Unrepentant, he said, ‘I heard the gunshot and fighting and came looking for you.’ He gestured to Quinn with a bloodied hand. ‘Carlston’s man is in a bad way.’
It seemed Quinn had been heading for the narrow attic staircase at the end of the corridor; a smeared trail of blood down the wall mapped his collapse to the floor. A bloodied knife lay next to him. Both his eyes were closed, his hands clasped over his stomach wound, blood still seeping through his fingers. His skin had turned a waxy grey and his body had a frightening stillness about it.
Helen crouched beside him, praying she would find life. ‘Mr Quinn?’ She pressed her palm against his tattooed cheek. Still warm, and she felt his soft breath on her skin. ‘Quinn?’
No response, not even a shift in his shallow breathing.
‘He was conscious when I found him,’ the Duke said. He pointed at the attic steps, the door at the top ajar. ‘As far as I know, Carlston is in the attic, but I haven’t heard anyone move since I arrived. Quinn told me Carlston has killed Stokes. He kept on saying it.’
Helen clutched at the wall for support: his words felt as if a hammer had hit her chest. Stokes could not be dead. Must not be dead. She had liked the Reclaimer, even trusted him. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back her grief and the flood of ramifications. If it were true, Carlston would never forgive himself. Nor would the Dark Days Club.
Quinn had to be wrong, or the Duke had heard amiss.
Opening her eyes, she concentrated fiercely, listening for any kind of sound in the attic. Beside her, she heard Quinn’s shallow gasps, then four sets of approaching footsteps on the stairs, Pike’s voice — ‘You can’t go up there!’ — and then Mr Hammond’s curt rejoinder, ‘The devil take you, man!’ Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore their arrival and focused her hearing upward. Finally she found breathing, but only one person, every inhalation pained and sick. Even so, she recognised the rhythm: Carlston. And like a counterpoint within it, that incessant pulse that reached between them. Now she knew what it was: the call of the Grand Reclaimer bond.
‘My lady!’ Darby ran headlong up the stairs, her broad face drawn into exhausted shadows. She checked on the last step at the sight of Quinn. ‘Nathaniel!’
‘He is alive,’ Helen said quickly. ‘Stabbed in the stomach.’ She rose to her feet, making way for her maid.
Only Carlston in the attic: had he truly killed Stokes? If so, he must not have recognised the other Reclaimer. Maybe he would not recognise her. He had called her his love, but would that hold firm against the journal and its madness? Dear Lord, she had to find a way to get through to him.
Darby dropped to her knees beside Quinn, ripping her tucker from her bodice. ‘Nathaniel?’ She pressed the white linen against his wound. ‘Nathaniel, can you hear me?’ She looked up at Helen. ‘Why is he not healing? Shouldn’t he be healing by now?’
‘Lady Helen!’ Mr Hammond appeared at the top of the stairs, his strained face streaked with grime, blue jacket almost grey with road dust. ‘Where is Lord Carlston? Do we have the journal?’
Behind him came Lady Margaret, her usual poise lost in a tumble of black curls, crumpled gown and a dusty pelisse. Delia, her pallor and angles even more pronounced, brought up the rear. All three of them gathered on the landing.
‘Lord Carlston has the journal up there,’ Helen said, indicating the attic. ‘It is possible …’ She stopped for a moment. ‘It seems he has killed Stokes.’
‘No!’ Lady Margaret stepped forward, all indignation. ‘He would never do that.’
Hammond gripped her arm as if to hold her back.
‘The Comte gave me the cure,’ Helen continued. ‘It is the journal itself.’ She swiftly reported the old Deceiver’s dying instructions.
‘But do you trust the information?’ Delia asked. She glanced at the Duke, clearly seeking the support of her fellow aide. ‘It could be a trap for you and Lord Carlston.’
‘Miss Cransdon is right,’ the Duke said. ‘You cannot trust a Deceiver, and you cannot hope to go up against Carlston. The state he is in, he will kill you.’ He held out the pistol. ‘Shoot him. No, wait.’ He drew it back. ‘I will shoot him, then you will not have to deal with the sin of murder.’
Too late for that, Helen thought.
‘Shoot Lord Carlston?’ Lady Margaret exclaimed, just as her brother said forcefully, ‘He would break your neck before you even raised the gun.’
‘He cannot beat a bullet,’ the Duke said.
Helen heard a sound from the attic; a heaving cough that she immediately recognised. Carlston was searching the journal again. If he had any sanity left, that would surely rip it from him.
‘We will not shoot Lord Carlston,’ she said, cutting off the argument. ‘Your Grace, Hammond, take Quinn downstairs.’ In one sweeping glance, she gathered Lady Margaret, Delia and Darby into her next order. ‘Go downstairs. Do not let anyone up here.’
Darby touched Quinn’s cheek, then sat back on her heels. ‘With respect, my lady, I am staying with you. I have trained to be your Terrene and I will not let you stand alone.’
‘You do not have Terrene strength or speed,’ Helen said.
Darby lifted her chin. ‘We have made our oaths, my lady. Do not doubt me now.’
Helen met her maid’s steady gaze and nodded. There had already been too much doubt.
‘I’ll be damned if I let two women try to subdue a madman by themselves,’ the Duke said. ‘It is impossible.’
‘We may be women, Your Grace, but we are also Reclaimer and Terrene,’ Helen said. ‘You saw what I did in the laneway. I do not need your protection.’
He crossed his arms, patently unmoved by her statement. She had no time for debate. Nor did Carlston. Garnering her Reclaimer energy, she stepped across to the Duke at uncanny speed and pulled the pistol from his grip. She stepped back and held out the weapon as his sluggish perception caught up.
The Duke stared at his empty hand and then at the gun lying across her palm. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘But keep the pistol.’
‘Finally he understands,’ Hammond murmured. He crouched beside Quinn and hooked his hands under the big man’s armpits. ‘You heard what your Reclaimer said, Duke: help me move Quinn.’ He looked up at Helen, his face grim. ‘You are the only one who can save Carlston, but if he is beyond help and tries to kill you, do not hesitate. We cannot lose you too.’
Helen gave one stiff nod. Pray God it did not come to that.
As soon as Selburn and the others had retreated downstairs with Quinn, Helen led the way to the attic staircase, Darby following close behind.
Helen flexed her hand around the ivory handle of her glass knife and focused her senses on the room above. Carlston’s breathing held a rasping rawness — he had moved to the far right of the room — and she could smell blood, bile and the dank reek of final evacuations.