Carlston crossed his arms. ‘Get back to the point, Louis.’
‘I have existed within these flesh bodies for many centuries now. Is it so much of a surprise that I have been affected by the emotions that endlessly course through them? Some of my kind call it a taint. But there is a small group of others, like myself, who think of it as a gift. We have overcome our instinct for isolation and call ourselves the Society of Sensation. Amusing, non?’ He closed his eyes, his fingers toying with the gold fob attached to his fob ribbon. ‘Your senses … mon Dieu. You humans do not appreciate the glory of your senses. To taste food, to touch skin, to hear music.’
Helen sat forward. ‘Are you all affected so?’
The Comte nodded. ‘But most eschew the nobler sentiments and embrace the vile passions.’
‘Do your wife and son know what you are?’
He gave a small laugh. ‘Such good questions, Lady Helen. My wife does. Many times she has succoured me with her life force. Her beautiful, vibrant life force. It is one of a kind, so strong.’
Helen studied her fan for a moment. Her most important question — what would they face if the Deceiver door was ever opened? — could not be asked. Even so, she could go some way to obtaining an answer.
‘Comte, can you tell me where you and your kind come from? Are you from Hell?’
He clapped his hands, a delighted smile lighting his face again. ‘Do you know, that is only the second time any of you have asked the question. Even you, Guillaume, have never asked the straight question. Always it is the intrigue or the killing.’ He regarded Helen fondly, like a pleased parent. ‘Do you remember your beginning, Lady Helen? Your conception? Your birth?’
‘No, of course not.’
He gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘Voila! Nor do I remember my beginning here.’
Helen released her breath. No clues, then, to what lay behind the door.
‘But I will tell you this much, because you asked without guile,’ the Comte added. ‘I came to my first senses in the body of a small child in a very low household. It was the saving of me. Many of my kind were not so lucky. They awoke in adult bodies and failed to come to an understanding of the world before their intrusion was discovered. They were called mad, witches, evil spirits, demons. Many, many of them died.’
‘But so did the child that you possessed, and the many other children afterwards,’ Helen pointed out curtly.
He sighed. ‘True. It is the tragedy of my kind.’
‘Of your kind? What about humankind?’
‘Humans can propagate themselves, Lady Helen. They create more and more humans. We cannot do so; our number is finite. Thus we pass from generation to generation in the hope of finding a way to reproduce. Some think the answer lies in a union between Deceiver and Reclaimer; others seek an alchemical solution that would have us fundamentally changed. There is even a small misguided number who believe that the change will just occur over time.’
‘Frankly, I hope you do not find such a solution,’ Helen said with asperity. Just the thought of it was appalling.
The Comte gave a soft laugh.
‘What else is it that you want, Louis?’ Carlston asked, bringing the Comte back to the deal at hand.
‘I think you may guess.’
‘Julien?’
‘I want him protected.’ The Comte held up a finger, forestalling Carlston’s comment. ‘Not reclaimed. I am convinced that it is, to a small degree, my vestige that gives him his creativity. I want him left alone to live out his human life. To play his music. I think he will be one of the greats.’
Helen glanced at his lordship. He truly believed in reclaiming the souls of offspring. Surely he would not agree to protect one of them from salvation.
Yet there he was, giving a slow nod. ‘All I can guarantee is protection for the extent of my lifespan.’
The Comte smiled. ‘I have great faith in your ability to survive, Guillaume.’
‘However,’ Carlston continued, ‘protecting Julien from my colleagues will be quite an undertaking. You will need to give me something more.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Everything you know about the Grand Deceiver.’
The two men stared at one another. Helen felt her heartbeat like a ticking clock, measuring the silent struggle. She concentrated fiercely upon the Comte’s face. There was, as far as she could tell, conflict, even fear, but no deception.
Finally the old gentleman nodded. ‘I have some information that will lead you in the right direction. Is that enough?’
Carlston regarded him closely. ‘You do not have a name?’
‘No.’ The Comte raised his hand. ‘I swear on Antoinette’s soul.’
It seemed that vow was sacred, for Carlston nodded. ‘Even so, Louis, if you want me to survive long enough to protect your son, you need to give me something now. Think of it as an investment in Julien’s future.’
‘I will tell you this, Guillaume,’ the Comte said soberly. ‘Do not underestimate what is coming your way.’ He glanced at Helen, drawing her into his warning. ‘We too have our Lusus Naturae, our freaks of nature. What they can do is beyond even my comprehension. It will take both of you to defeat the Grand Deceiver.’
Helen felt something primal tighten her spine.
‘That is what you are giving me?’ Carlston scoffed. ‘I could have told you that myself.’
The Comte smiled, but the implacability was back in his voice. ‘You do not know anything, Guillaume. Bring me the journal and I will tell you what I know about you,’ a glance gathered Helen into his statement, ‘and the Grand Deceiver.’
He held out his hand. Carlston regarded him for a long moment, wariness back in his eyes, then he grasped it and shook.
‘Now, shall we have champagne? To celebrate?’ The Comte’s bonhomie was back in place.
‘I am afraid not,’ Carlston said, standing. ‘Lady Helen and I must return to the salon before our absence is noted.’
Helen rose from her chair and laid her hand upon his offered arm, the magnitude of what had transpired gathering into a rolling, crashing avalanche through her mind. His lordship knew about Lowry. He knew about the journal. He knew.
The old Deceiver stood as well. ‘Before you go, Lady Helen, will you answer a question?’
She could barely focus upon what he said. ‘A question?’
‘Would you say you are a person who follows her head or her heart?’
She stared at him, momentarily diverted. Such an odd thing to ask. ‘I am a rational person, sir. I believe I follow my head.’
‘I see.’ The Comte bowed. ‘Then I wish you good luck.’
Chapter Fourteen
Out in the hallway, Helen took her hand from Carlston’s arm. From now on, he would be fixed upon finding the journal. Moreover, he would expect her and Mr Hammond to help him. It was all getting worse and worse. She could not tell him about their involvement, yet it felt just as much of a betrayal to hide her knowledge from him.
He watched her with a questioning lift of brow. She offered a wan smile. There was no way around it; she had to keep the secret and pray that his lordship did not see through her lies. It was terrible to think it, but his sickness-dulled senses could work in her favour.
‘That was quite a lot to comprehend,’ she started.
‘Wait. Let us return to the salon.’
He offered his arm again. She tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and allowed herself to be led through the throng milling on the landing and back into the salon, her mind rapidly turning over strategies. Should she take the offensive; deflect the subject; keep quiet?
The dancing had ceased for the while, only a fiddler and flautist providing music that was barely audible above the high hum of conversation in the large room. Most of the company had shifted to the supper room, or gathered into groups to chat and partake of the punch à la romaine offered on trays by the footmen. Carlston steered her towards a pair of empty chairs set in the corner of the f
ar wall. He waved away a footman offering them the tall glasses of the milky, iced rum.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘we can keep an eye on anyone approaching. I do not want us to be overheard.’
Helen took a seat and busied herself with the arrangement of her gown. As Carlston took the other chair, she said, ‘If I did not know better, I would think the Comte to be one of your oldest and dearest friends.’ It seemed she was taking the offensive path.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He was plainly startled by the attack. ‘On the contrary: I do not trust the Comte and he does not trust me. It is just that we have dealt with each other many times before and have a respect for each other’s abilities. In the end, however, we both know that we will do what is in our own best interest. That is certainly not my definition of friendship.’
Helen leaped upon his wording. ‘Do you not mean the interests of the Dark Days Club?’
Carlston frowned. ‘Of course. What did you think I meant?’
‘Offering to supply pages of the journal. Promising to protect Comte Julien. That is stretching our oath, Lord Carlston.’
‘Ah.’ He rubbed his mouth. ‘Yes, it could be construed as such. But if we are to get any useful information as to the identity of the Grand Deceiver, that must be worth a step outside our purview. Do you not agree?’
‘Surely the oath must be our guide to what is correct?’
‘Nothing is clear-cut in this world of ours, Lady Helen. You should understand that by now.’
‘Certainly,’ she said stiffly. ‘Nevertheless, I do not think it has to be this …’ she searched for an appropriate description, ‘murky.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘Wait until you start dealing directly with Pike and the Home Office.’
Helen felt her cheeks heat and turned her face, pretending to survey the room to hide the telltale flush. Time to change the subject.
‘The Comte was very difficult to read. As far as I could tell, he was sincere, particularly when speaking about his family.’
‘Yes, that part of the interview rang true. I hope you did not believe all that other information about the origin of the Deceivers. I can tell you from experience that any information Louis offers for free is either a lie or a half-truth at best.’
She focused on the fan in her hands, her voice at its most noncommittal. ‘Then perhaps the existence of Mr Benchley’s journal is a lie too.’
‘No, he would not make a bargain for the well-being of his wife and son built upon a lie that could be so easily discovered. He certainly believes that a journal exists.’
Helen clutched the head of her fan. ‘Do you think it exists?’
‘Benchley was always adamant that he did not commit any of his knowledge to paper; a ploy to make himself more valuable. Even so, it is just as possible that he did write such a journal. And if he did, then its content will not be limited to information about Deceivers.’
‘What do you mean?’
Did his lordship know it was a Ligatus? If he did, then surely that must support Pike’s accusation that he had played a part in its manufacture?
‘I guarantee there will be information about myself in it. And probably about you and the other Reclaimers as well.’
He paused, waiting for her response. Belatedly, she nodded. He did not know. Or if he did, she could not see the lie. Holy heaven, she would go mad too with all this second-guessing.
‘We must find Lowry and determine whether it exists or not,’ he added. ‘If it does, I want it safe in my hands. Lowry must either give it to me or be forced to do so. I must have d’Antraigues’s information.’
His hands were fists on his lap, the knuckles outlined under the thin silk of his gloves. She could almost feel his desperation.
‘What then?’ she asked. ‘Will you take the journal to Mr Pike?’
Perhaps his lordship would acknowledge that it belonged with the Dark Days Club and this nightmare would be over.
‘Pike?’ Carlston gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I would rather hand it over to the Comte. Ignatious Pike has a vendetta against me, Lady Helen, and I must admit, I return the dislike with equal violence. He may not have been directly involved in my wife’s disappearance, but I am sure he is complicit, if only by his silence. I would not place something in his hands that could be used to compromise or compel. Surely you have seen he is without honour.’
Yes, she certainly had seen Pike’s lack of honour. Still, that did not mean his dislike was not based upon a true injury.
‘What is the cause of his animosity, Lord Carlston?’
The question was dismissed with a wave of his hand. ‘It does not matter.’
It mattered to her, a great deal.
‘Do you say that because he has good reason?’
‘Good reason?’ Carlston drew back and crossed his arms. ‘Exactly how low is your opinion of me?’
‘What else am I to think?’
He regarded her for a narrowed-eyed moment. ‘He was a Terrene; did you know?’ She nodded. ‘Four or so years ago, his Reclaimer, Sir Dennis Calloway, came to me for assistance in reclaiming a mad woman. Calloway knew she was an Unreclaimable but for some reason he wanted to attempt it. I refused; told him to do his duty and put an end to her misery. Instead, he went ahead. The woman got hold of a weapon and killed him, then absconded. In Pike’s mind, it is my fault that he lost his Reclaimer and his Terrene powers.’
‘That does not seem fair.’
She felt absurdly indignant on his behalf, and more than a little relieved. There was no good reason.
‘If you expect fairness, Lady Helen, you had best abandon normal society and join Mr Owen’s Utopian experiment.’ He turned his attention to the milling groups of people in the ballroom. ‘We must find Hammond. I think he may have a way of locating Lowry.’
‘Mr Hammond?’ Helen echoed, her body tensing.
‘Yes, he pointed out Lowry as Benchley’s new Terrene in Vauxhall Gardens. Named him as a low sort, if you recall. Perhaps he has some knowledge of the man’s associates that will lead us in the right direction.’
‘A good thought,’ she managed. Sweet heaven, she had to get to Hammond and warn him. ‘Well,’ she said, feigning a thoughtful tone, ‘we cannot do more here, and people will start to talk if I am much more in your company.’
‘You are right.’ He fixed upon a group of laughing officers. ‘Miss Cransdon is over there, amidst a horde of redcoats. Allow me to take you to her.’
Helen rose from her chair with alacrity and was duly delivered to Delia’s side, his lordship quickly making his bow to both ladies.
‘I shall leave you in the tender care of the Army,’ he said dryly.
Helen watched him walk away, clearly searching for Hammond, then unfurled her fan and gathered Delia behind its cover.
‘Do you know the whereabouts of Mr Hammond?’ she whispered.
‘I believe he escorted Lady Margaret to the card room. Is something wrong?’
‘I have a message for him.’ She clasped Delia’s arm in farewell. ‘I shall see you soon, in the supper room.’
‘Wait, I will come with you,’ Delia said.
Before Helen could demur, her friend had curtseyed to the officers, laughing at the men’s exuberant protests, and started towards the salon doors, linking Helen’s arm within her own.
‘I thought I would never get away,’ she whispered. ‘Their conversation was becoming a little … outré.’
Helen gave a tight smile. The last thing she wanted was company, but at least they were ahead of Lord Carlston.
The card room, usually a gentleman’s study by the very masculine oak and burgundy walls, was almost as noisy as the salon. Most of the chatter, however, issued from the groups of people who watched the five card tables, not from the intent players.
Helen scanned the faces around the brightly lit room. Mrs Carrington-Hurst was not in evidence, and hopefully no other Deceivers had arrived in the interim. She did not want this conversation to be overheard.
‘There he is,’ Delia said, pointing to the compact form of Mr Hammond. He stood behind his sister, who was seated at the far table with cards in hand.
‘Wait here,’ Helen said to Delia, and began to thread her way through the spectators.
Mr Hammond saw her approaching and gave a small wave of welcome. ‘Margaret is, as ever, making a tidy sum,’ he whispered as she stepped in beside him.
His sister glanced up, acknowledged Helen’s arrival with a tilt of her glossy black head, then turned back to her cards.
‘We need to speak privately,’ Helen murmured.
Hammond nodded, immediately alert, and followed her as she edged to the marble hearth. It was one of the few clear spaces, being too far away from the action of the card tables and overheated by the fire in the grate.
‘Keep smiling,’ she warned, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘The Comte knows about Lowry’s journal. He has made it his price.’
She briefly recounted the deal that had been struck and her subsequent conversation with his lordship, watching the full horror of it register in Hammond’s eyes.
‘God’s blood,’ he swore through his teeth, although he kept his face valiantly fixed into a smile. ‘So his lordship is after the journal too?’
Helen nodded. Dear Lord, how she longed to tell him it was a Ligatus. Share the burden. Yet she could not. She must sit with the knowledge of it like a burning coal in her mind, alight with malevolence.
‘Not only that, but his lordship is looking for you now, to speak to you about your knowledge of Lowry. You named him at Vauxhall Gardens and his lordship thinks you may know his associates.’
‘And so now we must act directly against his lordship.’ Hammond pulled at the side of his cravat as if its folds had tightened, his eyes finding the doorway. ‘This is too much.’
‘Do you think we should tell him about Pike?’
‘Break our oaths?’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘Dear God, I wish I had more courage, but I do not want to die by the rope, my name loathed by all decent men. If we tell him, it will be treason and we will both be ruined. Besides, if we lead Carlston to the journal, he will take it to the Comte — he thinks it is his only way to a cure.’
The Dark Days Pact Page 21