Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘I will not leave you to Pike’s machinations,’ Carlston said. ‘He refuses to see the importance of you, and he does not understand what is coming towards us.’

  She closed her eyes. He would never allow her to put herself in such danger, especially not at Pike’s order. Moreover, she knew he would do everything in his power to stop her from bonding with Lowry, even if it was at cost to himself. Yet she had the best chance of obtaining the journal; she had what Lowry wanted. She could not tell Carlston and risk him ruining the plan. Not like last time.

  ‘I will not leave, Helen.’

  She opened her eyes. She knew that fervent tone in his voice: he was already losing control. They were standing far too close to each other; her point would soon be proved.

  ‘And I do not want you to leave,’ he continued. ‘Even if this test proves your theory, you must not go. It is a foolhardy plan, especially without the support of aides or a Terrene.’

  I will have a Terrene soon enough, she thought grimly. ‘The Duke wishes to be my aide.’

  Carlston pressed his fingertips hard into his forehead. ‘Dear God, do not make him your aide.’

  ‘Why? Because you hate him?’

  ‘That is not the reason.’ He dropped his hand away from his brow. ‘He is not the man to help you become what you need to be, Helen. He cannot see past the fact that you are a woman. All he wants to do is protect you.’

  ‘What is wrong with that? Surely it is the role of an aide.’

  ‘Helen, you are the protector. That is your sworn duty and birthright. Do you really think Selburn will obey your orders? Can you see him standing aside so that you may lead in the way that you must?’

  He had a point. The Duke had tried to pursue Philip, and he had taken charge of their escape after the laneway battle. Even so, she had to go somewhere, and he had her interests at heart.

  ‘It is my right to choose my own aides.’ She hesitated; he must let her go and she must use whatever means possible to make it happen. ‘But that is not the real reason, is it? This is about Lady Elise. You and he are playing out your battle again. You cannot bear to think that he will win this time.’

  ‘It is not about Elise. It is about you.’ He averted his face, strong jaw and cheekbone angled as if he had just been hit. Or was maybe preparing to be hit. ‘Is he going to win?’

  ‘He has offered to help me, and right now I need his help.’

  ‘Is it just his help, or are you going because you wish to be with him?’ He leaned closer, face fierce. ‘Do you love him? Is that it?’

  ‘You, of all people, have no right to ask me that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I ask it anyway. Do you love him?’

  ‘Love him?’ Helen’s voice rose. ‘Apparently I am not allowed to love in this godforsaken world!’

  ‘Apparently neither am I,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Yet …’

  Yet what? His face, his body, were so close. So dangerously close.

  ‘Stay,’ he breathed.

  She shook her head.

  He stepped away, the sudden distance between them full of pain.

  ‘Quinn!’ he snapped.

  ‘My lord, this is a bad idea all round,’ Quinn said gruffly as he joined them in the centre of the room. ‘I think her ladyship is right about the energy.’

  ‘I did not ask for your opinion,’ Carlston said. He held his arms out. ‘Make sure I cannot move.’

  Quinn stepped behind him and hooked his arms over Carlston’s, pulling his master’s arms back and securing them in a lock hold. Carlston rocked forward, testing his man’s grasp.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Lady Helen?’

  She stepped forward. Now she could touch him, and it tore at her heart.

  ‘Do it,’ he ordered.

  Behind him, Quinn braced.

  Helen lifted her fingers to Carlston’s face. His dark eyes followed her hand as it reached towards his cheek. Her throat ached, choked with unsaid words. She cupped his jaw, his breath warm against her fingers. Slowly, he turned into the curve of her palm, cut lip pressed against her skin. She heard two whispered words, felt them kissed into her flesh: amore mio. My love. Two words: the shock of them held her still.

  He looked up at her and she saw the longing in his eyes harden into savage madness. With a sob she pulled her hand back, closing it into a fist.

  Helen wrenched at the salon door handles, the blood on her hands making her grip slide off the metal. Locked; Quinn had locked them. She turned the key, her hand shaking, then twisted the bloodied handles again, finally stumbling out onto the landing. She had to get away from what she had done.

  ‘Lady Helen!’

  Mr Hammond, standing at the top of the stairs. She could barely see him through the blur of tears. She tried to take another step, but her legs buckled. She sank to her knees and felt his strong hands catch her forearms before she fell forward.

  ‘My God, your knuckles,’ he said, on his own knees and bracing her against his chest. ‘They are split open.’ He shifted to look over her shoulder into the salon, and she felt his slim body stiffen. ‘Sweet heaven.’

  ‘I had to keep hitting,’ she gasped. ‘Quinn could hardly hold him. His eyes, they were …’ She shook her head; could not stop shaking it. ‘He called me his love. I hit him. Over and over, Hammond. I hurt him so much. I cannot be this thing they want me to be.’

  ‘Lady Helen!’ He caught her jaw in his hand and held her head still, his stricken blue eyes fixed upon her own. How could he bear to look at her? She was a monster. ‘Stop it!’ he said. ‘You did what you had to do.’

  ‘He said I was his love. Amore mio.’

  ‘Did he?’ Hammond gave an odd pained laugh. ‘Well, that is not such a surprise. Your destiny is bound with his; it is plain to see. Do not torment yourself. He knows you are trying to help him.’ He pulled her upright, his tight grip steadying her on her feet. ‘You are the only one who can help him.’

  She drew a shivering breath. And another. Mr Hammond was right. She had the way to help him: Lowry and the journal. She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, pressing away the image of Carlston’s bleeding, battered face, forcing out the sensation of her knuckles slamming against his flesh and bone.

  ‘Stokes told me Pike has sent a dispatch to Lord Sidmouth for a warrant,’ she said, dropping her hands. She saw the significance register on Hammond’s face: the flash of fear. ‘We only have five days at the most — until Saturday — before the decision is made and the government messenger arrives. I am going to bond with Lowry and get the journal on Friday.’ She paused; please, God, let it be Friday. ‘But if something goes wrong, you need to be ready to get Carlston out of England. He will not go willingly; he has said as much. You will have to make him.’

  Hammond nodded. ‘Pike won’t give you those pages for the Comte.’ It was more question than statement.

  Helen knew he was right. She had tried to bargain for them. Plead for them. But Pike did not want Carlston cured.

  ‘I know. I am going to take them,’ she said.

  ‘You know what he will do to you. To us!’

  ‘I no longer care. Do you?’

  He squared his shoulders. ‘No. Pike and his blackmail can go to the devil.’

  ‘I will leave with the Duke now. Do not speak about Lowry to anyone. This is the last chance, Hammond. Nothing can go wrong.’

  ‘I understand.’ He gripped her shoulder, the trust within his eyes almost breaking her barely held control. ‘Good luck.’

  The interior of the Duke’s town carriage was upholstered in pale blue silk woven with the Selburn coat of arms across the backs of the two bench seats. Helen stared at the dark arc of her blood smeared over the lion passant.

  ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace, I have ruined your seat,’ she said, cradling her bleeding hand. Every time she stretched her fingers, the wounds split open again.

  ‘Do not concern yourself about the seat,’ Selburn said.

  He rapped the silver cap
of his cane against the blue silk wall behind him. The coach immediately lurched into motion.

  Helen could not help but look back at the townhouse as they pulled away. A face appeared at the morning room window. Darby, her eyes swollen and red. Helen drew a ragged breath, the sob within it making the Duke reach across the footwell and take her hand in his own.

  ‘Does it pain you?’ he asked, inspecting the injury with a frown. ‘You should not have to bear this.’

  ‘It will heal in a day or so.’ At least her hand would, she thought. ‘Thank you, for …’ She gestured to the carriage with her other hand. ‘All this.’

  ‘I think you know that I would do a lot more for you.’

  She withdrew her hand and smiled; somewhat watery and forced, but at least it showed him her gratitude.

  The Duke stared out of the carriage window for a moment, his finger tapping the cane’s silver cap. Then he sat forward, his long face set into ardent lines.

  ‘You must forgive me for raising this subject now, my dear — I do not wish to seem inopportune — but I feel I must say that none of this has changed my feelings towards you. My proposal still stands. Even more so now that I know the truth. If we were to wed, Helen, I could be of great help to you. You would have the protection of my name and rank, and I could perhaps even take on this role of Terrene. It would make me so much easier if I could be sure that you were safe. Not only that, you would be reunited with your family. They would embrace our marriage —’

  ‘Your Grace, please stop.’ It was plain that he had only her interests at heart, but she could not listen to his avowal. Not now.

  ‘I understand, this is not the time. Forgive me. It is my concern for you speaking. When you are ready we can discuss it.’

  Beyond the curtained window, dark clouds had bleached the blue sea into a dull grey. The bathing boxes were all back on the beach and lined up well beyond the tide line, ponies and attendants gone. A storm must be on the way, Helen thought.

  ‘You are well out of there,’ the Duke said, drawing her attention back to his sympathetic face. ‘You will see how easy it will be for you in my house. Everything will be as you wish it. You will be safe.’

  Safe? Helen smiled again. He was so kind. And so very, very wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  TUESDAY, 21 JULY 1812

  The Duke of Selburn’s butler entered the candle-lit dining room with the silent tread of the well-trained servant and waited stolidly for his master to finish speaking to his young guest.

  ‘That may be, but I do not see how he can expect you to take on so much in such a short time,’ the Duke said, answering Helen’s defence of Carlston’s training regime. He cracked open a walnut in his long hand and picked out the meat. ‘How long did it take him to learn these things himself? He would surely have studied fencing from childhood. As I did. He cannot expect you to master it in a month.’ He noticed his servant. ‘What is it, Fairwood?’

  ‘There is a woman to see Mr Amberley, Your Grace.’ The butler’s intonation indicated the dubiousness of the visitor.

  Helen looked up sharply from peeling a peach. ‘Woman?’

  The Duke glanced at the gold clock on the mantel. ‘It is past ten,’ he protested. ‘Has she given a name?’

  ‘No, Your Grace. She says she is known to Mr Amberley.’

  Helen straightened in her chair. It must be Kate Holt, finally bringing word from her brother. But was it a yes or a no? On one hand, she desperately wanted Lowry to agree to the deal; on the other, the idea of bonding with him — in mind as well as power — brought a fear that had made her retch into the silver gilt washbasin the night before.

  The idea of killing the man had, of course, occurred to her, the savage desire bringing its own wave of sickness. It was hard enough to live with what she had done to Carlston. To kill a man in cold blood was a step that could never be reconciled with her conscience. It would bring its own black mark upon her soul, born not from the Deceivers, but from the dark recesses of the human heart. Besides, Lowry still had Terrene strength and far more experience with violence than she did. If she attacked him, it was more than possible that she would end up at his mercy. A situation she most fervently wanted to avoid.

  Nevertheless, she had dressed that morning with her glass knife down the side of one boot, and a small dagger down the side of the other, both scabbards well waxed. They were now part of her toilette.

  ‘Thank you, Fairwood,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘I shall come directly.’

  ‘Good Lord, you must not go to her,’ the Duke said. ‘She must come to you.’ He addressed his butler. ‘Mr Amberley will receive his visitor in the library.’

  It was his house, of course, and his right to arrange such things. The last night and day had been full of numb misery — reliving those terrible, violent minutes in the salon; seeing over and over again the betrayal in Darby’s eyes — and she had to admit that it had been rather comforting to have her well-being so masterfully managed. Even so, Carlston’s warning echoed softly in her ear. The Duke was indeed used to command.

  The thought of Carlston brought an ache into her throat. Amore mio. She closed her hand around the words he had pressed into her skin. Precious words, but he was not free to make such a declaration. It must have been the madness speaking. In his right mind, he would never have abandoned his oath or his vow to his missing wife. Although the words felt like the truth in her heart, she could not accept them. For her own sanity.

  ‘Is this whom you have been waiting for?’ the Duke asked.

  She had not said she had been waiting at all; the man was too astute.

  ‘An informer,’ she said.

  ‘Ah.’ He let the remains of the walnut drop onto his plate in a tiny clatter of crushed shell. ‘Allow me to accompany you.’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Helen said quickly. ‘She will not talk with a man present.’

  He sat back. ‘As you wish.’

  He was not happy, but then he would be even less happy if he knew that she intended to bond with a man like Lowry.

  The Duke’s library smelled of leather, beeswax and that peculiarly calming scent of ink and paper. Three walls were lined with books: a fortune’s worth of knowledge. The fourth wall was reserved for a magnificent view of the Steine through two large sash windows. Helen stood by the elegant writing desk, the top inlaid with the Selburn arms in satinwood, and watched the night activity that swirled around the town green under the light of the bright gibbous moon. Fashionables taking the air along the lamplit paths; groups of men heading towards the Old Town; and a procession of carriages on their way to evening entertainments, the grind of wheels and clack of hooves barely audible through the solid stone front of the house.

  A knock on the door turned her from the view.

  ‘Enter,’ she said.

  Fairwood opened the door and announced, ‘Your visitor, sir.’

  Kate Holt swept past him into the room, her small eyes darting over its rich appointments. Helen could almost see her mind calculating the prices of the large blue and white Chinoiserie vases, the vibrant Aubusson carpet, and the inkwell set upon the desk that caught the candlelight in a flash of gold and glass.

  The bawd had clearly chosen her best ensemble for the interview: a red and blue striped pelisse atop a mustard gown adorned at the hem with garish red bows. A smart chip hat sat atop her thick black hair, the ribands tied loosely under her cleft chin.

  ‘You can go now,’ she said to the butler. ‘This gent and I want to be alone.’

  Fairwood eyed her for a long, chilly moment, then turned to Helen. ‘Do you wish for anything further, sir?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  He bowed and closed the doors.

  ‘Well now,’ Kate Holt said, ‘this is all very grand.’ She walked over to one of the vases and tapped it, the porcelain ringing its pure tone. ‘I’ve come with word from my brother.’

  Helen clasped her hands behind her back and dug her thumb
nail into her palm. She must not show her eagerness.

  ‘Does he agree?’ she asked, keeping her voice measured.

  ‘He does.’

  Helen drew a deep breath, easing her thumbnail from her skin. The journal was in sight.

  ‘But not on the twenty-fourth like you said,’ Kate added.

  ‘But that is when he wanted to meet.’ It could not be later: Stokes had said five days. Only five days. ‘What night then?’

  ‘It seems to me that this information is worth something to you,’ Kate said, folding her arms under the bulk of her bosom.

  ‘Are you asking for money?’ The last two days of anguish boiled up within her, a bright fury taking hold. She stepped forward. ‘You stupid woman. You saw what I did to your man. Do you think I would not do the same to you in a second?’

  It was no empty threat. Helen felt ready to throw the woman across the room. To tear the message from her body.

  Kate backed away, all bravado gone. ‘You got me wrong. I don’t want no money. Bartholomew says you’re special. That you got more power than any of the others. I want you to help my boy, Lester. Mr Benchley — the other one like you — said he couldn’t be saved, but maybe you can do something.’

  God pity her, she was bargaining for her son’s sanity. Helen felt her fury collapse into a sudden image of Carlston’s eyes shifting into savagery. Wasn’t she doing the same: bargaining for a man’s mind?

  ‘I’ve seen your son,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he can be saved.’

  ‘You could try though, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Give me the message.’

  Kate chewed her lip. ‘He wants to do it tonight. You’re to come with me now, so he knows you ain’t planning anything like last time. He’s got everything that is needed for the ritual. He said for me to say, “Just bring your own sweet self, girly.”’