‘Do not apologise for me, Margaret,’ Mr Hammond said tightly. He strode across to the sideboard and lifted the crystal stopper from the decanter. ‘Brandy, Lady Helen?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Helen said.
‘I do not appreciate that tone, Michael,’ Lady Margaret said.
He shrugged and poured himself a measure.
His sister regarded him for a long, unacknowledged moment, then turned back to his lordship. ‘Please, come and sit down.’
‘I am perfectly well. Thank you.’ Lord Carlston shrugged away her hand. ‘Lady Helen, tomorrow we will focus on defence techniques,’ he said curtly. ‘Wear your male garb again.’ He did not even wait for her nod but walked over to the pianoforte. ‘You play very well, Miss Cransdon,’ he said, patently trying to moderate his tone.
Delia, who still sat at the instrument, jumped at the sudden notice. ‘Thank you, Lord Carlston.’
He bowed. ‘Would you favour us with another piece?’
‘Of course.’
She played the opening notes of a sweet ballad as he walked across to the hearth and frowned into the small fire that burned in the grate, one hand clasping the mantel.
Helen took a seat on the sofa, keeping him at the corner of her eye. His fingers were back against his temple. Mr Hammond finished his brandy and poured another. Lady Margaret, stranded in the middle of the room, made her way to the armchair.
Helen listened to the heavy silence in the room that lay beneath the soaring music. She resisted the impulse to glance at Lord Carlston again, keeping her eyes on her hands clasped in her lap. Even so, she could feel his gaze upon her skin like a whisper touch. It seemed she could not please him whatever she did; either she was too much the warrior or too much the woman.
Chapter Nine
WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1812
Next morning, before breakfast, Helen flicked back her coattails and took the seat at her secretaire to compose a note to Martha Gunn. A dip, as soon as possible, she requested, then signed the letter with her flourish, folded it into a packet, and sealed it with a damp wafer pressed flat with the heel of her hand.
She sat back in the gilded chair, considering the unhappy epilogue to last night’s events. It had been humiliating to be scolded in front of everyone, but on reflection, his lordship had probably been right. Tackling the Deceiver by herself had been foolish. Although it had been a Luxure, and therefore not as vicious or unpredictable as a Cruor or Pavor, it could easily have attacked rather than fled. Even so, it had felt good to rout the creature, to have finally acted as a Reclaimer. Surely Lord Carlston would have to admit that she had, at least, managed the use of the touch watch very well.
She picked up her quill again, dipped it in the ink and inscribed the East Street address on the front of the packet.
‘Darby,’ she called.
Her maid emerged from the adjoining dressing room. In the short time that Helen had finished dressing and applied herself to the note, Darby had made some changes to her own toilette: an extra braid worked into her soft brown hair, and a new pintucked chemisette under the neckline of her second-best blue gown. No doubt all for the benefit of Mr Quinn again.
‘Will you deliver this, please, while we are at breakfast,’ Helen said, passing across the sealed packet. ‘I am seeking an appointment with Mrs Gunn. You are to wait for an answer.’
Darby read the address. ‘Yes, my lady.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I’ve heard that she is booked up for a week in advance, my lady.’
Helen beckoned Darby a step closer and lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Gunn knows I am acquainted with Lord Carlston. Tell her my need is pressing. This is Dark Days business, and is to be kept between you and me for now, Reclaimer and Terrene.’
‘Do you not mean Terrene-in-training, my lady,’ Darby said lightly.
‘No, I mean Terrene,’ Helen said with some force. She wanted no mistake made about her intent. ‘In my mind, our bond is already made.’
‘Of course, my lady. I meant no disrespect,’ Darby said earnestly. ‘I think of myself as your Terrene too.’
Helen nodded. Lud, how she wished she could tell Darby about Lowry and Pike and the journal. But she could not, and the prohibition was a sore strain. She missed her maid’s common sense and wise counsel.
‘How goes your training?’ she asked instead. ‘Has Mr Quinn said when you will be ready for the bonding ritual?’
Darby’s answer was lost to a loud knock on the door.
‘Helen,’ Delia’s voice called, ‘may I come in? I have something to show you.’
For an instant Helen considered denying her friend, but the chance for private conversation with Darby had gone, particularly now that someone as curious as Delia stood outside the door.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied.
Delia bustled in, brandishing a letter. ‘Would you believe it? I have had an invitation from Pug Brompton to their gathering on Friday night.’
‘Indeed I believe it. Pug is a very amiable girl.’ Helen turned to Darby with a meaningful look. ‘You may go now.’
Darby curtseyed, the packet shifting from one hand to the other, out of Delia’s line of sight, as she left the room.
Helen rose from her chair and adjusted the front of her jacket with a small tug; a male habit she was trying to cultivate. ‘As soon as Pug knew you were my guest, I am sure she thought to issue an invitation.’
‘It is a compliment to you,’ Delia said. ‘Her mother cut me at Donaldson’s yesterday, looked right through me as if we had not met at least a dozen times during my seasons.’ She gathered her primrose muslin skirts and sat side-saddle on the end of the bed, one satin-shod foot poking out from the ruffled hem and beating an agitated rhythm. ‘I will always be haunted by Mr Trent, won’t I? I will always be the ruined girl.’
Helen kneeled on the royal blue bedcover, then tucked her legs up underneath herself; a much easier operation in a pair of buckskins. ‘You have a new calling now. Forget about the scandalmongers.’
‘Yes, of course, you are right. I will banish them.’ Delia wiped the air between them, expelling, it seemed, all scandalmongers from her mind, then took in Helen’s relaxed pose. ‘I must say, you look very comfortable in your breeches and jacket.’ She regarded Helen with grave eyes. ‘How are you after last night? His lordship has no trouble expressing his disapproval, does he? The way he paced and that awful tone in his voice. Is he always so angry?’
Helen lifted one shoulder. ‘I probably deserved it.’
Delia shook her head. ‘I cannot agree. It seems unfair to me. He says you must think for yourself, and yet when you do, you are admonished. He should be easier upon you while you are learning.’
Helen opened her mouth to defend his lordship, then closed it again. Her friend had a point. His lordship had become far more hot-tempered since they had arrived in Brighton. A worrying situation, considering the vestige darkness within him.
‘His lordship never promised me an easy time,’ she said dryly. ‘In fact, he promised me the opposite.’
‘It still does not seem fair to me. Even so, for all his bad temper, he is very handsome.’ She glanced sideways at Helen. ‘And an Earl.’
Was Delia setting her cap at Lord Carlston? A flash of the previous night caught Helen in the chest: Delia dressed in white, playing for him.
‘You do know that he is still considered to be married?’ she said. ‘The law will not declare Lady Elise deceased for another three years.’
Delia tilted her head, clearly perplexed. ‘Oh!’ she said, coming to some realisation. ‘You goose! I was not thinking of myself. I thought you were developing a tendresse for him. And he for you.’
‘No,’ Helen said quickly. ‘You are mistaken.’ So even Delia, a newcomer, could see the energy between them.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain,’ Helen said firmly.
‘Then I will say no more upon it.’ Delia folded Pug’s invitation, pensively running the edge between her
thumb and forefinger. ‘You know it is my dearest wish to help you as much as possible, but I must admit I am not sure what I am supposed to do as your aide. Do you wish me to report things that I have noted?’
‘Noted about what?’ Helen asked, still distracted by her visceral response to her friend’s question about Lord Carlston. Clearly she was failing miserably to quell her attraction.
‘Well …’ Delia shifted, the bed creaking under the movement. ‘It is not so much noted as overheard.’
That snapped Helen’s attention back to her friend. ‘Delia! You have been eavesdropping again. You promised me you would stop!’
Her friend raised pale palms in contrition. ‘I know, and I am sorry, but I think you should hear what Lady Margaret said.’
‘I do not wish to hear what she said.’
‘I think you do.’
The warning note in Delia’s voice stopped Helen’s next protest. She studied her friend’s face, which was sincerely troubled. ‘If you must.’
Delia looked over her shoulder at the closed door, then leaned closer. ‘Last night, Lady Margaret was talking to Lord Carlston in the drawing room before you returned from Lewes. She said that Darby and Mr Quinn were “becoming very close” and that Darby might not be the best choice of Terrene for you. She said a young maid of such low origin could not be relied upon to choose duty over love.’
Helen drew back. ‘I can assure you, Darby is very mindful of her duty.’
‘It was not my remark, Helen. It was Lady Margaret’s. And his lordship agreed.’
‘He agreed?’
‘Yes.’
Helen dug her fingertips into the silk bedcover. Did they intend to replace Darby? No, she would not allow it. Especially not with Lowry lurking in the background.
‘I know that you think Darby very loyal, but is it possible that Lady Margaret is correct?’ Delia asked. ‘From my own experience with Mr Trent, I know when it came to a choice between love and duty, I chose love without hesitation. To my own detriment, of course.’ She pressed the back of her hand against her throat; a gesture of embarrassment that Helen recognised from their school days. ‘I could not see past him, even though I was heading to my own ruin. The Natural Philosophers tell us that finding a mate and producing offspring is the most basic drive amongst animals. Do you think that Darby and Mr Quinn can resist that drive?’
Helen regarded her friend with narrowed eyes. ‘I hope you are not intimating that Darby’s station in life or Mr Quinn’s race make them more like animals.’
‘Of course not!’ Delia waved away the suggestion with a flap of her hand. ‘But if Darby decides she wants the comfort of family and wishes to marry Mr Quinn, would you insist upon her staying with you?’
Helen wanted to say yes, but knew she could never countenance such a cruel separation. She sighed and settled for, ‘I don’t know. Probably not.’
‘Of course it may all come to nothing,’ Delia said. ‘The course of love is never straight. I just thought it would be prudent for you to consider other possibilities before his lordship takes the decision out of your hands.’ She stared into the distance for a moment, lips pursed. ‘Mr Hammond would be a good alternative, don’t you think? He is steady and reliable, and although not large, he would be quick.’ She leaned over and squeezed Helen’s hand. ‘Or even myself, although I know I would not be your first choice. Too thin and scrawny now. However, if it comes to it, do not hesitate to ask.’
Helen forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘You do not hold it against me for telling you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘But you look so stricken.’
Helen shook her head, her fingernails clawed deep into the silk cover, anchoring her panic. ‘As you say,’ she said calmly, ‘it may never happen.’
Midway through breakfast, Garner entered the morning room and made his stately way to Lady Margaret’s side.
‘Lord Carlston has arrived,’ he reported. ‘He has elected to go directly to the salon to await Lady Helen’s convenience.’
Delia paused in buttering a roll and asked Helen, ‘Do you think he is still angry?’
‘Lord Carlston does not nurse his anger,’ Mr Hammond said. He glanced at his sister. ‘Unlike others.’
Ignoring her brother, Lady Margaret asked, ‘Did you pass on my invitation for his lordship to take breakfast with us, Garner?’
Helen met Delia’s eyes: Something seems to have occurred between the siblings. Delia drew her mouth down — I do not know — and returned to her buttering.
‘His lordship declined the invitation with thanks, my lady,’ Garner answered.
Helen placed her teacup back onto its saucer and crammed the last bite of her third piece of seed cake into her mouth. His lordship may not hold on to his anger, but she did not want to irritate him all over again by making him wait. And she needed to settle the question of Darby’s Terrene status as soon as possible.
‘I’ll go now,’ she said around the mouthful. ‘His lordship will want to start training as soon as possible.’
Besides, when they were training, he could not keep his distance. The unbidden — and unwanted — thought stopped her mid-chew.
Lady Margaret wrinkled her nose. ‘Please, close your mouth, Lady Helen. You may need to eat as much as a man now, but you do not have to chew like one at our private table.’
Helen swallowed the cake. ‘I do apologise. Excuse me.’
She pushed back her chair and made for the door, abandoning Delia, Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret to each other’s disgruntled company.
Upstairs, Geoffrey stood at his station outside the salon. He bowed as she approached and reached for the door handles, but Helen stopped him with a shake of her head. She needed a moment to prepare, to ensure her mind was upon the matter at hand — Darby and their bonding ritual — and not lurking with foolish thoughts about his lordship.
With a conspiratorial smile at the footman, she stepped closer to listen through the oak. Her Reclaimer hearing distinguished the thud of two pairs of feet on the floorboards at the far end of the room, the creak of a chain, and quick breathing. Even after only a few weeks of training she recognised the sounds: Darby and Mr Quinn working on tackles using the stuffed hessian bag that hung from the ceiling. Her maid must have already been to Martha Gunn and returned. Did that mean she had her appointment?
She stretched her Reclaimer hearing and found the breath of another person near the front windows. Yes, she recognised that slow steady rhythm: Lord Carlston. And the rustle of thin paper too: he was reading the London Gazette. Not the action of a man still angry from the previous night. Mr Hammond was right: his lordship was not one for holding a grudge.
‘Why don’t you come in, Lady Helen?’ It was his voice, pitched for her Reclaimer hearing.
She stepped back, surprise breaking into a smile. Although an oak door and half a room separated them, she had heard him as if he stood by her side. He must have been listening for her tread up the stairs.
‘Thank you, I will,’ she murmured, knowing he, in turn, would hear it.
She nodded to Geoffrey, who opened the doors.
His lordship sat beside the window, legs stretched out before him, newspaper angled towards the sunlight. He had removed his jacket, the muscular length of his body enhanced by the unbroken line of plain buff waistcoat and buckskins. The light cast his profile into relief, the bold classical symmetry of straight nose and broad cheekbones softened by the curve of his lips that still held some of the smile that had been in his voice. His attention, rather pointedly, was on the paper, not on her entrance.
She studied him for a moment longer, something jarring about his apparent composure. A tenseness beyond his normal ready manner. She twitched her shoulders. Here she was again, her thoughts on an impure path, and as guilty as Lady Margaret of over-watching the man.
She walked into the room, remembering her male stride, and bowed. ‘Good morning, Lord Carlston.’
&nb
sp; Lord Carlston folded the paper and placed it on the small table at his side. ‘Mr Amberley.’ He rose smoothly from his chair and executed his own bow. ‘You may be interested to know that the Committee for Secrecy has been elected.’
It was one of his tests. Well, she would show him she was prepared.
‘Indeed? And is Mr Wilberforce amongst their number?’ She strolled over to the paper and picked it up, every nerve abuzz with the sense of his eyes upon her, and glanced at the page. Twenty-one names listed, including Wilberforce and Mr Canning. ‘Ah, I see it is the case. The Luddites do not stand a chance against his fervour.’
He regarded her with his half-smile. ‘Yes, nicely done. Manner and voice are excellent. I would have no trouble believing you to be a young gentleman with an interest in national security.’
She placed the paper back on the table, returning his smile. She would take it as a conciliation of sorts. Perhaps he too felt he had been unfair last night.
At the corner of her eye, she saw that Darby and Mr Quinn had broken from their exercise and were watching with interest. The stuffed hessian sack swung gently from its creaking chain behind them. Mr Quinn had built it to resemble the size and weight of a man, a heavy wooden cross embedded within the sawdust and wool stuffing to mimic bones and skull.
She faced their scrutiny, forcing some nonchalance into her voice. ‘How goes Darby’s training, Mr Quinn? Do you think she will be ready to make the Terrene bond soon?’
‘I do, my lady,’ Quinn said with a bow. He brushed selfconsciously at the dust on his jacket. ‘If Miss Darby keeps training this well, she should be ready in time for the next full moon.’
‘Surely we could bond sooner than that?’ Helen smiled, trying to mask the urgency behind the question. ‘I am keen to get it done.’
Carlston stretched his arms behind him, driving the sitting kinks from his long body. ‘Both of you need to be ready, Lady Helen.’ She flushed at the implication that she was even less ready than Darby. ‘There is, to a certain extent, a union of mind as well. A sense of each other’s essential self that informs the partnership. It is best to perform the ritual during a full moon when the earth’s energies can be used to produce the strongest bond in both mind and body.’
The Dark Days Pact Page 14