Indeed, he was not. It could be no accident that he had timed his visit to coincide with one of the rare times she was alone.
She shifted from the armchair to the sofa, which offered a better view of the door, and waited for Garner to present the Reclaimer’s card. It duly arrived, set upon the silver salver. Helen picked up the printed introduction: as unembellished as the man himself.
‘Yes, I am at home,’ she instructed the butler.
Garner bowed. ‘Would you like me to call for Mr Quinn, my lady?’
‘Whatever for?’ She saw something deepen beneath the butler’s polite expression: suspicion. He did not like the unexpected visit. Should she be wary too? She could see no reason for it. ‘I am sure I will be quite safe, Garner. Thank you.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’ He bowed and left to retrieve Mr Stokes.
Helen straightened the pleats on the bodice of her cream gown and touched the blue riband threaded through her hair. Apart from Lord Carlston and Mr Benchley — who, frankly, could not be counted — Mr Stokes was the only other Reclaimer she had met. Perhaps here was a chance to discover more about their strange occupation. Maybe even find some sort of ally in the murky recesses of the Dark Days Club.
Before long, her visitor was seated opposite her, shaking his head at the offer of tea. ‘No, thank you, Lady Helen. I am afraid my visit must be brief.’
She dismissed the waiting butler with a wave of her hand. ‘That will be all for now. Thank you.’
Garner bowed and closed the doors behind him. Mr Stokes sat still with his blond head tilted — listening to the butler descend the staircase, Helen realised — then he gave a nod of satisfaction and smiled, his eyes crinkling into disarming warmth.
‘Your butler does not trust me.’
‘No,’ Helen said baldly, earning a wider smile from the Reclaimer.
‘I am glad your household is so well-primed for your safety.’ He gestured to the window with one long hand, and Helen noticed an old jagged scar that started between his thumb and finger and disappeared under his jacket cuff. A Reclaimer injury? ‘Are they, however, aware that your house is being watched?’
‘Watched? Are you sure?’ Helen rose from her chair and crossed to the window. A scan of the quiet street showed only a maid sweeping a front doorstep. ‘A Deceiver?’
‘Not that my lens could determine,’ Stokes said, patting the fob pocket in his buckskins. ‘The man is wearing a coat, but beneath I saw livery colours. The Duke of Selburn’s, I believe.’
Oh, no. At least his lordship had not been the one to discover it.
‘I would hazard the surveillance has nothing to do with Deceivers,’ Mr Stokes added, a sly slant to his voice.
Was he teasing her?
‘It is the talk of Brighton,’ he continued. ‘There is a book being taken on the date of the announcement.’
Helen gave one last glance out of the window, then returned to her chair. ‘Brighton is wrong. There will be no announcement.’
Mr Stokes cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Did you hear that? All of the society mamas in England sighing with relief.’
Helen stifled a smile. ‘His attentions are proving difficult, Mr Stokes,’ she said.
He sobered. ‘I know. He has been inquiring about Lord Carlston and your companions at Whitehall. Did you want some assistance in the matter?’
Helen held up her hand. ‘That will not be necessary.’
She certainly did not want another member of the Dark Days Club set against the Duke, and her harsh reply to his letter would, hopefully, settle the matter once and for all.
Stokes nodded. ‘Of course.’ He pulled a letter from inside his burgundy jacket. ‘I have this for you, from Mr Pike.’
Helen took the proffered packet; it was surprisingly heavy. The fold was sealed with wax and she felt a hard familiar shape beneath her thumb: a key. Ah, he was here to deliver the promised gold for Lowry. Fifteen thousand pounds worth, which would be almost the same weight as an average man. Not an easy thing to carry around, even for a Reclaimer.
‘Good Lord, you haven’t brought it here, have you?’ she asked. How was she to hide a stack of gold bullion that was never to be used?
‘I brought nothing other than that packet. Were you expecting something else?’
‘No.’ She waved away her comment. ‘I misremembered the arrangement. That is all.’
It seemed he was not in Pike’s confidence. Of course he would not be, Helen chastised herself. Pike had made it dangerously clear that he did not want any of the other Reclaimers to know about the journal nor the horrifying fact that it was a Ligatus. Another reason to keep his lordship’s search for it a secret. Pike’s packet, then, must hold the location of the gold.
Stokes looked around the drawing room, his attention coming to rest upon her books on the side table between them. ‘I have interrupted your studies.’ He leaned across and opened Elements of Alchemy. ‘Carlston is not making you read this ghastly stuff, is he?’
She laughed. ‘He is. Did you have to read it too?’
‘I certainly did, but my mentor quickly discovered that my forte was fighting, not alchemy.’ He kept his eyes upon the book, turning pages. ‘How is Lord Carlston?’
Although his tone was as congenial as ever, the question was far more than just polite inquiry. Helen felt her spine stiffen. Beneath his easy manners, Mr Stokes was still very much a hunter. He may not be in Pike’s confidence about the journal, but he certainly knew about Lord Carlston’s state of mind.
‘He is very well, thank you.’
Stokes let the book’s cover slap back into place. ‘You know that is not what I am asking, Lady Helen.’ He looked up, his hazel eyes intent. ‘Has he shown any deterioration?’
Helen rose from her chair and walked to the hearth. ‘You can tell Pike that he is unchanged.’
Stokes regarded her for a long moment, patently searching her face for lies. He smiled. ‘Ah, I see.’
Helen turned her back, her heart beating her dismay. He had seen her true feelings for the Earl. She placed Pike’s instruction on the mantel to be read later, although she had no intention of using the gold. Right now, she had a decision to make. Did she end this interview; or take a chance and play a dangerous card, gambling that the man before her was as honourable as Lady Margaret claimed?
She faced him again. ‘Mr Pike seems convinced Lord Carlston is on the same path as Mr Benchley.’
‘Yes, he does.’
At least he did not pretend it was not so. She ground her palms together. ‘Do you think Lord Carlston is going mad?’
‘I have seen him only once since his return to England. He did not seem … himself.’
She regarded him for a long moment; he was playing his own close game. She could only trust her instincts. With a wordless prayer, she turned her card. ‘I think Mr Pike intends to kill him.’
In the quiet elegance of the drawing room, it sounded absurdly melodramatic.
Stokes crossed his arms. ‘Mr Pike may be a bureaucrat born from the shop, but he acts within the bounds of his position and for the good of the Dark Days Club and England.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Lady Helen, you must understand that at present, Mr Pike is, for all intents and purposes, our commanding officer. He has the authority of the King and of Parliament, and so we must obey his orders. I can see you may not have had much experience with the sanctity of chain of command, but I am sure you recognise the sanctity of our oath.’
‘Of course I do.’ Lately it felt as if she could think of nothing else.
‘Mr Pike does not act alone. If such a dire order were issued, it would be ratified by the highest sources in the land.’
Helen swallowed; her mouth felt parched. ‘Is it going to be issued, Mr Stokes?’
‘We must pray to God that Lord Carlston can hold his own against the darkness.’
Hardly a resounding denial. Helen paced across the hearthstone.
�
��I spent my youth in the Army,’ Stokes added. ‘I have seen what happens on the battlefield when orders are disobeyed, or those above break under pressure. Campaigns can hinge on the delivery of a message or the removal of one person. We in the middle of the battle cannot see the whole, Lady Helen. We must trust those who can.’
‘And you think Mr Pike can see the whole?’
‘He may only have been Sir Dennis Calloway’s Terrene, and a butcher’s son at that, but he has the kind of devious mind required for the intrigues of our world.’
‘I do not know how you can say that. He does not even believe that a Grand Deceiver is in England.’
Stokes sat forward. ‘Do you truly think you are here to battle a Grand Deceiver?’
Helen paused, taken aback by the sudden shift of subject to herself. ‘Yes. I do. The evidence points to it.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘I am a direct inheritor. I have seen Deceivers working together. Two of them have actually told me that a Grand Deceiver is amongst us and that he is coming for me. I know deception is their nature, but I believe it.’
Stokes sat forward. ‘I believe it too, Lady Helen.’
‘You do?’ She smiled, the sudden rush of relief making her sway upon her feet. ‘I was beginning to think that we have no allies in the Dark Days Club. That it is totally corrupt.’
‘Corrupt?’ Stokes seemed genuinely startled. ‘In what way?’
‘The things that people are doing …’ She circled her hand, trying to find the right words. ‘There does not seem to be any morality.’
His mouth quirked; not in amusement, Helen decided, but a kind of sad sympathy. ‘My dear girl, here is a truth that every soldier must understand: an army at war has its own morality, made of necessity. This tiny army of ours must do whatever is in its power to protect England. I suggest you come to peace with that as soon as you can.’
He regarded her gravely, patently expecting a response. Yet how was she to come to terms with an idea that opposed everything she had been taught throughout her life? Surely there was only one morality in the world?
Stokes broke the awkward silence. ‘Let me reassure you that you do have allies, although we are not great in number. All of the Reclaimers believe a Grand Deceiver is approaching. We who walk in that world amongst the Deceivers cannot deny these new signs that herald such a creature. It is true Mr Pike is yet to be convinced — he is a cautious man — but he will soon come to the same conclusion. Amongst the Reclaimers, it is only myself and Jacob Hallifax who agree with Lord Carlston’s assessment of your role. The other Reclaimers cannot believe, or will not believe, that you are the warrior sent to destroy a Grand Deceiver. For them it is impossible to imagine that a young woman nobly born and barely beyond the schoolroom could defeat such a foe.’
Helen crossed her arms. ‘How, then, do they explain the fact that I am a direct inheritor?’
‘They have decided that you are here to take the vestige darkness from a true warrior in order to save him for the battle. In their minds, Lord Carlston is that warrior. He is the highest-ranked amongst us and the most experienced; the best chance to lead us to victory.’
Helen stared at him. ‘They want me to take his darkness into my soul?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Why do they not offer to take his lordship’s darkness upon themselves? Why do they not volunteer to encase their essence in a black abyss, to lose all compassion and tenderness, to hasten their own descent into madness?’
‘Because it is a woman’s place to make such a sacrifice,’ he said dryly. ‘Your mother took Benchley’s darkness and it gave him ten more years of sanity. Why not the daughter?’
‘She did not take it willingly,’ Helen said, her voice rising. ‘He forced his darkness upon her without her knowledge.’
‘I know,’ Stokes said, a flash of his raised palms acknowledging the injustice. ‘Yet all they see is that Benchley proved it could be done. That it could save Lord Carlston.’
‘He would not want such a cure. He would never accept it.’
‘You are quite right. Lord Carlston, in his right mind, would never seek such a cure. However, the prospect of homicidal insanity could make even the most staunch man waver in his beliefs.’ He rubbed the back of his head wearily, ruffling the blond curls. ‘All Reclaimers suffer, to some degree, from the vestige darkness. I have it lodged in me, bringing its torments. You will have it soon enough once you start fighting and reclaiming. Even if we stop reclaiming before madness sets in, there is still a weight always upon the soul. It is part of the payment for such gifts.’
‘How do you keep fighting with the knowledge that you are harming your soul?’
He smiled. ‘I have never thought it good enough to lead just a blameless life, Lady Helen. It has always been important to me to have a purpose beyond my own small concerns. You and I, and the other Reclaimers, have been given the tools for great purpose. In my experience, life is always a question of courage. Which way do we run when we see danger: away from it, or towards it?’
‘It depends on what the danger is,’ Helen said.
‘No. It depends on what is at stake. And for us, it is the highest stake of all. The safety of mankind.’ He rose from his chair. ‘You have allies in the Dark Days Club, Lady Helen. People who believe in your great purpose. I am one of them. If you should ever need me, I am lodging at 12 Church Street, just beyond the Brooks Chapel.’
‘Thank you,’ Helen said, surprised to find that her voice cracked upon the words.
He bowed. ‘I bid you good day, Lady Helen.’ He walked to the door and opened it, then turned back. ‘Lord Carlston told me that you have courage in abundance. I see now that he is right.’
The door closed behind him.
Helen steadied herself with a hand upon the mantel. She had an ally, albeit one who believed rather too uncritically in the Dark Days Club and Mr Pike. She clenched her fist. How dare those other Reclaimers think she was useful only as a dump for Lord Carlston’s vestige darkness. She was much more than that; she was a direct inheritor! At least Mr Stokes and Mr Hallifax did not subscribe to the idea.
Helen rubbed her forehead. The whole business was a labyrinth, and she could only see one thing clearly: the Ligatus journal. It held the way to Lord Carlston’s cure, her own safety, and the protection of England. She could no longer wait for Lowry to appear. She must act.
Chapter Eighteen
WEDNESDAY, 15 JULY 1812
Helen smoothed down the front of her breeches and sat on the edge of her bed, regarding her hessian boots. Their close fit made them the devil to put on by herself, particularly with Reclaimer strength; it was far too easy to misjudge a tug or pull and rip a garment apart. She had already destroyed one shirt. However, she could hardly call in Darby to help, not when she meant to creep out of the house unnoticed. With a rallying breath, she picked up the right boot and worked her stockinged foot into the long shaft.
The sound of departure rose from the foyer downstairs. She listened, finding the squeak of carriage springs and the jingle of the harness as Lady Margaret and Delia stepped into the carriage. They were headed for the Devil’s Dyke, a nearby picturesque place of interest, and a rendezvous with another informer. Helen had excused herself from attending the expedition, claiming a sick headache from her courses. In fact, she intended to visit Kate Holt’s bawdy-house to find Martha Gunn’s informer, Binny, and ask her if Lowry had visited recently — perhaps to hide the journal — or if Philip had been seen in the area. After all, she had seen the Deceiver herself twice near the Steine, and Kate Holt’s house stood in the nest of lanes in the Old Town, just west of it.
Helen had to admit she was daunted by the idea of setting foot in such a depraved place. From what Martha had said, it was a den of perversions. Lud, they probably fornicated in front of one another, counting it as one of the attractions. She certainly did not want to witness the carnal act again. As it was, she could not rid herself of the memory of seeing it for the first time in Vauxhall Gardens — the horror of
the Deceiver thrusting into his victim against a wall as he drained away her life force. Helen shuddered. How was she to walk into a fleshpot that sold the most private parts of a woman for the use of any man and still maintain a complacent face, as if fornication were nothing more than sport? And what if her disguise was not good enough and she was unmasked as a woman? Would she have to fight her way out? Lowry would certainly hear of such a commotion and abandon any plan to take refuge in the house.
Even so, Helen knew she had to act before Lord Carlston returned from London. She and Mr Hammond had to retrieve the journal before his lordship discovered it, then she must secure the Ligatus and hand it over to Pike. If that meant braving the bawdy-house, she must put aside her sensibilities and get it done.
She yanked the tight instep over her foot and blew out a relieved breath. Boot and foot still intact. She picked up the other hessian and worked her foot down to the instep, pulling hard. A closer sound — Darby’s familiar tread across the dressing room carpet and the opening of the clothes press — swung her around to face the adjoining door.
‘Do not come in, Darby. I am not well.’
Yet the door opened. Darby stood at the threshold, Helen’s green gentleman’s jacket in her arms.
‘I told you not to come in,’ Helen said.
‘Forgive me, my lady, but I thought you might need some help getting ready.’ Darby lifted the jacket.
Helen busied herself with her boot. Her maid was too perceptive. ‘Getting ready for what?’ She finally felt her foot slide into place.
‘Going out on your own, my lady. Testing yourself. Mr Quinn has been wondering when you would finally come to it. He thought you might not do so at all, but I knew you would.’ She regarded Helen’s frown. ‘It is what you intend, isn’t it?’
It was close enough. ‘You were expecting it?’
‘Mr Quinn says that all this training is nothing without the confidence to use it. At some point, he said, you would have to prove to yourself that you can do what the Dark Days Club demands of you.’ She walked across to Helen and held out the jacket. ‘Shall I help you into it, my lady?’
The Dark Days Pact Page 25