Helen dipped into her curtsy in concert with Aunt. The first hurdle was to somehow find a way to engage Lord Carlston in private conversation.
“Mr. Brummell and Lord Carlston. How pleasant to see you again,” Aunt said.
Inwardly, Helen winced at the petty misranking. Wry appreciation twitched Lord Carlston’s mouth, then was gone.
“Lady Pennworth.” Mr. Brummell stepped forward. “And Lady Helen. I hope we find you well. But I see that you are both in good spirits.”
“We are, thank you,” Aunt said, a graceful hand indicating her permission for them to take the two chairs opposite her own.
As her aunt sat, Helen returned to the sofa and picked up her work again. A quick glance up from the linen gave her an image of Carlston’s profile, framed by his high shirt collar and white neckcloth, and then she was back positioning a stitch. All her impressions from the day before were reinforced: he was handsome but repellent. There was still that savagery in the lines from nose to mouth, and every plane of his face was angled and definite, as if the sculptor had abandoned all idea of curves except for the lower lip and a wave of dark hair that fell across his forehead.
“Do you not agree, Carlston?” Mr. Brummell asked in an obvious effort to draw the Earl into the conversation.
“Indeed,” Carlston said pleasantly. “No doubt missing the Prince Regent’s gathering last night has helped you to remain so remarkably fresh.”
As his meaning penetrated, Helen saw her aunt stiffen. She herself was torn between horrified amusement and a strange kind of triumph that he had noted their absence.
“It was a tedious night,” Mr. Brummell said quickly, casting a quelling glance in Carlston’s direction.
“Will you take tea?” Aunt asked.
“No, we do not stay long,” Lord Carlston said. Brummell closed his eyes for a moment, probably in despair at his friend’s manners.
“That will be all, Sally,” Aunt said, dismissing the maid.
“Lady Pennworth,” Brummell said into the silence. “I see a fine array of Sèvres in that corner. As you know, I am also a keen collector. Would you be so kind as to show me your pieces?”
“With pleasure, Mr. Brummell,” Aunt said. To the uninitiated ear, her voice was serene, but Helen heard the tremor of rage. Aunt rose from her chair and, with a pointed turning of her back, led Mr. Brummell over to the arrangement of porcelain set on a table along the far wall.
Helen watched him pick up a sky-blue teacup and study the pattern. If she were not mistaken, he had deliberately drawn her aunt to the other end of the room. Was this Lord Carlston’s way of engaging her in private conversation?
It seemed that it was, for his lordship suddenly rose from his seat and crossed to stand before her, a half step closer than courtesy dictated. She smelled the fresh scent of plain soap. He must be one of those who followed Mr. Brummell’s dictate that men should smell of nothing more than good washing and clean air. Helen realized she had swayed a little forward. She sat back. It had to be said that plain soap was a much better fragrance than the far-too-popular and overspiced Imperial Water.
“Your stitching is very fine,” he said.
A swift search of his face found only polite attention. As usual, he was giving nothing away. Including, she thought with a sting of irritation, her miniature. There would be no gentlemanly return of her property.
“Thank you,” she said, and glanced across at her aunt and Mr. Brummell. Both still had their backs turned. Time to make the first strike. “I would wish, though, that my talents lay more in the accomplishment of painting.”
His dark brows lifted in inquiry. They were set at a slight diabolic angle, she decided.
“And if you had such a talent,” he asked, “what would you paint?”
She smiled without teeth. “Miniatures.”
He met her smile. “Too heavy-handed, Lady Helen. Shall we try again? This time with subtlety.”
She bowed her head and jabbed her needle into the linen. He thought her without subtlety, did he? She yanked the needle through the cloth. Well, she would not play his game.
With deliberate tranquility, she put aside her work, looked squarely up into his face, and said, “The portrait is mine and I want it back. Be so kind as to return it, Lord Carlston.”
“Ah, the direct approach.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out her miniature. Gold filigree flashed, and then his fingers closed around it. “What possessed you to take it to the Palace?” There was nothing pleasant in his voice now.
Helen bridled; he had no business talking to her like that. “I do not have to answer to you, Lord Carlston.”
“You do if you want it back.”
The flat statement silenced her. She wanted to fabricate a lie just to spite him, but found nothing. It would have to be the truth. “I wanted some remembrance of my mother at my presentation.”
“Your mother was a traitor. Did you not think of the consequences?”
Heat rose into her cheeks. “No, not until it was too late.” She clamped her gloved hands together until the force pressed the pattern of lace into her skin. “It was foolish, I know. Did you take it to . . . help me?”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“I was once acquainted with your mother.”
Helen stared up at him. He could be no more than five and twenty: he would have been a mere youth when her mother had died. “How did you know her?”
He cast a thoughtful glance across at Aunt. “I suspect your family does not speak often of Lady Catherine.”
“No, my mother is not a frequent subject of discussion,” Helen said stiffly.
“I see.” He drew back slightly. “You must have a commanding view of the street from your windows.”
Perplexed by the sudden turn in conversation, Helen nodded, but her mind was still fixed on his claim to have known her mother. Was this man her pathway to the truth?
She stood, driven upright by the possibility, but he was already walking toward the windows, his attention on Aunt and Mr. Brummell. As if feeling his lordship’s stare, Mr. Brummell turned slightly, a silent question directed over the high starched points of his collar. Helen caught the infinitesimal shake of Carlston’s head and the flick of his hand. It was true, then—Lord Carlston did have some kind of command over the powerful Beau, beyond even the normal demands of his higher rank. Mr. Brummell obediently returned to Aunt, pointing out another piece of porcelain for discussion.
Carlston stopped before the far window. Some part of Helen noted that it placed him out of the peripheral sight of the others, and the odd clarity of that observation made her pause. Then she was halfway across the room before she acknowledged she was following him.
He raised his hand, and she saw the miniature flat against his palm. Did he expect her to jump for it? Uncertain, she stopped, stranded between the sofa and the window. He glanced over at Mr. Brummell and Aunt again, then drew his hand back. His fingers closed around the portrait. Even as she thought, He’s going to throw it, he whipped his hand forward and hurled the small missile at her with brutal strength. A blur of gold streaked toward her head. She snatched it out of the air a moment before it hit her forehead, the stinging impact against her palm muffled by the lace of her mitt.
God’s blood, how had she done that? It had felt so easy and natural. She opened her fist. The glass front was unharmed, her mother’s portrait safely intact.
The Earl’s deep sound of satisfaction brought her head up. All of his expression was centered in a fierce light in his eyes: exaltation.
She clenched her fist around the miniature and closed the distance between them, propelled by rage. “How dare you—”
“Have you opened it yet?” he asked, stopping her midsentence. His mask was back in place.
“What?” She stared down at her hand again. “It
does not open.”
“Take the time to look,” he said. “If you do not, it will be a cardinal sin.”
“My dear, what are you doing?” Aunt’s voice wrenched her around.
“I was just pointing out an amusing situation on the road below,” Lord Carlston said smoothly. He walked past Helen, drawing Aunt’s attention away from the fact that they had been standing too close together. “I also see that Lady Chawith has drawn up in her carriage. We will take our leave of you, madam.” He bowed then turned to Helen. “It has been a pleasure.”
Mr. Brummell bowed and murmured his own compliments. The two men departed, leaving a bemused silence in their wake.
“Well,” Aunt said. “That was abrupt.”
Abrupt and infuriating. Helen tightened her grip around the miniature, longing to open her hand and check for a catch—not that she believed there was one. Surely she would have found it by now.
A knock made them both jump. Was he back? No, it was only Barnett with silver salver in hand. He walked across to Aunt and bowed, offering Lady Chawith’s unmistakable flamboyant blue card.
“Did she see Mr. Brummell depart?” Aunt asked him.
“Yes, my lady.”
Aunt smiled. “Then, yes, we are at home.”
Seven
A RELENTLESS PARADE OF visitors kept Helen in the drawing room all afternoon, the miniature hidden in the workbag at her feet, pulling at her attention like a magnet. When their last guest, Lady Beck, finally stood to leave, then remembered another piece of scandal about Lord Byron, Helen felt as though she might howl with frustration. Eventually, however, the woman made her stately way downstairs and Helen, with a swift excuse to Aunt, headed in the opposite direction, taking the stairs at a disgraceful two at a time, workbag clasped to her chest.
She closed her chamber door behind her and listened for Darby in the dim cool room. Beyond the eternal grind of carriage wheels on the gritty clay of nearby Piccadilly and Curzon Street, all was quiet. The candles and hearth had not yet been lit for the evening, and the last of the dour afternoon light made gray shapes of her bed, writing desk, and chair.
“Darby?”
No answer: her maid was elsewhere.
Good.
She crossed to the window, lace-clad hand deep inside her workbag and groping for the miniature. Two fingers hooked around the smooth, cold oval. She pulled it free from a tangle of cottons and held it flat on her palm and up to the pale daylight.
Take the time to look.
Helen frowned at the gold filigree and the memory of Lord Carlston’s commanding manner. Insufferable man. Had he already opened it? The possibility deepened her frown. She was not even sure she believed him.
She turned the frame on its edge. A faint seam in the gold indicated that the two halves—portrait side and woven-hair side—were fixed together rather than being one whole piece. It could, possibly, open. She ran her fingertip around the seam. No catch; not even an indentation. She held the portrait at eye level, tilting it toward the fading light. Perhaps opening it involved prising the glass cover off the front or back. Yet both seemed to be clamped in place by a surrounding ledge of gold. Surely he did not mean breaking it? Helen shook her head, as much to deny the possibility as to refuse the action. She ran her finger over the filigree border. Perhaps a catch had been embedded somewhere in the delicate gold lacework. It seemed improbable; she had stared at it for hours in those early months after her parents’ death. Even in her grief, she would have noticed. Nevertheless, she squinted into the layer beneath the filigree. Nothing obvious.
Take the time to look, he’d said. And then something about cardinal sin.
On reflection, it was an odd comment, since it was unlikely he was Catholic. Her aunt would have surely mentioned such a family disgrace in the same breath as the murder. Helen made a soft sound of inspiration. Lord Carlston was still at his games. Time and cardinal sin must be clues.
She studied the gold frame again. There was no obvious reference to time on it—no clockface or hands. And there was definitely no reference to cardinal sin. Perhaps the clue was just “cardinal.” A cardinal’s miter? A cardinal bird? Perhaps he meant the cardinal directions: north, south, east, west. Was that too simple?
She studied the motifs worked into the border. The small gold flames at the cardinal positions did not appear any different from those around them. Still, it was worth a try. She pressed the flame at the north position. Nothing happened. The obvious direction would be clockwise, since he had mentioned time. She slid her fingertip to the east position and pushed. Something moved beneath the filigree.
Good Heavens, he was telling the truth.
She jabbed at the remaining two flames. There was a small shift under each, and then the portrait slid slightly to the side, as if swinging on an axle that had been fixed at the top.
Helen let out her breath, suddenly aware that she had been holding it. All this time, there had been a hidden compartment and she had not known; a compartment made for her mother.
She pushed the portrait to the side and peered into the base. A reflection of her own eye stared back. A mirror. She looked more closely. A mirror covered in some kind of glass. She tapped it and the sound was dull. Not glass, something heavier. She dug her fingernail into the edge, but it did not lift. No other hidden compartments. The whole mechanism seemed very elaborate for just a mirror. As far as Helen could recall, Lady Catherine had not been vain, so it was doubtful that she would carry a portrait of herself around, let alone one with a mirror inside. What was its purpose, then? Espionage? It was the rumor that she had heard most often: Lady Catherine as spy for Bonaparte. Napoleon’s harlot. The possibility swept over her in a sick chill. She had once asked Andrew if it could be true—finally voicing the terrible fear—but he had just walked away. She had never raised the subject again, but doubt had taken root. Still, this was no proof. And the Queen herself had warned against the rumors that had wrapped themselves around her mother’s name.
With a careful finger, she guided the portrait back into place. A press of the gold border locked the mechanism into one piece again. Of course, she was assuming that her mother had commissioned the unusual interior. Perhaps it had been someone else. Her father? She glanced across at her secretaire. Maybe his portrait had a secret compartment too.
It took only a moment to retrieve the key and unlock the desk hatch. As always, her father’s handsome face looked out from the inner shelf. She replaced her mother’s miniature and picked up the portrait of Lord Hayden. It did not have the weight of her mother’s and, when held to the light, showed no seam around the edge. Nor were there any flames on the smooth gold border, save those shaped into the loop at the top. Helen twisted and pulled it. Nothing. She pressed the four cardinal points for good measure, but the portrait did not shift. Unless there was another way to open the plainer frame, only her mother’s miniature had a mirror set inside. But what did that mean? And why did Lord Carlston want her to find it?
A knock on the door jerked her hand down to her side, her father’s miniature hidden in her fist.
“Wait,” she called. “Who is it?”
“Hugo, my lady,” the muffled voice answered, “to light the night candles. And Tilly, to stoke the hearth.”
“One moment.”
She placed her father’s portrait back on the shelf and locked the desk hatch again. The key was quickly back in its niche and the compartment pressed home. All was as it should be. Hugo and his sharp eyes would have nothing to report this time.
“Enter,” Helen called, stepping away from the desk.
DARBY ARRIVED TO dress her for dinner as Tilly finished stoking the hearth in the bedchamber, the new flames giving some warmth to the chill of early dusk. Hugo had already lit the candles, closed the shutters, and departed with a sidelong glance at the writing desk.
As soon as the door closed behind
Tilly, Darby asked, “Did Lord Carlston return it, my lady?” Her face was pink with anticipation.
“Yes,” Helen whispered, “but by the most unusual method.”
She motioned Darby through to the dressing room and pointed to the hallway door; anyone could be listening. Darby crossed over, opened it a crack, and then closed it again, nodding. All was clear.
“He threw it at me,” Helen said. “With all his strength.”
“Threw it?”
Helen nodded. “But not only that—I caught it. It was as if someone else’s hand reached up for it.”
“I cannot believe he would throw something at a lady,” Darby said. “How did he know you could catch it?”
Helen was struck by the question. “He couldn’t have. Even I didn’t know.”
“Did he say why he had taken it?”
“No, although he made it clear it was not an act of chivalry.” Helen picked up her silver hairpin box and upended it onto the dressing table, the pins spreading across the polished wood in a pattering clatter. Although a little larger than the miniature, the box had a similar weight. “Here, throw this at me. I want to see if I can do it again.”
Darby stared at the offered projectile, then backed away. “No, my lady, I can’t!”
“Yes, you can. It’s all right; I’ve asked you to do it. You won’t get into trouble.”
“But what if it hits you?”
“Then it hits me. But we must hope I can catch it again.” She smiled. “Or at least duck.”
Her maid took the box. “I don’t like doing this, my lady.”
“Think of it as an investigation using the methods of natural philosophy.”
Darby frowned. “Isn’t that godless?”
“No. All I’m saying is that we are going to prove whether or not I can catch the box in the same way I caught the miniature.”
“But it is very heavy and hard,” Darby said, weighing it in her hand. “Perhaps we could start with something softer.” She looked around, fixing on the chest of drawers. “I could roll up a pair of gloves.”
The Dark Days Club Page 9