Was it Carlston? The thought made Helen quicken her step, as much from a sudden desire to exonerate him as from the need to know the truth. So far, she had met only two other Reclaimers—his lordship and Mr. Benchley—and neither of them had exhibited much in the way of morality. Yet she now realized she had been clinging to the hope, the belief, that Lord Carlston, unlike his former mentor, still had some conscience. If she found that he had, in fact, taken Berta—removed her to make way for his own instrument—then it seemed that a Reclaimer was truly a creature without a moral center. And she did not want to become such a creature.
Back at the house, Helen found her goal thoroughly thwarted. Her uncle had decided to spend the afternoon in his library, addressing overdue paperwork, and Mr. Templeton was already waiting in the drawing room to refresh her memory of the Almack’s dance repertoire. An hour into that instruction, Helen saw her uncle leave for his club. It was another hour, however, before Mr. Templeton pronounced her ready for the evening, and departed with one last admonition to refrain from anticipating the dance leader’s call. She was finally free to creep down to the library.
She found Debrett’s tucked away on the bottom shelf of the wall-length cabinet. Settling onto her knees, she opened the leather cover. An 1802 edition—out of date—but it was a fair guess that the owner of the luggage was not a new peer. She flicked to the color plates, running her finger past the coats of arms of the Dukes. None matched Thomas’s description. The same with the Marquesses. With a sense of foreboding, she turned to the first plate of Earls’ arms. Her fingertip passed over Shrewsbury, Derby, Suffolk, Pembroke. She turned the page. Cholmondeley, Ferrers, Tankerville. Her finger stopped. Carlston. Blue and yellow chevrons with two unicorn supports.
Helen turned the page, as if there might be another blue-and-yellow shield borne by unicorns. She leafed through the remaining Earls, passing her own family’s red-and-gold display, and continued through the Viscounts and Barons. But, of course, there was only one coat of arms with that particular blue-and-yellow configuration. She turned back. Carlston’s family motto was emblazoned on a scroll at the bottom: En suivant la vérité. In following truth.
Helen exhaled a long breath. Truth, indeed. It had been his carriage in Berkeley Street after all, and that was too much of a coincidence. Of course, she had always suspected he had been involved—unreasonably, at first, and then with some cause—but now that it was certain, she felt as if she had lost something. She slowly closed the book and slotted it back into the cabinet.
Sixteen
“IT IS NOT overly grand, is it?” Millicent whispered in Helen’s ear as they walked into the hallowed ballroom at Almack’s.
Helen took in the large, crowded room. It was, indeed, chastely decorated: only two huge mirrors, three chandeliers, classic medallion molds along the walls, and a plain wooden floor. Through the shift of people, Helen glimpsed the supper and card rooms. They looked to be in the same Spartan state. At least the orchestra was a good size. It was seated high on a gallery supported by gilt columns, and in the midst of playing a lively rendition of “Juliana.”
“It needs some new paint,” Helen whispered back. “And a few more handsome men.”
Millicent gave a soft snort of laughter that held as much nervous excitement as it did amusement.
Helen understood the excitement. There was a thrum of energy in the room that quickened her heart and pushed her onto the balls of her feet. Perhaps it was the beat of the music or the abandon of the dancers as they held hands and swung each other around. She scanned those who had gathered to watch. Twice her gaze was snagged by a tall dark-haired man, but neither was Lord Carlston.
She had not yet settled on what she was going to say to his lordship, but she had at least resolved to confront him about Berta as soon as she had the chance. It was the right thing to do. Even so, she could not shake a tiny desire to forget she had ever seen his coat of arms in Debrett’s.
“We cannot stay in the doorway, girls,” Aunt said behind them. “In. In.” She flapped her hands, ushering them toward a small space that had opened up alongside the wall. “This will do for the moment, until we can find a better position.”
They gathered at their new vantage point, Lady Gardwell already resorting to her fan against the heat. Helen took the opportunity to search the crowd again, this time finding the lanky figure of the Duke of Selburn. No Andrew at his side, of course; her brother had made it clear that Almack’s was very poor sport. She had seen neither since Hyde Park, and it was quite possible that the Duke would not acknowledge her after such a show of improper conduct. A most depressing thought. He was in conversation with a poised young lady in pale yellow: Caro Lamb’s cousin, Annabella Milbanke. Rather pretty, in a reserved, muted kind of way.
Resolutely, Helen continued her search. No sign of Carlston. Either he had not yet arrived, or he was in the card room. Her plan was simple: to ask him if he had taken Berta, and, as he answered no—for the answer would surely be the same if he was innocent or guilty—she would try to penetrate his masterful concealment of his inner self. Of course, what would happen then was a little less certain, especially if she discovered guilt. At least the public nature of the assembly would provide some safety.
Stealthily, she withdrew the miniature from her silk evening reticule and pressed it to the bare skin at the top of her glove. A pale blue shimmer sprang up around every figure in the room, the effect quite astounding. But nothing out of the ordinary. She gave a small dry laugh. When had seeing the life-forces of others become ordinary? She slipped the miniature back into her reticule, letting the tiny purse drop from its green silk riband to hang from her wrist.
“Girls, I see Lady Jersey. We must give her our compliments,” Aunt said, urging them forward again.
They passed the dancers: a long row of couples who stood watching as the first lady in line—a flushed brunette with a knowing smile—skipped across to the second gentleman and, clasping his hands, swung with him in a full circle. The dance was a single-figure Juliana, Helen noted, pleased with her quick identification. Mr. Templeton would be most gratified.
“Single-figure Juliana,” Millicent whispered a moment later. “And we have missed it.”
Helen nodded her own disappointment and followed Aunt and Lady Gardwell through the throng. All the gentlemen wore the dark coats and pale satin or black breeches demanded by the club, so it was only the ladies who added color to the proceedings. At least the older ladies did, in rich vibrant silks. Most of the younger ladies favored diaphanous cream or white, with only a few, like Helen, daring a stronger color. She glanced down at her pale green gown, still pleased with the choice. Aunt had felt that it did not do enough for her décolletage, and had even ventured the idea of slipping in some wax frontage to bulk out the elegantly pleated bodice. Helen had refused. At an overheated assembly a month ago, she had seen the outcome of such subterfuge: a vigorous country-dance had induced slippage in one girl, and another had edged too close to the fire, resulting in an unbecoming stain. She would rather be thought meager than have her bosom melt.
As they crossed the floor, a strong smell of soapy lavender brought a sting to Helen’s eyes. She had been resolutely ignoring the clash of different perfumes—sickly jasmine, artificial rose, heavy sandalwood—but the lavender was particularly offensive. She had never noticed such powerful scents before. Was this another Reclaimer talent? If so, it was quite horrible. She located the source of the stink: a nearby matron on one of the bench chairs arranged around the walls. These prized positions were mostly taken by hopeful mammas keenly watching the proceedings and exchanging comments. Helen felt their sharp eyes following her progress. A whisper rose as she passed—Forty thousand pounds—and her new Reclaimer hearing caught the acid rejoinder: That will wipe away any stain.
Helen drew a sharp breath. With all that had been happening, her mother’s disgrace had been overwhelmed by the discovery that La
dy Catherine had been a Reclaimer. Although the revelation had not explained her infamy, it had at least offered a possibility other than espionage. And one that, perhaps, was not grounded in ignobility. It had been a comforting thought in the long, wakeful hours of the previous night. As had been another thought that offered a morsel of hope about his lordship’s character: perhaps the Countess, his wife, had been a Deceiver, thus necessitating her demise. It would explain the silence around her disappearance, and Lady Margaret’s conviction that he was innocent. Yet the only person who could possibly confirm either premise was Lord Carlston, the man she was about to accuse of abduction.
Lady Jersey saw them coming, and graciously turned from her conversation to accept their curtsies.
“How lovely to see you again,” she said to Aunt and Helen. “Vauxhall was so invigorating, was it not?” Her eyes rested for a moment on Helen, a smile of conspiracy within their restless depths, and then turned her attention to Millicent and her mother. “Lady Gardwell and Miss Gardwell. You are most welcome.” She glanced around the room, searching the assembly. “Ah, now I know two charming young gentlemen who would be most eager to make the acquaintance of Lady Helen Wrexhall and Miss Gardwell. Allow me to call them over and introduce them to you.”
And so started two hours of seamless dancing. Both Helen and Millicent had a number of sets secured by eager young men who knew how to dance—a most gratifying situation. Helen let Lord Carlston and his brutal world fade as she grasped firm male hands, skipped into breathless laughter, and chased a gentleman around a clapping circle, only to be chased back. She caught Millicent’s eye as they weaved past each other in a ladies’ chain, and returned her friend’s grin of delight. This was all so straightforward. She knew the steps in this world. She knew what she was meant to do and who she was meant to be. No dark mysteries. No violent savagery. It was as if she had stepped into the light again.
Of course, such perfection could not last. In the third set, Helen was partnered with Mr. Carrigan, a stubby, flat-featured gentleman who had obviously padded the shoulders of his coat and could not seem to manage even the simplest steps of Butter’d Pease. In the end, she was forced to grab his flying hands and maneuver him into position for the promenade. The mortification made her skin crawl and itch; most uncomfortable, since she could hardly scratch in the middle of a dance. As she steered him down the middle of the couples, she saw Selburn, his sympathetic smile bringing a moment of solace. He was still willing to be her friend, even after her behavior at the park. She smiled back but then had to correct her panicking partner’s swing corner. When she looked up again, Selburn had moved away.
It was a relief when the set ended and Mr. Carrigan returned her to Aunt with a jerky bow.
“How do these types get in?” Aunt said as he hastily withdrew. Her mouth pursed even smaller. “Oh no, look who has arrived. How on earth did he get a voucher?”
Lord Carlston was making his way toward them. The mandatory dark coat and satin breeches suited his physique well; no need for padded shoulders or sawdust calves. Helen averted her face in case she betrayed her keen attention, and found her eyes on the Duke again. He was making no secret of watching Carlston, his patent hostility causing Lady Melbourne, by his side, to stare at the man herself. At her obvious query, the Duke shook his head and turned away, but it was clear that he did so with reluctance.
“Lady Pennworth,” Carlston said to Aunt, bowing to her curtsy. “How well you look tonight.”
Helen glanced down at his hand. The white silk glove was tight and smooth—no indication of a bandage.
“Lord Carlston, I had not expected to see you here,” Aunt said.
“It seems they will let in anyone these days,” he said pleasantly. He turned to Helen as she curtsied. “And my young cousin. Your first time at Almack’s, I believe. Perhaps you would do me the honor of standing up with me for the two sixth?”
Helen met the purpose in his eyes: the two sixth were the last pair of dances before supper. As her partner, he would be expected to escort her into the supper room and converse with her during the break. A neat strategy that sidestepped the problem of particularity, and would give them time to speak of last night and the fate of Berta. Helen bit down on her apprehension. “I believe I am free,” she said. “Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed; he had seen her disquiet. “I await them with pleasure,” he said, and bowed, gracefully making way for the gentleman who had secured her for the cotillion.
“Now we will have to take supper with him,” Aunt whispered sourly in her ear. “What a waste. I was hoping Selburn would ask you.”
Helen made a noncommittal sound and took her new partner’s hand, making her escape. Her enjoyment of the next two sets, however, was muted by the prospect of the last.
Inevitably, they were finally called. She watched Carlston take his leave of Lady Jersey and cross the room, his height and notoriety parting a way with relative ease.
“Come to me as soon as supper is called,” Aunt instructed as he approached. “Perhaps we can arrange the seating so that you have a more congenial partner on your other side.”
Helen nodded, but all her focus was on his lordship. Should she immediately demand an explanation about his presence in Berkeley Street? No, a dance was hardly the time to accuse a man of abduction and try to read his inner truth. She would have to wait until supper, and hope she could find a moment of privacy.
He bowed, taking her hand. The smell of him—soap again, but mixed with some kind of green, woody scent—was a welcome respite from her aunt’s pungent jasmine. “You seem ill at ease, cousin,” he murmured as he led her to the center of the room. “Are the events of Vauxhall weighing upon your spirits?”
“I would be made of stone if they did not.” She leaned a little closer. “The woman. Did she survive?”
He gave a small shake of his head. “I am sorry. She did not last the night.”
For an instant an image of the convulsing, dying woman seemed to suck all the light from the ballroom. Helen blinked, forcing the dark horror away. Such a terrible way to lose one’s life.
“The creature had taken too much from her.” His lordship flexed his injured hand. “I particularly dislike Pavors.”
“I hope you are healing well,” Helen said. “I am surprised you can even move it.”
“Mr. Quinn has had a lot of practice. He knows exactly where to aim for maximum effect and minimum injury. It is no mean talent.”
“Quite,” she said dryly. Despite his matter-of-fact manner now, he had been in agony.
“It is usable again,” he said. “One of the advantages of our calling.”
“It is the need for such an advantage that alarms me,” Helen said flatly.
They took their places opposite one another for the Triumph. Their rank brought everyone in behind them, which meant that Lord Carlston, as first gentleman, would start the dance with the second lady. Helen smiled politely at the girl beside her in the second couple, a lush blonde in cream silk. One of the Talleyrands, if she remembered rightly. The girl smiled back hesitantly, then looked across at Lord Carlston. It clearly took a moment for her to realize with whom she was about to dance. She gasped, but Helen was not deceived: the sound held as much delight as trepidation. No wonder, Helen thought, as she observed the girl’s partner: a short, ginger-haired man with patchy sideburns who was glaring at his lordship. There wasn’t any wonder to his reaction either. No man of small stature would want to be placed beside his lordship’s commanding height and elegance.
The orchestra struck up the introduction. With a quizzical glance at Helen, Carlston crossed the floor and took Miss Talleyrand’s hand. She blushed and, smiling insipidly, allowed him to lead her down between the two rows. Her partner hurried down the outside of the ladies’ row to meet them at the end, his gait stiff with belligerence. The dance then called for the two men to make the triumphal arch
over the lady’s head, but the ginger-haired man could barely bring himself to grasp Carlston’s hand. Nor did he do himself any favors on the return to the top of the two rows, his heavy steps and lack of poise in sharp contrast to the Earl’s athletic carriage.
Helen watched the other ladies eye Carlston as he passed. He did move with extraordinary authority. For a dizzying moment she was back in the Gardens watching him lunge at the Deceiver, twisting and ducking, grabbing those deadly whips, taking that brutal lash across his back.
“My lady?”
Helen stared at the ginger gentleman’s hand, thrust out and waiting.
“Yes, of course.” She laid her fingers over the plump knobs of his gloved knuckles. For a moment he stared at her, then shook his head and led her into the skipping walk down past the other couples.
“It is an excellent assembly tonight,” he said politely over the music, but his eyes were following the Earl as he made his way along the outside of the ladies’ row.
“It is indeed,” she answered.
At the edge of her vision, she saw some of the bolder ladies turning to observe his lordship. He ignored them, his gaze fixed upon her and her partner. They met at the bottom, the ginger gentleman dwarfed by Carlston. His lordship took her left hand in an oddly protective grasp.
“Our fellow dancer is a Deceiver,” he said softly in her ear. “A Hedon.”
She stiffened, eyes cutting to the little man at her side. What was she to do? She did not want to touch him again.
“Keep going,” Carlston added, his voice little more than a breath. “Do not let him see you off-balance.”
The man took her right hand. Gritting her teeth behind a smile, Helen fought the instinct to snatch it away. To run.
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