Chapter Thirty-Two
Almost a full hour later, the bodies of the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues and their assassin, Lawrence, were carried to the cool rooms of the White Hart to await the coroner. Mr Pike orchestrated the removal, ordering into service a number of local men who had gathered outside the house to watch the spectacle. As ever he was promptly obeyed, his air of authority creating some order within the murmuring shock of the day.
He and Helen stood watching from the doorway of the Comte’s house as the three bodies made their journey across the road, an interested group of shabbily clad children circling the procession.
‘What about Stokes?’ Helen asked.
‘I am dealing with that situation,’ Pike said.
Carlston was right: the man was a bureaucrat to the core and a shrewd survivor. They needed him as much as he needed them. Although it went against the grain, she had to put aside her dislike and distrust.
‘I watched the Comte die,’ he said. ‘It was a Mors Ultima. Strange, since I was sure he had living offspring.’
‘He does, the Comte Julien, but he did not want to destroy him,’ Helen said. ‘He told the truth about that, and about Carlston’s cure.’ She drew out the Comte’s fob from her pocket and inspected it again. The etching on it was of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and pleasure. Did that mean something? She held it up. ‘It would follow, then, that the Comte also told the truth about an informer in Bath.’
Pike glanced at the gold disc. ‘Looking at it over and over will not make it any more useful. There are more than forty thousand people in Bath and you only have a title, the Bath Deceiver.’
‘Even so, it is a start.’ She pushed the fob back into her pocket. ‘Would it not also follow that the Comte told the truth about the Grand Deceiver? Surely you must now admit it exists?’
The question brought a worrying thought. Where was Philip in all of this? He may have disappeared from view, but Helen had no doubt he was still working against them. Somewhere.
‘It would seem I must allow the possibility of the Grand Deceiver, now that we know what you and Lord Carlston are.’ Pike squinted at her, his bony face even more haggard than usual. ‘You are sure Lord Carlston is restored?’
‘I am certain. All the vestige darkness in him is gone.’ She paused. ‘He does not remember killing Stokes.’
‘That does not make him any less guilty.’
Helen heard a promise of retribution in his voice. She leaned closer, meeting his eyes with her own guarantee. ‘He and I are the Grand Reclaimer, Mr Pike. There has been nothing like us before in living memory. You would be a fool to do anything that would harm your greatest asset.’
He gave a dry smile. ‘Not to mention my wife’s sanity.’
Helen drew back. ‘I gave you my word on that. It will be done.’
He crossed his arms. ‘You should be more circumspect about giving your word, Lady Helen. You have no idea how this new power manifests or even what it involves.’ He shook his head. ‘It is hard to understand how you could absorb a written book.’
‘Do you need more proof?’
She had already told him three facts about himself — facts only Benchley could have known — that the whispers in her head had supplied. Along with the devastating news she had yet to tell Carlston.
‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘This development, however, must stay contained. No one else beyond Lord Carlston and Miss Darby must know. Do you agree?’
She glanced at him. Here was a turn-up: Pike asking for agreement not ordering obedience. ‘When Mr Quinn recovers, I suspect he will know through his Terrene bond.’
Pike nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. Mr Quinn too. But that is all. We must somehow work a way for you and Carlston to explore this new level of power between you.’
‘Yes.’
She glanced across at Lady Margaret’s carriage. Selburn stood beside it in conversation with Mr Hammond and Delia. She felt a fleeting moment of regret — more secrets — but she had vowed to keep the Duke and Delia safe, and this new situation was perhaps the most dangerous yet.
Pike followed her gaze. ‘His Grace apprised me of your unfortunate meeting with Lady Dunwick and her friends on the road. He tells me you are betrothed.’
‘He should not have done that. I have told him Reclaimers are not allowed to marry.’
‘As you noted, Lady Helen, there has been nothing like you before. And a man of his rank generally gets what he wants.’
Was Pike saying the Dark Days Club would not stand in the way? She looked back at the Duke: to have the regard of such a man was no small matter.
Across the road, the last of the corpse bearers entered the inn.
Pike turned to regard the huddle of servants waiting in the yard. ‘Now I must make sure the Comte’s household recollect the same series of events.’ He allowed his wintry smile to touch his lips. ‘Memory can be so unreliable.’ He took out his fob watch. ‘One of the tavern men went to fetch the local magistrate. He will arrive soon. It is time for all of you to leave. Will you be so kind as to pass the word?’
He waited for her nod, then gestured to Elizabeth, the maid. ‘Miss Ashton, is it not? Will you please come this way.’
Leaving him to his machinations, Helen crossed the road to the carriage. She could no longer ignore the whisper in her mind. Besides, Carlston would want to know the truth. He deserved the truth. She must put aside her own wretchedness and deliver it.
Selburn smiled cautiously as she approached. A large blue bruise had formed on his forehead, and more bruises marked out Carlston’s handspan around his throat. They had not yet spoken about the events in the attic. Helen was not sure she was quite ready to discuss with any kind of equilibrium his attempt to shoot Carlston. Particularly since he had twice promised to stand back from the battle.
‘Mr Pike wants us to leave,’ she said. ‘Do you know where his lordship has gone?’
‘By the river,’ Hammond said. ‘We are all set to go on to London and give Quinn some time to heal properly at Caroline Street. Will you travel with us?’
‘Yes, do so, Helen, please,’ Delia said, touching her arm in concern. ‘You look burned to the socket. You could sleep in the carriage.’
Selburn shifted, as if to refuse on her behalf, then caught her eye. She was tempted to say yes to Delia, but saw the impulse for what it was: childish punishment. In truth, Selburn had only acted according to his nature; he had made it clear all along that his aim was to protect her from harm. She had to remember that he had only joined the Dark Days Club little more than a day ago. She could not expect him to change a lifetime of command in a matter of hours.
‘I will drive with the Duke,’ she said, but she did not return Selburn’s smile. They would need to come to an understanding.
She stepped up onto the carriage steps and, hooking her hands around the open window frames, peered into the cabin’s interior. Mr Quinn had regained his senses and sat propped against Darby’s shoulder. Lady Margaret sat opposite, her forefinger tapping an anxious beat upon the worn leather seat.
‘I am glad to see you are recovering, Mr Quinn,’ Helen said.
‘Thank you, my lady.’ He sat close enough to the window for her to see the pallor of his skin and deep lines of pain carved from nose to mouth.
Beside him, Darby clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. She offered a smile, but her mouth had a new tightness around it and she had an air of bracing herself, as if the world had tipped and she was struggling to keep balance. It would take some time, Helen thought, before her maid — no, her Terrene — fully came to terms with what had happened in the attic. Indeed, it would take her quite some time too.
‘You are going to find his lordship?’ Lady Margaret asked.
Helen nodded. ‘He is by the river. I am going there now.’
‘He would not allow me to accompany him,’ Lady Margaret said. She crossed her arms, her finger taking up its beat against her ribs. ‘Are you sure he is recovered?’<
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‘Quite sure,’ Helen said.
She looked down at the ground, ready to withdraw, but was stopped by a hand around her wrist. Quinn, the urgency in his face excusing the liberty.
He leaned forward, wincing from the effort. ‘I haven’t seen him this rattled since Lady Elise.’
Helen gave a nod and he released his grip, settling back with a soft huff of pain.
She stepped back to the ground. The story of Lady Elise was not yet over. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sun’s warmth chase away a little of the chill that came from the news she carried.
‘Are you ready to leave?’ the Duke asked at her side.
She opened her eyes. ‘Not quite. Would you be so kind as to bring your curricle around to where we saw Lord Carlston’s gig? I will join you there.’
‘He has made it clear he does not want company.’
She let the comment pass. ‘Will you bring your horses around and wait for me?’
‘Of course.’ He bowed.
‘Thank you.’
She watched his retreat, then said, ‘Mr Hammond, will you walk with me?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘Allow me to come too,’ Delia said. ‘I would be glad of the exercise before the drive to London.’
‘No, Delia. Stay here.’
She turned from her friend’s disappointment. Lord Carlston did not need an audience for his pain.
The walk along the riverbank would have been pleasant if her thoughts had not been so dark. The morning had already taken up some warmth from the sun, and a number of barges and boats were navigating the wide expanse of water. Hammond clearly sensed her mood, for he did not try to make conversation. She took some comfort in his silent company and the rhythm of her long stride; no gown hem to be caught up and no thin-soled slippers that felt all stones and ruts.
Her stout hessian boots and buckskin breeches took her across the rough road and through the knee-length grass. Ahead, Carlston stood on the bank, arms wrapped around his body, watching the water slide past. His horses, still hitched to his curricle, cropped the grass nearby.
She stopped fifty feet or so from him, halting Mr Hammond with a hand on his arm. ‘I have something to tell Lord Carlston. Something that will distress him. He will need a friend after it is done, and I cannot be that friend. Not for this. When I leave, will you go to him?’
Hammond nodded. ‘Of course.’ He touched her shoulder. ‘But what about you? It is clear you are distressed too. Who will be your friend?’
She shook her head, feeling an absurd sting of tears at his never-failing kindness, and started across the grass.
She knew the moment when Carlston felt that she was near. The pulse between them quickened, and then his shoulders straightened. Even so, he did not turn, his attention seemingly fixed upon the grey-green water.
She walked up beside him. He glanced at her, dark eyes hooded, mouth lifting for a moment in a strained smile of welcome. The breeze ruffled his hair, showing the old scar on his temple and the remnants of the blood dried upon his forehead.
‘I liked George Stokes very much,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘A man of firm ideas and an extraordinary capacity for claret. I feel I should at least do him the courtesy of recalling the moment I killed him.’ His hands, tucked under the cross of his arms, clenched into fists. ‘I recollect nothing.’
‘It was the journal,’ Helen said. She wanted to reach across and take his hands. Uncurl his pain.
‘Apparently I tried to kill you too. Selburn told me.’
‘He is one to talk,’ Helen said. ‘He tried to kill you and shot Darby instead.’
It brought a small smile, as she had hoped it would. ‘Poor Darby. A baptism of fire. But she is coping, is she not?’
‘She will.’
‘And you? Are you feeling any effects from the Ligatus?’
He finally turned to face her, the soft concern in his voice echoed in his dark eyes. She had not anticipated the effect it would have on her, the rise of that pulse between them, the strength that seemed to build behind it. She saw his jaw shift. He felt it too.
She cleared her throat. ‘I do not know how I can hold such a heinous thing within me and not go mad, and yet I can.’ She tapped her fingertip on her forehead. ‘The Ligatus has receded from my conscious mind, but I know it is in there, every word that Benchley wrote, every soul he murdered, waiting for me to find a way to retrieve them. Just as I know —’ She stopped.
‘That I am in there,’ he finished. He touched his temple. ‘Just as you are in here, our energies combined into a Grand Reclaimer bond. So much strength waiting to be unlocked.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. The promise of it was breathtaking.
‘I cannot remember much of the last few days, Helen. When I try, there is only a dull sense of some immeasurable pain.’ He lifted his shoulders: an involuntary hunch. ‘I do, however, remember three precious moments: when you freed me from that shrieking black hell; when we bonded with all that power; and the salon, before you left. I remember what I said in the salon.’ He took her hand, his skin warm against her own, and pressed the curve of her fingers to his lips. ‘Amore mio. Do you remember? I meant it then, and I mean it —’
‘You must stop!’ She snatched her hand back. ‘Please. I know something about your wife. Something I have retained from the Ligatus. Benchley wrote about her in his journal.’
Carlston straightened, the tenderness wiped from his face. ‘About Elise?’
Helen swallowed. She had thought herself resigned, but she suddenly could not speak past the choking tears in her throat. She curled her hands, digging her fingernails into her palms, and focused upon the small pain. Best to say it fast.
‘According to Benchley, your wife was a spy working for Bonaparte. She realised she had been discovered, was facing imminent arrest, and so staged her own death and fled. She is, by all accounts, still alive and in France.’
‘Alive?’ He stepped back as if the word had been a slap.
‘Yes.’
He shook his head. ‘A spy for France?’
He stared across the river, dark brows angled into fierce concentration. Helen could almost see the devastating recalibration of every moment he had spent with Elise de Vraine.
Finally, he tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut. ‘Fool! How could I have been such a fool? So intent on Deceivers, I did not see the common spy in my own house. I wonder, did she want me suspected of her murder?’ He paced a few steps along the bank. ‘Still alive and in bloody France.’ He dragged his hands through his cropped hair. ‘No, it changes nothing.’ He whirled around to face her again. ‘Helen, it changes nothing.’
‘You are right,’ she said. He stepped forward, but she shook her head, stopping his eager advance. ‘Nothing has changed. You have always been married. It is just that now she is no longer a ghost.’
How it cost her to say it in such a measured way.
She looked over her shoulder at Hammond. He immediately started across the grass towards them. At the side of the road, she saw the Duke draw his curricle and four to a standstill.
Carlston lifted his head. ‘I truly thought Elise had been taken from this life, Helen.’
She nodded.
‘We cannot ignore this bond we have,’ he said.
Hammond was almost upon them.
‘No, we cannot ignore it,’ Helen said. ‘But it does not change the fact that you are married.’ She hesitated, knowing her next words were another solemn bond. ‘Or the fact that I am betrothed.’
She turned and walked across the grass towards the Duke, feeling Lord Carlston’s presence like a heartbeat within her own.
Epilogue
MORNING POST, FRIDAY, 24 JULY 1812
MARRIAGE IN THE HIGH LIFE
Our Windsor correspondent informs us that a matrimonial alliance is to take place between His Grace the Duke of Selburn and the Lady Helen Wrexhall, daughter of the
notorious Countess Hayden and niece of Viscount Pennworth. The ceremony will take place early in the New Year, and Lady Helen is to prepare for her nuptials in Bath with her chaperone, the interesting Lady Ridgewell. If our information be correct, Her Majesty has been formally notified of the intended union, and will condescend to grace the ceremony with her presence. The date of the nuptials has thus been determined by the Royal schedule.
Author’s Note
I researched Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact with as much fervour and delight as I did the first book in the series, Lady Helen and the Dark Days Club, and I possibly had even more fun.
In Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact I have once again mixed real 1812 world events with my own fiction, and a number of the characters are historical figures.
Martha Gunn was a real dipper in Brighton and, by all accounts, in 1812 she was still dipping at the grand old age of eighty-six. She is a fascinating figure; a celebrity within her own lifetime, and a favourite of the Prince Regent, who was so fond of her that he gave her lifetime access to the largesse of his Brighton Pavilion kitchens. She was called the Queen of the Dippers and many of her descendants still live in the Brighton area. I hope they enjoy and approve of my depiction of their marvellous ancestor.
The Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues are also historical figures, as is Lawrence, the Comte’s Italian valet. The Comte and Comtesse were really murdered by Lawrence on 22 July 1812, and Lawrence then committed suicide (or so it is reported). The Comte was a known spy who seems to have worked for nearly everybody, including the French royalists, the Spanish, the Russians and the English; in some cases, at the same time. His wife was a former Paris Opera star and, it would seem, a rather formidable woman. Together they fled France, survived arrest and interrogation by Napoleon, lived in Vienna and ended up in Barnes Terrace in England. Their murder is as mysterious today as it was in 1812. At the time, Lawrence’s actions and his subsequent suicide were put down to the ‘passionate nature’ of Italians, but the reason why he brutally murdered his employers and then shot himself was never really discovered. It is now supposed that the murders were in fact assassinations prompted by the Comte’s spying activities, but even that is not certain. Whatever the case, the sequence of events in the d’Antraigues house on that morning were very odd and made more confusing by the conflicting eyewitness accounts reported in the newspapers of the time. I must confess that I have slightly altered the sequence of events to fit my fictional action, but for the most part the actions of Lawrence, the Comte and Comtesse, and their servants are as reported in the newspapers and the inquest report. Also, in the interest of accuracy, it is quite possible that the Comte and Lawrence were not, in fact, Deceivers.
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