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.
‘You said you had a message from Andrew?’
‘Helen, please.’ He was claiming the lover’s right to use her first name, and she could not find it within herself to admonish him. ‘Am I to have no reason then? No understanding of why you have changed your mind?’
She gave a slight shake of her head — unfair, but necessary — and saw his hand tighten around the edge of the case.
Three heartbeats of awkward silence; she could not take her eyes from his long slim fingers pressed hard against the glass.
‘Your brother comes to Brighton as my guest on the thirteenth,’ he finally said. ‘He has asked me to inform you that he will call upon you at the first opportunity.’
‘He is coming here?’ The last thing she needed.
‘He wishes to ensure that you are happy and safe. He says he cannot be easy when you are with people so closely associated with Lord Carlston.’
She looked up. That was not only Andrew’s concern speaking. ‘What makes him think they are closely associated?’
‘He is not a fool, Helen. Carlston is known to be here too. Your brother, like yourself, is suspicious of coincidences.’
‘Most of London society comes to Brighton for the summer, Your Grace. There is nothing extraordinary about my friends and Lord Carlston being in the same town.’
Across the room, those friends were now valiantly trying to extricate themselves from Lady Dunwick’s loud opinions on literature. Helen caught Lady Margaret’s eye, sending a clear plea for help.
‘That may be so,’ His Grace said. ‘But it has been noted in town that he has visited your address a number of times.’
Was he repeating gossip? Or was he having the house watched, like the library?
‘There is no mystery to that. Lord Carlston is related to my family. Naturally he would visit.’
‘Yet, as I understand it from your brother, that connection between Carlston and your family is no longer welcome.’ His shrewd gaze searched her face. ‘Particularly after your ball.’
What had Andrew told him?
She saw him note the flicker of her eyelids, the catch in her breath. She had to end this interview. Now.
‘Then you understand more than I do, Your Grace,’ she said, her tone as clipped as she could manage. ‘I am honoured by your attentions, but I have released you from your obligation. You have no need to concern yourself with my welfare.’
He leaned closer. ‘You may have released me, Helen, but I have not released you. Not in my heart.’ His voice held a new implacability. ‘I am not a man to give up, and I have your family’s blessing for our union. Do not think I will sit by and watch that man draw you into his corruption. He has already stolen one future from me. He will not take another.’
He made a graceful bow and strode to the door. She watched him pause outside and draw a deep breath, as if to collect himself, then he crossed the street towards Raggett’s Club again.
What did he mean, stolen one future?
Of course: he had courted poor Lady Elise and lost her to Lord Carlston.
Helen took her own steadying breath, and glanced around the library. Holy heaven, every eye in the room was fixed upon her, only now sliding away from her affronted stare. This was not quite the unobtrusive visit to town that Lord Carlston had envisioned.
Chapter Three
Helen quickened her pace up the hill of Marine Parade, her speed fuelled as much by agitation as the need to get away from Lady Margaret’s accusing tone.
‘I do not understand why you allowed private conversation with the Duke, Lady Helen. You should have made your curtsey and moved away.’
‘He contrived the meeting,’ Helen snapped over her shoulder, the sea breeze whipping at the end of each word. She glanced at Mr Hammond, who, as ever, walked at his sister’s side. At least his face held understanding and some sympathy. ‘If I had refused to speak to him on this occasion, he would have just arranged another.’
How many times did she need to say it? She caught a moment of Lady Margaret’s sucked-lemon mouth then turned back to her march. They underestimated the Duke: he was a man of resolution, and now he had declared he would not give up his pursuit of her under any circumstance. Helen held no delusion that it was her charms that made him so determined; she was not one of those fascinating females who could crook a finger and bring a man to her side. No, it was his hatred of Lord Carlston and their shared history with Lady Elise that had brought the Duke to Brighton. A most worrisome situation. By all reports, the Duke had not come out well from his last physical confrontation with Lord Carlston. Selburn had threatened to flog his lordship and had his own horsewhip turned upon him. Would he be so foolish as to challenge the Earl again? Perhaps Andrew was encouraging him to do so; her brother had made it very clear that he did not want her to associate with Lord Carlston. She stifled a groan. Andrew’s imminent presence in Brighton was going to complicate matters a hundredfold.
Mr Hammond drew up by her side, his breathing laboured. ‘Slow down, Lady Helen. You are moving like a Reclaimer.’
It was true; her body had angled forward ready for the uncanny speed of her calling. She eased back to a more sedate pace.
‘Margaret is not blaming you,’ he said, matching her slower stride. ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later.’
Must he always smooth the edges of his sister’s tongue?
Helen rounded on him. ‘You both knew the Duke was here in town. I saw it in your faces. Why did you not tell me?’
Mr Hammond shrugged. ‘His lordship did not want you distracted from your training.’
‘Does he think me so weak-willed that just the presence of the Duke would pull me from my purpose? Surely even he would not be so insulting.’ Her vehemence caused her to accelerate again. With gritted teeth, she steadied her pace and forced moderation into her tone. ‘No, he did not tell me because it is a habit with him to keep his own counsel.’
‘You do not know his lordship well enough to make such comment upon his character,’ Lady Margaret said, catching up to them. ‘Besides, why should you expect him to tell you anything? You have been with us for little more than a month. We have been with him for five years.’
‘He was in exile for three of those years, Margaret,’ Mr Hammond said.
‘That may be so, but my point is that he does not tell us — his aides — everything, and we have proved our loyalty. Lord Carlston always has good reason for what he does. Everything is planned. He understands the whole canvas, whereas we see only a small corner of it.’
‘Perhaps we would see more,’ Helen said, ‘if he were not always standing in front of the canvas and obscuring whatever part of it he does not wish us to … or that we should be …’ She broke off: the metaphor was in danger of imminent collapse. ‘All I am saying is that he keeps from me — and undoubtedly you as well — information that is important.’ She turned to Mr Hammond. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘Of course not,’ Lady Margaret said.
‘I think Lady Helen has a point,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘His lordship has always had an inclination to secrecy, and since his return from exile it is worse. He has been by himself far too long and has been reclaiming too many offspring souls.’
His sister gave him a long stare. ‘Is that so, Michael?’
‘It is what Quinn says,’ Mr Hammond said, returning her stare.
They had reached German Place. In heavy silence, they walked along the narrow pavement to Number 20, the townhouse that Mr Hammond had rented on his sister’s behalf. Although not situated on Marine Parade itself, the five-storey dwelling was close enough to that fashionable address to be beyond reproach, and was furnished, according to Lady Margaret, in an entirely adequate style.<
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The front door opened as they climbed the steps. Garner stood at the threshold, ready to take parasols and hats as they entered. The butler’s bony face was, as ever, set in the dour lines of the upper servant, but Helen saw a slight tightening around his watchful eyes.
‘Is something wrong, Garner?’ she asked, untying her bonnet.
Before he could answer, a bustle from the basement stairwell heralded the arrival of Darby, Helen’s maid, and Tulloch, Lady Margaret’s maid. It was a narrow hall, and by all rights the more senior Tulloch should have had right of passage, but Darby’s quick energy and broad shoulders edged her past the smaller woman. She entered the already crowded vestibule with her fair skin flushed in triumph and curtseyed to Helen before taking the bonnet from her hands. Tulloch stalked up a moment later and retrieved Lady Margaret’s reticule.
Garner regarded both maids for a steely moment, then directed his answer to his mistress. ‘Mr Pike and another gentleman are in the drawing room, my lady. Mr Pike insisted upon waiting for Mr Hammond and Lady Helen to return.’
Lady Margaret paused in unclasping her spencer. ‘Pike? Here?’ She turned to her brother, but he was already making his way up the stairs to the drawing room.
‘I shall see what this is about,’ he said.
‘Mr Pike was most insistent upon seeing you and Lady Helen together, sir,’ Garner told Mr Hammond, then turned back to his mistress. ‘I am afraid, my lady, that he made it clear you were not to be present.’
‘I see,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘Did you hear that, Michael?’
Mr Hammond stopped on the first landing and peered up through the balustrade as if he could divine the Second Secretary’s purpose through the walls. ‘Most irregular.’
‘I shall be in the morning room then,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘You will come to me straight after?’
‘Of course,’ Mr Hammond said.
Lady Margaret stalked away to the morning room, her maid trailing behind. Mr Pike had a great deal of presumption to exclude Lady Margaret in her own home, Helen thought. He clearly had more power than she had imagined. She placed her reticule on the hall table and peeled off her gloves, passing them to Darby.
‘Did you see them come in?’ she asked softly.
Darby nodded. ‘I think the other man is a Reclaimer,’ she murmured. ‘He moves like you.’
Helen looked up from unbuttoning her pelisse. That was unexpected. Another of her kind, upstairs.
‘He follows Mr Pike’s orders,’ Darby added, ‘but I don’t think he likes him.’
Helen nodded. Her maid had good instincts about people: a useful asset in a Terrene-to-be. She shrugged off her pelisse into Darby’s waiting hands, using the close quarters to whisper, ‘Has the messenger to Miss Cransdon returned?’
‘No, my lady.’
He was not yet overdue, but Helen could not shake her sense of unease. ‘Find me when he does. I wish to speak to him.’
‘Even if he comes while you’re …?’ Darby glanced upstairs.
Helen recalled Mr Pike’s manner. ‘No. Wait until I am free.’
She passed Darby her reticule — a tap on the beaded silk alerting her maid to its precious contents — then climbed the staircase to join Mr Hammond on the first landing.
‘It would seem Mr Pike was waiting for his lordship’s absence,’ she said, leading the way up the remaining steps.
‘Yes, a rather troubling thought,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘Still, we must remember that Pike is on the same side as us.’
‘Not the enemy, you mean?’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
Their arrival on the first floor brought Geoffrey and Bernard, the two footmen standing on either side of the drawing room door, into stiff-backed attention. Helen knew that Geoffrey and the senior servants were members of the Dark Days Club, but now she realised that all of Lady Margaret’s staff, down to the lowliest kitchen maid, must be involved with the secret society in some way. How else would the strange goings-on in the house — her training, for instance, or the arrival of the Second Secretary — stay within its walls?
She considered the closed door. What did her training tell her about this situation? It was obvious that Mr Pike was a dubious ally, and therefore, by association, so was the other Reclaimer. She would count them as possible adversaries and follow his lordship’s advice: approach with extreme care, but also calm confidence.
Helen inclined her head and the two footmen opened the double doors.
‘Mr Pike, I understand that you wish to see us,’ she said as she entered the drawing room.
The Second Secretary stood at the window looking down at the street. He held a small cloth-wrapped parcel in one hand and two letters — official-looking packets — in the other.
The Reclaimer stood next to him: a blond, curly-headed man of about thirty-five, tall and thin like all of their kind. According to Lord Carlston, such lean dimensions allowed captured Deceiver energy to move through a Reclaimer’s body into the earth with greater ease. If that were the case, Helen thought, such energy would fly through the long bones of this man. Underneath the room’s ambient fragrance of wax candles, wood polish and charcoal from the hearth, she smelled his scent: a mix of hay and horse and soap. Not wholly unpleasant. He wore a dark blue jacket of fair quality, with buckskins and boots that looked more a practical choice than one of fashion. A country gentleman then, of modest means.
He watched her with blatant curiosity, sizing up the oddity of a female Reclaimer and a direct inheritor. Helen was not entirely sure she was passing his inspection. For all of that, she had to admit she rather liked his face. The whole could not be called handsome — his nose was too sharp and his chin too wide — but his hazel eyes held a steady intelligence, and a rather small mouth was made more amenable by a resting expression of humour.
He glanced at Pike, but the Second Secretary continued to study the view from the window. ‘It would seem I must introduce myself, Lady Helen,’ the Reclaimer said, bowing. His voice held a soft lilt: Cambridgeshire perhaps, or somewhere further northeast. ‘I am George Stokes, Reclaimer. But I think you already knew that.’
She returned his smile, surprised by the sudden sense of camaraderie. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Stokes.’
No bow from Pike. Not even an acknowledgment of her arrival. She knew this game: her uncle used to ignore people when they entered a room too. A way to assert his authority.
She crossed to the damask armchair set opposite its matching sofa, and noted a portable mahogany writing box on the low marble table, with trimmed pen, inkwell and sand pot laid out. Mr Pike had come prepared, but for what?
‘Geoffrey,’ she said over her shoulder to the footman. ‘Tea, please.’
‘No,’ Pike said. ‘No tea. I do not want any interruptions.’
Helen paused in taking her seat. The man was a boor. ‘As you wish. No tea, Geoffrey. You may go.’
The footman bowed and withdrew, closing the door. At the corner of her eye, Helen saw Mr Hammond take up a position beside her chair — an unmistakable declaration. The lines were drawn.
‘Gentlemen, would you care to sit?’
Finally Pike turned. ‘This is not a social call, Lady Helen.’
‘I think we have ascertained that, Mr Pike. Does your business preclude you from sitting?’
The wintry smile appeared. ‘Not at all.’
He walked to the sofa and sat, placing the parcel and letters next to the writing slant on the table between them. Helen glimpsed the wax fastening on one of the packets. A Royal seal. She had seen one before, on the letter from her long-dead mother that the Queen had held and delivered — Helen counted back to the Sunday when Sir Desmond had placed the letter in her hands — forty-seven days ago. Forty-seven days since her world had been torn apart. Yet the pain still felt as sharp as if it had arrived yesterday.
Mr Stokes remained standing. He had the same ready quality as Lord Carlston, although not quite as much presenc
e.
‘Lady Helen, I am here to swear you in to the Dark Days Club,’ Pike announced. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you have not yet taken your oath?’
‘No, not yet. But Lord Carlston —’
‘It is well overdue. We will do it now.’
‘But his lordship is not here,’ Mr Hammond said, finishing Helen’s protest.
She nodded. It did not seem right to take the oath without him.
‘Lord Carlston does not need to be present,’ Pike said. ‘All that is needed are three members of the Dark Days Club to stand witness. Myself, Stokes here,’ he nodded at the Reclaimer who politely bowed again, ‘and you, Mr Hammond. I presume you will do so?’
‘Of course, but —’
‘Then let us begin.’
Pike held Mr Hammond’s gaze in some kind of challenge or warning — it was not clear to Helen which — but it silenced the younger man. Pike picked up the cloth parcel and unwrapped it, bringing out a Bible with a cross tooled into its worn red leather cover.
‘This was Mr Henry Fielding’s. When he founded the Dark Days Club, he used it to swear in the first Reclaimer, and now it has become somewhat of a tradition to use it for all Reclaimers.’
Mr Stokes nodded, confirming that his own oath had been sanctified upon it.
‘I have no objection, however, if you would prefer to use your own Bible,’ Pike added.
‘Mr Fielding’s?’ Helen took the holy book Pike held out to her and cradled it in both hands. Perhaps the famous author and magistrate had held it in exactly the same manner; her fingers could be resting where his had lain too. ‘I will be glad to swear upon it.’
Pike fastidiously folded the cloth into three and placed it back on the table. ‘Before you do so, it is my duty to inquire if you have any questions or are unsure of what you are undertaking. I assume you have been given a copy of the oath and the regulations?’
‘Yes, I have.’
A week ago, Lord Carlston had supplied the documents to both her and Darby along with the instruction to think carefully upon them. A solicitor had obviously written the regulations for they were unnecessarily long and almost impenetrable, but Helen had managed to skim through most of them. The oath, on the other hand, was barely a page long and she had quickly realised that beneath the elegant language was a solemn pledge to kill. A troubling discovery that had led to an even more troubling question: did an oath written by men override one of God’s own sacred laws, Thou shalt not kill?
Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact Page 4