She composed her expression into polite regret. ‘I believe Lady Margaret has made plans to join the promenade on Monday evening.’ At least the excuse was true.
‘I see. Then Andrew and I will meet you there. I am sure he will enjoy a walk after such a long journey.’
Helen bit down on her chagrin. There was no escaping it. ‘That would be most agreeable.’
The Duke observed her narrowly as they completed the jeté. ‘And yet I sense that it is far from being agreeable.’ He took her hand again for the new figure. ‘Forgive me if I am trespassing upon family affairs, but you do not seem overjoyed by the prospect of your brother’s visit.’
‘I believe Andrew will wish me to leave Lady Margaret’s house, but I have accepted her kind hospitality for the summer. I will not be persuaded otherwise.’
Selburn glanced at Carlston, who had just taken the hand of a lady in blue and was steering her towards them. ‘I do not think you should stay in that house any longer. I feel I must tell you that there are serious concerns about Lord Carlston and his companions.’
Another young man stepped up to them and bowed to Helen. The Duke turned her away from the offered hand, ignoring the young man’s splutter of indignation.
‘What kind of concerns?’ Helen said, forcing her voice into polite interest.
‘A man of my rank has many friends in the government, Lady Helen, and I have made some inquiries about your new companions. Lady Margaret and Mr Hammond have a dubious French past to say the least — possibly criminal — and Carlston himself is, I believe, under suspicion for espionage.’
Helen lost the beat and stopped in the middle of the floor. His information was too close for comfort. ‘That is a slanderous claim, Duke. I will not listen to gossip about my friends.’
He took her hand again, guiding her into the left turn. ‘Please, you must listen,’ he said, his voice urgent. ‘I believe you are being deceived by these people.’
Helen felt the shock of the word register on her face. She shook her head, more to dislodge her overreaction than to deny his accusation.
‘Carlston is preying upon your naivety,’ he said. ‘I do not know why — perhaps your fortune, perhaps some other vile reason — but I will discover the reason and I will unmask him. I know this man, Helen. You must be on your guard.’
The music lengthened into the final chords. Helen curtseyed to the Duke’s bow, then turned to clap the musicians, hiding her agitation. From the corner of her eye, she saw Carlston approach.
‘Lady Helen,’ he said, bowing. ‘I believe we have the next dance as well.’
‘Lady Helen will stay with me,’ Selburn said.
Carlston gave him a lazy smile. ‘Lady Helen has her own voice, Selburn.’
The Duke crossed his arms. ‘She does not know what you are, Carlston, but I do.’
‘And pray, what am I?’
‘You are a debaucher. Your tastes are for the innocent with only corruption in your mind.’
Helen drew in her breath. Dear Mother of Heaven, those were words designed to force his lordship into a challenge. Nearby, another couple had stopped to listen and the Duke’s description brought a gasp from the lady.
Carlston gave a soft, dangerous laugh. ‘By your account, I am indeed a villain. Should I point out that our tastes coincided four years ago? I believe your intentions were just as impure as my own.’
Selburn stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘You destroyed Elise. I swear you will not have a chance to destroy another innocent girl.’
‘Lord Carlston, I really do wish to sit down,’ Helen interrupted, grabbing his arm.
She could feel the coiled readiness in his muscles. Lud, she seemed doomed to step in between these two men to stop them killing each other. Or more to the point, to stop Carlston from killing the Duke.
She turned to Selburn. ‘Your Grace, thank you for the dance.’
Ingrained good manners made him acknowledge her curtsey. ‘It was my pleasure, Lady Helen.’ His eyes, however, were fixed upon Carlston.
The Earl inclined his head. ‘As always, a delight, Duke.’
Helen pulled him from the floor as the music for a quadrille started up. The obvious stand-off had garnered more onlookers and she could feel their curiosity as she and Lord Carlston made their way towards the salon doors. No doubt Lady Dunwick would be pleased; the confrontation would be the talk of the rout and Donaldson’s tomorrow.
‘He is becoming annoyingly protective of you and inquisitive about our activities,’ Carlston said. ‘Something will have to be done.’
Helen stopped, her hand tightening on his forearm. Of course; he had been listening to her conversation throughout the dance.
‘I will make it clear that I do not need or want his protection,’ she said.
Carlston regarded her thoughtfully. ‘If he does not draw back soon, I will take action. Do you understand?’
Helen looked back at the Duke. He was leading Delia into the quadrille set with no idea of the danger he had just brought upon himself. Well, she would not allow any harm to come to him; not on her behalf.
‘Just give me some time to persuade him of my disinterest,’ she said.
‘Be swift about it,’ Carlston advised. ‘Selburn has an unfortunate tendency to think he is one of Scott’s heroes.’
They had reached the salon doors. The narrow landing had cleared somewhat, most guests having found their way to the card room, the cold supper or the salon. His lordship indicated a room at the end of the corridor, its open door showing two fully lit candelabra set upon a Chinoiserie sideboard.
‘The Comte has suggested we meet in the morning room.’ His voice dropped into the secret pitch for Reclaimer ears. ‘I want you to take careful note of his expressions. Look for those moments when he is lying. He is a consummate actor, like all of his kind, but do the best you can.’
‘Of course,’ Helen answered in the same low tone. ‘But you have known him for many years. I doubt I will be able to recognise his lies more successfully than you.’
Something crossed his face, a quicksilver flash of fear, so fast she almost doubted she had seen it. She stopped walking, forcing him to halt too. He looked at her inquiringly, those heart-stopping features carefully composed into polite interest. He knew she had seen his slip.
‘What is wrong?’ she demanded. ‘There is something you have not told me about the Comte.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
His eyes had flattened into his shark stare, but she was not going to be deflected. Not this time. Too much was at stake.
‘I saw fear in your face, Lord Carlston. Do not deny it — you know my skill in that area. For once, you must tell me the whole story.’
He drew a breath through his teeth, reluctance in every line of his body.
‘I deserve to go into that room fully prepared,’ Helen insisted.
‘Yes, you do,’ he finally conceded. ‘It is possible …’ He shook his head, correcting himself. ‘No, it is certain that this malady, whatever it may be, is reducing the effectiveness of my abilities.’ For an instant, the careful distance in his eyes was gone and she saw that awful hollow fear again. ‘Perhaps even my judgment. I am not convinced that I will be able to read him thoroughly.’ He pressed his fingers against his forehead. ‘There is a pain here that I cannot shift. I feel as if I am being boxed in behind my own eyes, getting smaller and smaller. It is as if I am … disappearing.’
She reached for his hand, a reflex of compassion. They both looked down at their gloved fingers suddenly entwined. The pulse of energy thundered in Helen’s ears.
‘I will not let you disappear,’ she said, tightening her hold. ‘You kept me sane when my strength came upon me. I will do the same for you.’
He smiled. ‘You will be my anchor.’ He withdrew his hand, as if breaking the illicit bond was as painful as the darkness he carried. ‘It is worse than Quinn and the others think, and it is coming upon me fast.’
Lady Dunwick had refashioned the morning room into a withdrawing space for those guests who sought respite from the noise and rigours of the rout. At the doorway, Lord Carlston stood aside and ushered Helen in first, the rise of his eyebrows urging her to stay alert. As if she could be anything else after his terrible admission. She could still feel the touch of his hand upon her own; that insistent shadow pulse.
Fashionable yellow striped paper adorned the walls, clashing slightly with the blue flowered curtains. The usual dining furniture had been removed and replaced by groups of chairs arranged in twos and threes to facilitate conversation. A footman stood ready to procure drinks or provide any other service required, and a wholly unnecessary fire burned in the marble grate. Two elderly ladies in feathered turbans had taken up a position near that warmth, their conversation sporadic and limited, it seemed, to comments on the ratafia they were drinking. Helen could smell the sickly peach-infused liquor, and the rather pungent onion aroma of their heated skin.
The only other inhabitant was the Comte, seated facing the door and as far from the ladies as possible. He smelled of a musky perfume: ambergris perhaps. Helen swallowed, trying to dredge up some wet within her mouth. She felt the energy quicken through her whole body; perhaps a Reclaimer response to the enemy. It was certainly an odd sensation to see the elegant old man before her and know that within that human shell was a creature that preyed upon humanity.
He stood as they approached, intelligent eyes searching Carlston’s face. His mobile mouth pursed for a second, then quickly shifted into a warm smile. ‘Guillaume!’
Carlston bowed. ‘Comte, may I introduce the Lady Helen Wrexhall.’
His lordship’s French was impeccable, even his accent sounding genuine to Helen’s ear.
‘Your charming protégée,’ the Comte answered in his own tongue.
Helen curtseyed, rising to find the old gentleman watching her intently.
‘Please.’ His gloved hand waved to the two chairs set opposite his own.
Helen took the seat beside Carlston. The Comte seemed very friendly towards his lordship, and his lordship was surprisingly congenial in return. Was this man not the enemy?
As instructed, she concentrated on the Comte’s face, trying to read what lay behind the air of bonhomie. It was like pulling back a curtain of trailing greenery and finding a stone wall. No wonder; he’d had centuries to practise hiding his truth.
He regarded Carlston soberly. ‘You are not well, Guillaume.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Perhaps just to me.’ The Comte flicked open a little Sèvres snuffbox painted with yellow roses and edged in gold and offered it to him. The scent of rich tobacco laced with an aniseed perfume rose into the air.
Carlston eyed the box warily. ‘I thank you, no.’
The Comte’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. ‘You are remembering Paris. I assure you there is no drug in this batch.’
‘Still,’ his lordship said dryly, ‘I will decline.’
Helen glanced at him. Paris? Drugged snuff? There was certainly history between them.
The Comte sat back, his attention on Helen again. ‘I met your mama and papa in Paris too,’ he said, brown eyes half closed in recollection. ‘In the truce of 1802, before their tragic demise. You are a little like both of them, yes? The beautiful Lady Catherine and the resolute Lord Douglas.’
‘I had thought I did not resemble either, Comte,’ Helen answered. ‘But I am happy for it to be thought otherwise.’
Her accent, she knew, was not as deft as his lordship’s, but she was pleased by the approval in the old Comte’s eyes. She mentally shook herself; she did not need a Deceiver’s approval. The man was too charming by half.
The elderly ladies, having finished the ratafia, rose from their chairs and departed the room, their conversation turned now towards the impending hot supper.
‘Let us take the opportunity for some privacy,’ the Comte said, and with a flick of his hand dismissed the footman. The young man bowed and closed the door behind him.
They were alone.
The Comte settled back in his chair. ‘You asked for this meeting, Guillaume. What is it you want?’
‘I have a question, Louis, and I think you may have the answer.’
Helen shifted on her seat. They were on first-name acquaintance. Only family and the closest of friends used such intimate appellations. Surely such familiarity should not exist between a Reclaimer and Deceiver?
‘I know many answers,’ the Comte said smoothly. ‘None of them are free.’
Carlston smiled. ‘I am well aware of that.’
The Comte turned his snuffbox in his hand, seemingly transfixed by the flash of gold and painted porcelain. ‘As it happens,’ he said finally, ‘there is something that I require. Something that you may be able to obtain for me.’ He looked up, expression still inscrutable. Helen knew she was failing miserably in her task. ‘It is possible that we may come to an arrangement. What is it you wish to know?’
His lordship sat forward. ‘This sickness in me — I do not believe it is the accumulation of the vestige. You have seen many Reclaimers in your time. Do you know what it is and how I can be rid of it?’
The Comte’s eyes narrowed as if he could see the darkness within his lordship. Perhaps he could, Helen thought, although none of her reading on the subject had reported such an ability. She found herself leaning a little forward too, her breath held. Dear God, she prayed, let it be something that can be cured.
‘You are correct.’ The Comte paused. ‘And incorrect. The vestige is part of it — you have been snatching back too many of our offspring, my friend — but it is something else as well. Something far more interesting. I believe I know what it is, and, possibly, how it may be ameliorated.’
Helen laid her hand against the base of her throat, holding back a sound of dismay. So his lordship’s sickness was, in part, the vestige darkness.
The Comte glanced at her as if he had heard her distress. ‘Do you plan to follow in your mentor’s fervent reclaiming footsteps?’
‘Lady Helen’s plans are not part of this discussion, Louis,’ Carlston said. ‘Are you willing to deal?’
‘I am.’
‘What is it that you want?’
The Comte flicked open the snuffbox with his thumbnail and shut it again, flick and shut, flick and shut, his eyes never leaving Carlston. ‘I have heard that there is a journal available for sale, written by your former mentor, Benchley.’
Helen drew a sharp breath. Sweet Heaven, not the journal.
‘I want that journal, Guillaume,’ the Comte continued. ‘It has some information in it about myself and my wife that I would not wish to come into the hands of your Home Office.’
Helen clenched her hands, digging gloved fingernails into her palms. If his lordship went for the journal too … No, she could not even begin to imagine the ramifications of it. The lies upon lies she would have to tell. The betrayal.
‘I know of no journal written by Benchley,’ Carlston said. ‘You have been misinformed.’
‘No, my friend, it exists and it is in the possession of a man called Lowry. A slippery fellow, I am told. Very hard to find.’
‘Lowry,’ Carlston said softly. ‘I know of him.’ He rubbed the back of his head, clearly perturbed. ‘Such a journal, if it exists, would be very dangerous. I could not pass it into your hands, Louis.’
Helen eased out a breath. He knew about the journal now — there was nothing she could do about that — but at least he wasn’t going to give it to a Deceiver. Did the Comte know it was a Ligatus as well?
The Comte inclined his head. ‘I understand.’
‘Would it suffice if you received just the information about you and the Comtesse?’
Carlston pointedly did not
look her way. She knew his profile, every bold muscle and contour, and there was no mistaking the tightness along his jaw. He was clenching his teeth, forcing his way past his own conscience.
She understood the urgency of finding some way to stop the sickness within him, but even without the fact that the journal was a Ligatus, the deal was rapidly heading into territory that bordered upon treason. But then, who was she to point the finger?
‘That would be acceptable,’ the Comte said. He set down the snuffbox on the small table by his side, his smooth bonhomie dropping away to expose something far more implacable. ‘I want something else as well.’
‘Go on.’
‘This is my last body, Guillaume.’
Helen frowned. Did that mean what she thought it did? He had no offspring to shift into at the death of his current body and so would die. But she was sure he had a son.
Carlston regarded the Comte thoughtfully. ‘I take it you are going to spare Julien?’
Yes, Helen thought, that was the son’s name. Comte Julien.
‘You are correct,’ the old Comte said. ‘He is my only offspring and it is my decision not to take his body.’
‘Decision!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘I thought the shift was involuntary?’
‘No, Lady Helen. It is indeed a very strong drive, but it can be overcome.’
‘Why?’ Carlston asked.
‘Antoinette,’ the Comte said simply. He looked at Helen. ‘My wife. She, of course, is of your kind. Her life will inevitably end, and frankly I do not wish to continue without her at my side. Nor do I wish to extinguish the talents she has bestowed upon our son by taking his flesh. He is a marvellous musician. You have heard him play, Guillaume?’
Carlston nodded. ‘I have. Still, I find this hard to believe. You are the great survivor, Louis. To give up your existence for another is not in your nature.’
‘It is because you do not believe my kind can love, Guillaume. I think you do not even believe your own kind can love.’ His keen eyes darted to Helen again. ‘Your mentor is a hard man, my dear. All of his passion reserved for his duty. But he was not always like that. Oh, no, not at all.’
The Dark Days Pact Page 20