She stepped forward. ‘Lord Carlston, you are bleeding!’
‘Follow with a higher strike,’ he said, ignoring her alarm.
The veins and tendons on his neck had corded with strain. He swung the cane above his head, his movements blurring into sudden acceleration. Even with Reclaimer sight, Helen could barely follow the frightening speed of his body as he pivoted and lunged around the swinging sack. The cane struck it again and again and again, the hits so fast and heavy that the blunt wood sliced through the hessian, ripping it apart. A cloud of sawdust and wool burst out, the sack spinning wildly. The huge wooden cross dropped out, but it never hit the floor. His lordship met it mid-air with a vicious round-kick that propelled it across the room, straight towards Helen’s head.
She dived to one side, landing heavily on her knees and elbows, her cane flying from her grasp. The cross speared past her and smashed into the wall with an immense thud that seemed to shake the room. Plaster and wood exploded in a stinging hail of chunks and dust and splinters. Helen covered her head, curling up as clumps of wall pelted her body.
The salon doors burst open. ‘My lord!’ Geoffrey called. ‘My lady?’
Almost as quickly as it had begun, everything was still again. Panting, Helen lifted her head. Plaster dust floated in the rays of sunlight, the floor littered with drifts of wool and sawdust and hunks of wall. The footman coughed, his forearm against his mouth.
Lord Carlston stood beneath the remnants of the hessian sack on its chain, the broken end of the cane in his hand, blood still seeping from his nose.
‘Did I harm you, Lady Helen?’ he rasped.
‘No.’ She sat up. ‘What happened?’
‘It felt as if I had a sun within me. So much power …’ He staggered and dropped to his knees.
‘My lord!’ Geoffrey ran to him.
‘Get Quinn,’ Carlston ordered hoarsely. ‘I need to be against the earth. I need …’
He pitched forward, the footman sliding two hands beneath his head just before it slammed against the floor.
Chapter Ten
Two hours later, Mr Quinn stood before them in the drawing room. His frown and the tattoos that angled across his forehead and cheeks gave him a ferocious appearance, belied by the anxious twisting of his hands.
‘None of the energy was in him,’ he said to Lady Margaret, who sat in the largest armchair as if in judgment. ‘When I pressed him upon the earth, there was no release of power into the ground. I can feel it when it goes out of him, and I swear, nothing went.’
Helen, seated on the sofa with Delia, nodded her agreement. ‘I watched through my touch watch lens and no energy passed from his lordship to the earth.’
The support earned her a grateful smile from Darby, who stood mutely by Quinn’s side.
The big Terrene had arrived in the salon moments after his lordship’s collapse and had quickly carried his senseless master downstairs to the courtyard. The whole household had followed and witnessed Quinn grounding the Reclaimer, to no apparent effect. At that point, Lady Margaret had taken control and ordered Quinn to carry his lordship to Mr Hammond’s rooms. Carlston had roused once on the way up the stairs, grabbing Helen’s hand, then his eyes had become eerily fixed and staring. The Reclaimer fugue, Mr Quinn called it; he had seen his lordship heal in such a manner before, always awaking from the strange trance a few hours later, fully recuperated.
In the meantime, Lady Margaret had assembled everyone in the drawing room to determine exactly what had happened and why.
‘It does not make sense,’ she mused, chewing on the end of her knuckle. ‘He said himself that it was an excess of power.’ She looked at Helen. ‘That is what he said, was it not?’
‘As if he had a sun within him,’ Helen reported again.
She glanced around the circle of worried faces. It should have been her asking the questions — she was the Reclaimer — but in all honesty, it had been a relief when Lady Margaret had taken charge. The events of the day had shaken her more than she cared to admit. Lord Carlston had looked so vulnerable, so young, gathered in Quinn’s arms, senseless and pale.
Beside her, Delia asked, ‘Is that a normal way of describing the power you experience? It seems very … big.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I do not know. I have not had enough experience of it.’
Mr Hammond leaned his shoulders against the mantel ledge. ‘His lordship has had no encounters with a glutted Deceiver in the last week, or none that I know of?’ He glanced questioningly at Quinn and received a nod of confirmation. ‘So where has the power come from?’
‘Could it be the power that he absorbed from the Deceiver at my ball? The power I shared with him?’ Helen asked, ignoring the memory of her body locked against his, the power thrumming between them. ‘We never released any of it into the earth. It seemed to dissipate, but perhaps it did not.’
‘Are you experiencing any such effects?’ Mr Hammond asked.
‘No, not at all.’
He shrugged. ‘Then I do not see how that could be the source. Besides, if it were, Mr Quinn’s grounding would have had some result.’
That was true.
‘There is another explanation,’ Mr Quinn said heavily. He glanced at Darby, who nodded encouragingly.
Helen knew what he meant, and, by the look upon Lady Margaret’s face, so did she. But it was Mr Hammond who voiced it.
‘You think it is the vestige darkness within him,’ he said flatly.
Quinn nodded. ‘I do, sir.’ He looked at Helen. ‘I know you saw how much is in him when he reclaimed the boy in London.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I was under the impression he had years before it would have such a dire effect.’
‘I was too, my lady, and so was he.’
Darby took Mr Quinn’s hand, the sweetness of the gesture bringing an ache to Helen’s throat.
Mr Hammond stubbed the toe of his boot into the hearth grate, every line of his body denying the possibility.
‘What darkness in him?’ Delia asked, her voice small in the silence.
No one else seemed inclined to answer, so Helen said, ‘It is the accumulation of the vestige, the little spark of Deceiver energy that Reclaimers absorb when we reclaim the soul of one of their offspring and bring it back to full humanity. We cannot rid ourselves of it into the earth like the normal Deceiver energy. It stays within the body and builds up, creating a dark energy that sickens us. Usually we retire from reclaiming before it causes problems, but if we do not draw back in time …’ She stopped not wanting to give utterance to the inevitable outcome.
‘It sends the Reclaimer mad,’ Mr Hammond finished.
‘Is his lordship mad?’ Delia asked.
‘No!’ Lady Margaret said forcefully. ‘He is not.’
Delia looked around at them. ‘But he has stopped reclaiming, hasn’t he?’
Mr Hammond shook his head.
‘He will not, Miss Cransdon,’ Quinn said. ‘I’ve tried over and over to reason with him, but he won’t listen. He says he’s on this earth to save souls and, God damn it …’ He stopped, flushing. ‘I beg your pardon. He says he will save souls whatever the cost.’
‘Atonement,’ Helen muttered. He had been too late to save Lady Elise from whatever ghastly fate had occurred in that bedchamber.
Quinn looked at her oddly. ‘Yes, my lady.’
Delia leaned forward. ‘Atonement for what? His wife?’
Helen gave a small shake of her head. It was not the time for such an exchange.
Mr Hammond pushed himself from the mantel and paced across the room. ‘Maybe it is not the case, after all. Maybe there is another reason for this surge of power.’
‘And what would that be, Michael?’ Lady Margaret asked. ‘A head cold? However much we may dislike it, the obvious reason is probably the correct one. He is being overcome by the vestige.’
Mr Hammond crossed his arms. ‘You are jumping to conclusions. There could be another explanation that we do n
ot have the experience or records to understand.’
‘None of us wants it to be true, Michael,’ she said, a little more gently, ‘but we have to protect his lordship and the Dark Days Club. We must insist that he stop reclaiming, and try to find some way to alleviate the damage already done. Although it pains me to say it, I think we may have to consult Pike on the matter. He has access to historical records and rare alchemical texts that we do not.’
‘No!’ Helen and Mr Hammond exclaimed at the same time.
Lady Margaret blinked at the united onslaught.
Mr Hammond glanced wildly at Helen: I will handle this.
‘I think it is obvious that Pike is looking for a reason to ruin his lordship,’ he said. ‘Mentioning this would be handing him the gun and the powder.’
‘Besides,’ Helen said, ignoring his directive, ‘there is no way to rid a Reclaimer of the darkness except by shifting it to another Reclaimer and destroying them. Benchley offered Lord Carlston that solution, a way to pass all of his darkness to me, and he refused it.’
‘Of course he refused it,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘So, if we are not to consult Pike, then what are we to do?’
They were all silent again.
‘We must stop him from reclaiming,’ Hammond said. ‘By force if necessary. Lady Helen, and you, Quinn, are the only two who can do that. Are you willing?’
‘I am,’ Helen said. ‘Quinn?’
He sighed. ‘Yes.’
A soft sound, the press of a hallway floorboard against another, caught at Helen’s Reclaimer hearing. She turned just as the door opened. His lordship leaned against the door jamb, face drained and eyes hooded. He wore Mr Hammond’s burgundy silk banyan over his shirt and breeches, the long quilted robe fitting close on his larger frame.
‘By force?’ he repeated, a sardonic glance taking in Helen and Quinn. ‘I doubt that would be possible or necessary. This sickness is not the vestige darkness.’
Lady Margaret rose from her chair. ‘William, what are you doing out of bed? You should be resting.’
Hammond crossed the room. ‘You look like death, my friend. Come, take my arm, sit down.’
The Earl waved him away. ‘I am not an invalid.’ He walked slowly into the room and leaned his hands heavily on the back of the sofa, fixing on Helen. ‘Are you truly unharmed?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ She studied his face. Anyone could see the fatigue in the drawn pallor around his eyes, but he still snapped with energy deep within. ‘You are not fully recovered.’
‘Well on the way.’
He smiled, and it held such an appeal for solidarity, such a heartfelt apology, that Helen found herself returning it.
Neither of them, it seemed, wanted to break the sweet accord. It was only Helen’s sudden awareness that they were being watched by Delia that made her drop her gaze. Carlston must have realised the same, for he stepped away.
‘If it is not the vestige darkness, your lordship,’ Delia asked, following him with that penetrating gaze, ‘what is it?’
‘I do not have the answer to that, Miss Cransdon.’ He swept a thoughtful glance around the gathering. ‘I do, however, know someone who may.’
‘Who?’ Hammond demanded. ‘We will consult them immediately.’
‘The Comte d’Antraigues.’
The name meant nothing to Helen, but it obviously meant something to Mr Hammond.
‘You jest, don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘The Comte is a Deceiver.’
‘I am well aware that he is a Deceiver. Nevertheless, he and I have had dealings before and he is open to negotiation. If anyone will know about this type of energy surge in a Reclaimer, it will be him. He has seen over a hundred English and French Reclaimers live and die.’
‘Some of them by his hand,’ Lady Margaret said curtly.
‘True. But then I have killed just as many of his kind,’ Carlston said. ‘Of course, if he does know, he will make us pay.’
‘He will want money?’ Helen asked.
‘No.’ Carlston leaned a hand upon the mantel; for actual support, Helen realised. He was weaker than he admitted. ‘The Comte deals in secrets and information. He has been a spy for many countries. Currently he is supporting the Duc D’Orléans in his bid to overthrow Bonaparte. It is why he is tolerated here in England, but I would not rely upon him as an ally. Monsieur Le Comte is a wily intriguer who has outlasted many enemies.’
Lady Margaret crossed her arms. ‘And you propose to make a deal with him, a French Deceiver spy, in the middle of a war?’
‘I do. He and his wife will be at Lady Dunwick’s rout.’ He turned to Helen. ‘I will introduce you, and then you and I will make a deal with a devil.’
Helen glanced at Mr Hammond. Was he too thinking of Pike’s suspicions? His lordship had just admitted that he had made deals with a French Deceiver — deals that involved secrets — and intended to do so again. Perhaps his loyalty had been compromised. Or if not his loyalty, then at least his judgment. There was the very real possibility that his lordship was wrong or deluded and his collapse had, in fact, been caused by the vestige darkness and its creeping madness.
Mr Hammond met her gaze and she was startled to see her own unease mirrored in his eyes. He was one of Lord Carlston’s most staunch supporters and yet even he was beginning to have doubts.
‘I hope the devil will give us the answers we need,’ Helen said, her reply as much for Mr Hammond as it was for Lord Carlston.
Chapter Eleven
FRIDAY, 10 JULY 1812
‘Ever been in the sea afore, my lady?’ Martha Gunn, the queen of the Brighton dippers, asked Helen.
The old woman was huge, in both girth and personality. She easily stood as tall as Helen, and had at least three times her heft, with burly shoulders that would have made any man proud. She stood braced on the shingles of the eastern beach — for female bathers only — her legs set wide beneath her rucked-up navy skirts, one hand on her hip, the other shielding her shrewd eyes from the glare of the hot midday sun.
‘Never,’ Helen said, raising her voice above the squeals of delighted terror that came from the women already in the water. She surveyed the white-capped waves slapping the beach with broad foaming fingers that reached for her feet. The surf had seemed so small and manageable from the roadway above. Up close, it seemed larger and a great deal more wild.
‘I did once bathe in a river,’ she offered.
‘Not the same at all,’ Martha boomed. ‘But I don’t think you’ll have much of a worry,’ she leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial nod, her voice dropping a few notches, ‘you being like his lordship an’ all.’ She gestured to a wooden bathing machine set high on four large wheels and being drawn out of the water by a salt-encrusted black pony. A ruddy-skinned man urged the animal across the broken, sliding pebbles. ‘We’ll just let the lady afore you dis-em-bark, and then you and yer maid can go in.’
Darby observed the slowly approaching machine with a wary eye. ‘It doesn’t look safe, my lady.’
‘There is no need for you to stay in it when it goes into the water, Darby.’
‘If you want me to stay, I will,’ her maid said stoutly.
‘No, that is not necessary.’
In fact, Helen thought, not wanted at all.
She looked back at Lady Margaret and Delia. They stood beneath their parasols next to a bank of rocks that was doing duty as a waiting area for those ladies who were not brave enough, or perhaps silly enough, to immerse their bodies. They were not in hailing distance, but still close enough for the eagle-eyed Lady Margaret to be curious about any intense conversation. Helen would need to wait until she was well in the water with Martha Gunn before she asked any questions.
Lord Carlston had insisted Lady Margaret accompany her to the beach, more, Helen thought, from the desire to be rid of his aide’s fussing than from any fine sense of propriety. He claimed he had fully recovered, and it did seem as if the worrying effects of his collapse were all but gone.
; The beachward door of the machine opened and a slightly bedraggled lady draped in a violet shawl over a lemon muslin gown descended the wooden steps, her maid following with a stack of wet clothing and drying-sheets in her arms.
‘The same again tomorrow, Mrs Cavendish?’ Martha inquired.
The lady gave a quick nod, patted the limp curls that hung from under her bonnet, and headed towards the path to the road.
Helen gathered her own muslin skirts and picked her way across the shingle to the machine, her feet feeling every jagged edge through the thin leather soles of her sandals.
‘Careful, my lady, the steps are wet,’ Darby said behind her as they ascended.
Everything seemed to be wet: the plank floor inside the wooden box, the two small bench seats set on either side, and the walls to about halfway their height.
‘Lordy, that is a stink,’ Darby said as she closed the door behind them.
Helen sniffed: a combination of wet wood, wet hair and salt. Not wholly unpleasant, and it was a relief to be out of the midday heat.
A narrow window above each bench let in enough light to ameliorate the uncomfortable sensation that one was in a damp water-closet on wheels, and to allow the management of buttons, clasps and hooks. To that end, Helen undid the pearl button on her glove and began to peel it off her hand.
‘Wait, my lady,’ Darby said. ‘Let me put something down on that seat for you.’ She pulled out one of the drying-sheets in her arms and placed it along the bench. ‘There, now you can sit without getting wet.’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t want to get wet in a bathing machine,’ Helen said with a smile.
Darby giggled, dumped the rest of the sheets and clothing on the other seat, and bent to the task of undoing the braid frogs on Helen’s spencer. With her deft help, it did not take long for Helen to be out of her promenade ensemble and into her new yellow flannel bathing shift, her cropped hair covered by the ugly matching flannel cap.
Clanks and jingles told them that the horse had been walked back around the machine and harnessed to the seaward side, ready to haul it back into the water.
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