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 far 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 non-committal. “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.”
“You do not sound certain of the Comte’s cure.”
“He is a Deceiver. I do not trust him on principle.”
“Perhaps we could persuade his lordship just to take the relevant pages for the Comte and give the rest to Pike.”
Even as she said it, she knew Pike would see that as an even greater treason. Not only to break their oath, but to allow part of a Ligatus to fall into the hands of a Deceiver.
“Do you really think his lordship would agree to that?” Hammond asked. “He will not let Pike have that journal.”
True. And if his lordship knew it was a Ligatus as well, he would be even more set upon keeping it from Pike.
“Even worse,” Hammond added, “I do not think his lordship would ever be able to forgive us for such a betrayal, especially in his present state. Right now I am not even sure he would not kill us himself.”
“No! He would never do that.”
Hammond regarded her gravely. “I saw Benchley’s deterioration, and his lordship’s decline is happening a great deal faster.”
Helen turned her face away from the brutal assessment. His lordship had thought the speed of his deterioration had not been marked. He was clearly wrong.
The intensity of their conversation was drawing attention from a gentleman on the other side of the room. “Laugh,” she ordered and waved her fan coquettishly, sending warm air across them both. “We are under scrutiny.”
Hammond obeyed, dredging up a reasonable facsimile of mirth. “What should we do? What is our plan?”
She heard the shift of responsibility in his voice. Sweet heaven, he was looking to her for answers.
“Why do you think I have a plan?” she hissed. “I have only just found this out myself.”
“You are the Reclaimer, Lady Helen,” he said through his ghastly smile. “You are Lord Carlston’s equal. You can face Lowry with his extra Terrene strength, and you have the leverage of being one of only seven protectors in this land.” He stared at her, desperation in his eyes. “In the end, Pike may not be able to cast you aside, but I am entirely expendable.”
He was right. Yet she was hardly Lord Carlston’s equal – in courage or experience – nor did she have any leverage other than her current usefulness to Pike. She stared at the floor, trying to calm the frantic darting of her thoughts and review their very limited options. She could see no other viable path than the one they were on.
“We must go ahead as before,” she said. “Lord Carlston does not know Lowry is from Brighton. While he discovers that fact, it will give us time to find the journal. When we do, the two of us will offer the Comte the pages that he wants. Perhaps we can obtain the information about his lordship’s malady and the Grand Deceiver and still deliver the journal to Pike.”
“Will the Comte deal with us?”
“I am not sure, but I hope so. He wants to be sure the information is expunged from the journal. I expect it does not matter who hands it to him.”
Hopefully she would be able to destroy the pages once the Comte had seen them and provided the information about Lord Carlston. Helen nodded, more to fix the feasibility of the plan within herself than with Mr Hammond.
“When his lordship finds you, can you give him the names of some London associates that will send him in that direction?” she asked.
Hammond smiled again and nodded, his eyes pained. “All this lying to him grieves me more than anything else.”
“It grieves me too, but it must be done.”
She felt the shame of it sliding like a Thames eel beneath the surface of her fear, waiting to rise as soon as she had a moment of reflection. But she could not let it overcome her now.
Hammond leaned in, as if to share an amusing story. “I am a very good liar, Lady Helen. My life has depended upon it many times. Even so, his lordship is a Reclaimer. What if he reads me and sees that I am lying?”
“It is my fear too. But this illness is creating doubt within him. We must use that.” She saw the shock widen Hammond’s eyes. “I know it is not honourable to use his misfortune, but none of this business has much honour, does it?”
She paused; should she tell him, at least, about Pike’s discovery of Lord Carlston’s illness? No, even that would be too much for him to hold back – it was almost too much for her as well. He would insist on warning Lord Carlston, and that would set disaster into motion: for him, for her, and possibly for the whole Dark Days Club.
She lifted her fan again, hiding the urgency of her next question. “Do you agree? Can you do this?”
“There is no choice, is there?”
“I must go before he finds you and sees us together.” She snapped the fan shut and curtseyed, ready to rejoin Delia.
“Lady Helen.”
She turned back.
“We will finish this soon,” Hammond said. It was half statement, half entreaty.
“We will,” she said. “We must.”