Pike crossed his arms. ‘Neither of them is convinced by your evidence that a Grand Deceiver has arrived in England.’
‘Not convinced?’ Helen exclaimed. ‘But the Deceiver who attacked me said he served a Grand Deceiver.’
‘They are Deceivers, Lady Helen,’ Pike said with a note of condescension in his voice. ‘They manage to live as humans and fool us all. Deception is their nature.’
‘And yet we saw a number of them working together at Bellingham’s hanging,’ Carlston said. ‘You know that is out of the ordinary.’
‘It is,’ Pike allowed. ‘But nothing in the archives even hints that such an occurrence points to the arrival of a Grand Deceiver.’
Carlston drew a breath through pinched nostrils. ‘Then what about Lady Helen herself? She is a direct inheritor; the Reclaimer daughter of a Reclaimer mother. That, at least, is documented.’
The wave of a thin hand dismissed his lordship’s words. Or, Helen thought, maybe it dismissed such a female lineage.
‘If I remember correctly, that archive only states that a direct inheritor has powers beyond a normal Reclaimer, to stand against all that may come.’ Pike looked inquiringly at Helen.
She felt obliged to shake her head: she had not yet exhibited any extra powers. A small mercy in her opinion; she was having enough difficulty with the ones she already had.
‘To stand against all that may come,’ Pike repeated. ‘Not a Grand Deceiver in particular; such a creature is never named. We cannot chase phantoms, Lord Carlston, especially with the Luddites rioting through the country and Bonaparte across the channel.’ He drew himself up. ‘You are expected at Lord Sidmouth’s house to dine this evening, my lord. I suggest you start your journey as soon as possible.’
He gave a small bow, his eyes meeting Helen’s again for an odd, intense moment, then he turned and walked back the way he had come, looking neither to the left at the sea, nor to the right at the handsome row of houses. Mr Pike, it seemed, had not the time or inclination for a beautiful view.
Lady Margaret lifted her shoulders as if struck by a sudden chill. ‘Horrid man.’
‘Why does he not believe you?’ Helen asked Lord Carlston. A jab of pain in her hand drew her attention to the fact that she was holding her parasol like a club, the lever biting into her palm. She eased her grip.
‘Because it is I who brought the news,’ he said acidly. ‘Ignatious Pike is the bureaucratic heart of the Dark Days Club and its senior officer, yet he just delivered a summons that could easily have been carried by one of his underlings. So why did he make the journey?’
‘Good point,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘Perhaps it was to acknowledge you as the new leader of the Reclaimers.’
‘No, he is here on some other business,’ his lordship said. ‘But what, I wonder.’
Mr Hammond pulled his fob watch from his breeches’ pocket. ‘He is right about one thing. If Sidmouth expects you tonight, that does not give you much time to get back to Mayfair. It is already near eleven thirty.’
Helen calculated the journey. It had taken her and Lady Margaret seven hours to travel to Brighton, but that had been in a coach-and-four, using the ill-matched teams that went for hire at the posting inns. His lordship had driven down in his curricle, a far lighter equipage, and he kept his own thoroughbreds stabled at the inns for each change. He could possibly make it back to London within five hours. Still, it would mean he would most probably not start his return to Brighton until the following morning.
The thought brought a small slump of disappointment. She had begun to look forward to her training. The long hours under his lordship’s tutelage were never easy — he gave no quarter — but the challenge was exhilarating, and it took her away from Lady Margaret’s reminders of her duty.
Now he would be away for a day. Probably two.
Two days without the chance of touching him.
She coughed, shocked by the thought. Could she not even last five minutes without her mind taking a lascivious path?
‘I shall make London by evening, and return Sunday afternoon,’ Carlston said, confirming her estimate. Yet she heard something in his tone that made her observe him more closely. He was uneasy in a way she had not seen before.
He turned to address her, once more the stern instructor. ‘While I am away, I want you to start reading the Romford book on alchemy — pay particular attention to the binding rituals — and practise your male disguise. The pitch of your voice is coming along well, but your gait needs a lot more work. Mr Hammond, I trust you will assist Lady Helen and deal with any other issues that arise?’
Mr Hammond straightened. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘I take my leave then.’ Carlston bowed, then plainly bethought himself of something else and turned back to Helen, his eyes finding the touch watch around her neck. ‘When I gave that to you, I am sure I told you not to wear it on your person.’
‘You said not to wear it on a chain.’ She hooked the cord around her thumb. ‘See, it is on silk. And you said the enamelling was made of glass and would insulate —’
‘I said the enamelling may insulate the metal underneath from creating a pathway for a Deceiver’s whip-energy. But do you really want to take the chance?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not.’ His tone sharpened. ‘Carry it in your reticule, and listen more carefully.’
Helen pulled the cord over her head, opened the tiny purse and dropped the dangling watch inside. ‘You wear yours,’ she muttered. Even to herself she sounded like a sullen child.
‘I wear mine in a specially prepared leather-lined pocket in my breeches. As far as I know, ladies’ gowns do not have pockets. Until they do, or you are wearing your own breeches, carry the watch in your reticule. For once, do as you are told.’
Helen stiffened at the unfair criticism; she did everything she was told.
He pressed his fingers hard into his forehead. ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Helen. Forgive my ill humour. I clearly misled you regarding the effectiveness of the enamelling.’ With that, he strode away in the direction of his lodgings.
They watched his progress up the hill, each silent and unmoving as if his departure had somehow suspended them. At the corner of Camelford Street, he paused and looked back at them, then was gone.
‘He is far more ill-tempered than usual,’ Mr Hammond said.
‘It is just weariness,’ Lady Margaret said quickly. ‘They place too much upon him. It is a strain.’
Helen glanced at her; she was half right. Lord Carlston was weary and strained, but not only from the burden of his responsibilities. It was also the constant battle against the Deceiver darkness that shadowed his soul. She had seen the canker within him; had felt its corruption spreading, sapping the light from him, creeping a little deeper into his heart every time he reclaimed another Deceiver offspring. Yet he would not stop. Was it duty that compelled him to such risk, or something else?
She laid her hand on her chest where the touch watch had hung. There was only one known way to cleanse a Reclaimer’s soul: by pouring the darkness into another Reclaimer and destroying them instead. It had been Benchley’s despicable solution, but neither she nor his lordship would ever resort to such a heinous act.
She turned her gaze back to the empty street corner where his lordship had stood only moments before. Yet what would happen if Lord Carlston finally descended into the tormented madness of a poisoned soul?
She closed her eyes. Yes, what then?
Chapter Two
Mr Hammond was first to break the pensive silence. ‘Even after all this time, Pike holds a grudge,’ he said, offering his arm to his sister.
‘What did you expect?’ Lady Margaret replied. ‘He will always hate Lord Carlston.’
Shaking off her sense of dread, Helen put up her parasol again and considered what had just passed between his lordship and Mr Pike. They seemed to dislike each other in equal measure.
‘What has caused such animosity?’ she asked as th
ey started down the hill.
The brother and sister looked at one another. Mr Hammond gave a tiny shrug, as if to say, what is the harm? ‘Have you heard the name Sir Dennis Calloway?’ he asked.
‘He was another Reclaimer, was he not?’
Mr Hammond nodded. ‘And a friend to his lordship. He was killed four years ago by an Unreclaimable.’
‘Unreclaimable?’ Helen had not heard the word before.
‘It is as the name suggests,’ Hammond said. ‘A Deceiver offspring who is too affected by the vestige within it to be returned to humanity. Some are highly promiscuous, some are prone to fits of violence, and some are just insane. Apparently the Unreclaimable was a small woman and Sir Dennis underestimated her strength and cunning. Pike was his Terrene at the time.’
‘Really?’
Helen could not picture the thin, stooped Pike as a Reclaimer’s guard and aide. Terrenes were usually chosen for their large size and natural strength, like Lord Carlston’s man, Mr Quinn, or her own maid and Terrene-to-be, Darby. Their build was essential as it was a Terrene’s duty to wrestle their Reclaimer to the ground and force him — or, indeed, her — to release the lethal energy captured from a Deceiver. It was a difficult task at the best of times, made even more dangerous by the seduction of the deadly power. A Reclaimer would kill to keep it.
Helen had only shared the Deceiver’s whip-energy with Lord Carlston but could still feel an echo of it in her flesh. Faith, it had been like the sun coursing through her veins, so bright and hot and triumphant. Their bodies entwined within the delight —
‘Lady Helen?’ Lady Margaret’s voice broke through the heady sensation. ‘Are you quite well?’
Helen felt heat rise to her cheeks. She had been lost again in the memory of that power rushing through her body. She smiled, covering her disorientation. ‘Pike does not look like a Terrene.’
‘He used to,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘He was almost as big as Mr Quinn. But when a Reclaimer dies, the alchemical bond he had with his Terrene declines. Within a year after Sir Dennis’s death, Pike lost all of his enhanced abilities — his speed and strength and that wondrous accelerated healing — and became the man we see today. A shadow of what he once was.’
‘It must have been a wretched experience,’ Helen said.
She knew herself the exhilaration of that extraordinary physical power; how devastating to have it drain away.
‘The loss has certainly made him bitter, especially towards his lordship,’ Mr Hammond said. At Helen’s querying glance, he added, ‘Pike blames him for Sir Dennis’s death. He says Lord Carlston knew Sir Dennis was not up to the task but did not heed Pike’s request for assistance.’
His sister sniffed. ‘That was not the case at all.’
‘And yet his lordship has never denied it, Margaret.’
The path narrowed abruptly, forcing Helen to take a step back behind the brother and sister. It seemed Lord Carlston never denied any accusation of wrongdoing: not the murder of his wife, Lady Elise, nor Sir Dennis’s death. Did he just not care that he was blamed for such crimes, or was there more to it?
Mr Hammond looked back over his shoulder. ‘I suggest we go to Donaldson’s first and then walk across to the Castle Tavern. His lordship wants us to subscribe to their balls and card assemblies now that the Season has truly started.’
‘Are you sure he wants me to subscribe?’ Helen asked. ‘I thought I was supposed to be too unwell to attend balls.’
Mr Hammond shrugged. ‘That is what he said. No explanation.’
He turned back to navigate the path. As Helen followed him and Lady Margaret past the Marine Library — as good as Donaldson’s, according to her guidebook, but without its central position — she was struck anew by the similarity in the way the brother and sister moved: a graceful precision that gave him a wiry self-possession, and her a dainty elegance. Just in that trait their relationship to one another was obvious, but it became even more so when they turned to one another to speak and their features were mirrored: the same well-shaped nose, broad brow and expressive eyes, with a softer mouth for Lady Margaret, and the firmer lines of masculinity set upon Mr Hammond’s jaw and chin.
Helen had assumed Lady Margaret was the elder by a year or two, but such close similarity suggested they might be twins. It would explain the bond between them. For all their bickering, they had a true affection for one another. A true ease.
She looked out at the expanse of ocean, suddenly overcome by an ache that seemed to hollow her out. There was no one amongst her new companions with whom she could share a passing thought or laugh at the absurdity of others, no one she could trust with a silly secret. It was all Dark Days Club and focus, Lady Helen. Even Darby was intent upon training, all alight with her new Terrene responsibilities. But back in London, before all this madness, Helen had laughed and talked with Aunt, and her brother, Andrew, and Millicent, the best of all friends. Not now, of course. Nothing would ever compel her to drag them into the darkness of the Deceivers’ world.
Yet there was someone close to her who had already stepped halfway into the shadows of that world. Someone who would be better off with the knowledge of the Deceivers than without it. Her friend Delia. Helen wet her lips, tasting the sea’s salt on the tip of her tongue. It was just over two months since she had learned of Delia’s failed elopement. Aunt Leonore had returned from a trip to Ackermann’s Repository of Arts full of the latest gossip that Delia Cransdon had run away with a Mr Trent, who had then shot himself in front of her under the strangest of circumstances. Well, they had seemed strange at the time, but now it was obvious — to Helen, at least — that Mr Trent had been a Deceiver and Delia had witnessed his fiery demise.
Poor Delia. She had been whisked away to her family’s country estate, disgraced, disbelieved and fearing for her own sanity. Helen had written from London to say that she would soon be in Brighton, close enough to call upon her friend, but Delia had never replied, or perhaps had not been allowed to reply. Whatever the case, the ominous silence had prompted Helen to post another letter soon after her arrival in Brighton, and one a week after that too. Still no reply. In desperation she had sent another missive two days ago, this time by hired messenger. The man was due back that morning, hopefully carrying an invitation from Delia to call upon her and her parents.
And if not …?
Helen quelled the thought. She had to see her friend, with or without an invitation. She was the only one who could tell Delia the whole truth and reassure her she was not mad. It was even possible that she could arrange for Delia to accompany her back to Brighton as her companion, reinstate her in society and get her away from the threat of the sanatorium. Surely Delia’s parents would welcome such a solution, particularly since their spinster daughter’s upkeep would be someone else’s responsibility.
It was a good plan, except for one rather large, curt problem: Lord Carlston. Helen wiped her mouth with a gloved forefinger, feeling the salt scratch her lips into a burning sting. He would be furious that she had taken it upon herself to tell an innocent about the Deceivers. Yet Delia was not wholly an innocent; and if it was already done, his lordship could not change it, could he? Knowledge, after all, could not be unlearned.
They reached the bottom of the hill and Helen paused to take in the view of the beachfront: a stretch of pale pebbles that looked rather dangerous to unshod feet. She started to comment upon it to Mr Hammond, then realised she was standing alone. He and Lady Margaret had already walked ahead and made the turn into South Parade.
Helen quickened her pace to catch up, and so came upon Brighton’s famous promenade: the Steine. According to the guidebook, no other place in the kingdom was frequented by more beauty and fashion during the mornings and evenings of the Season.
That may be so, Helen thought as she surveyed the large expanse of fenced grass circled by a gravel path, but the Steine before her now seemed decidedly bare of both. The warmer weather had enticed very few visitors into the town centre,
and the shops and amenities that clustered around the Steine had an air of disappointed expectation. Then again, Helen conceded, half past eleven was counted as obscenely early for many of the fashionable set.
Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret were waiting for her to join them. She fell in beside Lady Margaret, ignoring her impatient scowl, and appraised a jeweller’s window as they strolled past. A thin gold armlet in the Egyptian style demanded a second look.
As Helen paused, she caught sight of two men in the periphery of her vision, crossing the road near the Castle Tavern: a tall figure with a reddish cast to his hair beneath a shabby grey beaver hat, and a smaller, swarthier man. It was just a glimpse, but her entire body clenched with cold alarm. The way the taller man moved, his breadth of shoulder, the bright glint in his hair — all reminded her of Philip. She spun around, her eyes fixed upon the now empty street corner.
‘Lady Helen, is something wrong?’ Mr Hammond asked.
‘I thought I saw the Deceiver who posed as my uncle’s footman. The one who stole the Colligat and killed Benchley.’
‘Where?’ Lady Margaret demanded.
Helen pointed across the Steine. ‘He walked along there with another man and crossed into that street.’ It was quite a distance to be claiming recognition from one glance, even with her Reclaimer eyesight. Maybe she was overreacting. ‘I cannot be sure it was him.’
‘Still, if there is any chance of retrieving the Colligat, we must investigate,’ Mr Hammond said, urging them forward. ‘What does he look like?’
Helen gave a brief description of Philip as they crossed the road at an unseemly trot and took the pathway that cut through the green expanse of the Steine. Helen clasped her bonnet to her head, murmuring an apology to a startled elderly lady as the three of them hurried past. They reached the corner and peered down the road. A pair of giggling maidservants walked arm in arm, a brewer hauled a barrel from his cart, and a fashionable gentleman stood viewing a window display of books. No sign of a tall young man in a grey beaver, or his shorter dark-haired companion.