What is this information?”
“It is to be heard only by you, my lord. Perhaps we could step someplace that affords more privacy?”
George shifted uneasily. He was right, of course – it was an invitation to a trap. But it would get Solanski out of the crowded State Room into a more manageable space. Especially since the Prince Regent was due to make an appearance.
“You will want to hear what I have to say,” Solanski added.
Carlston had to admit he was curious. “Do you know the whereabouts of the Chapel Royal
?”
“Yes.”
“I will meet you inside.”
The chapel was at the west side of the great gate and would be relatively deserted on such a secular day. It was also full of wood and stone. Insulators.
With a bow, Solanski withdrew and started to thread his way towards the centre of the three doorways that led to the Grand Staircase. It seemed he did not want witnesses either.
“William, do you think this is wise?” George said, lowering his voice.
“Wise? When has any of this been wise?”
George frowned. “I will go with you.”
Carlston briefly gripped his friend’s shoulder, heartened by the offer. It felt good to have the resources of the Dark Days Club behind him again. Nevertheless, violence was not George’s natural habitat.
“No. I trust you to stay here and make sure that events do not cause any,” he paused, taking in the beau monde around them, “unwanted revelations. I will collect Quinn on my way through.”
He waited for George’s reluctant nod, then walked into the tight pack of people. Heavy hooped skirts were pulled back and men stepped away, opening up a pathway before him. There were some benefits to being a pariah.
Even with infamy easing his progress, it took some time to make his way down the Grand Staircase. It had become a solid block of gawking onlookers, guests caught in the jam leading into the State Rooms, and Yeomen of the Guard attempting to keep order. Solanski must have made excellent headway or taken a different route, for Carlston did not see him on the steps or in the passage that led to the grounds.
Outside, on the palace’s front portico, Carlston took out his touch watch and flicked it open. The blue enamelled case was edged with alternating diamonds and pearls that stood for the hours and half hours, and set in the centre was a diamond arrow affixed to the workings inside. In the dark, he could read the time by feeling the position of the arrow in relation to the circle of gems. A side button opened the enamelled cover to reveal a normal fob watch for daytime use. But Carlston was not opening the watch to check the time. He pressed a tiny hidden catch at the bottom of the face, twisting it left, then right. The frame of the watch swung out on an axis to allow three gold-mounted prisms to rise from under the workings: two of solid glass and one of Iceland spar. He fitted them together – the spar in the centre – and locked them into place. Newton’s famous Light Prisms reworked into a Reclaimer glass.
Lusus Naturae: A Dark Days Club Novella Page 2