He glanced at the show of her ankle, then looked up with an earnest face. ‘Lady Helen, after today’s revelations you must know you are safe with me.’
For a moment, Helen was nonplussed. ‘Oh, lud,’ she said on a wave of understanding. ‘Of course.’
They looked at one another — an instant of shared absurdity — then burst out laughing, both bent over and gasping.
Two hours later, Helen had walked the length of the salon fifty-two times, training her body to stride purposefully through the space rather than step prettily across it. Over and over Mr Hammond had patiently corrected every part of her, until she felt she swaggered as well as any young gent. Finally, he called a stop, nodding approvingly as Helen followed him with her best manly saunter to the beer jug set on the mantel.
‘You have it now,’ he said, lifting the jug. ‘The trick, however, is to maintain the disguise even in times of high duress. It must become second nature and that means practice.’
He passed her a glass of beer, then poured his own. ‘Small beer. You’d best get used to it.’
Helen looked at the murky brew and took an experimental mouthful. It was malty, warm and somewhat sour.
‘Bigger mouthfuls,’ Mr Hammond urged. ‘Do not be so delicate.’
She obeyed, revelling in the chance to gulp rather than sip. ‘It tastes a bit like …’
‘Cat piss?’
She choked. ‘No. I was thinking more of …’
‘Donkey piss?’
Ah, a test. A young man in the company of another would not baulk at such language.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Donkey piss.’
He grinned his approval. ‘It is the least alcoholic of the beers.’ He held his glass to the light and regarded the amber liquid with distaste, then looked past it to meet her eyes, the lightness gone from his face. ‘As you have seen at many a dinner party, most men drink the heavier wines and spirits, and well into excess. It is even more so when men are alone. While you are in disguise, you will have to pace your liquor intake.’
Helen peered into her glass again. ‘I have never been inebriated.’
‘Of course not.’ He waved his hand in dismissal of such a possibility, the elegant gesture drawing Helen’s eye. ‘In the male milieu, however, it does not matter if a man falls over drunk. Sometimes it is even expected. In our world, however, it can be fatal.’
He raised his glass again. It was empty. Helen frowned. A minute ago it had been full, and she was sure he had not drained it.
He winked. ‘Remind me to show you some tricks that will help you discard a glass or two without being seen. It can mean all the difference when trying to keep one’s wits.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Practice,’ he said, reaching for the jug again. ‘A lot of practice. I have been doing this for a very long time.’
Helen eyed him speculatively. ‘Longer than the Dark Days Club?’
He poured himself another glass, intent upon the action. ‘So, young fellow. That latest mill was a smoky affair. The first bruiser had bottom, but it was all a bit of the home-brewed, if you ask me.’
Helen blinked at the sudden shift in language. He was speaking cant, the dialect of the lower classes. Many young gentlemen used phrases from the London underworld — it was a fashionable affectation — but Mr Hammond spoke it with the confidence of a native. It would seem his past held a great deal more colour than was usual for a young landed gentleman, and clearly he was not going to share it.
‘What did I just say?’ he asked, placing the jug back on the mantel.
Another test. For the past two weeks, she had been studying Mr Grose’s recently published Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue alongside her alchemy books, trying to treat the startling revelations of attitude and behaviour within it as if she were merely learning another language. It had to be said that learning cant was far more fascinating than the impenetrable codes of the alchemists.
‘You said, the latest boxing match was a curious affair. The first fighter had courage, but …’ She faltered.
‘But?’
‘No, don’t tell me.’ She raised a forestalling finger. ‘It was all a bit amateur and untrained.’
‘Good work!’ A slap on her back forced her forward a step, slopping half her beer onto the floor. ‘And be prepared for that kind of thing. Men like to hit each other.’
‘So I have noticed.’
A loud knock turned them both towards the door.
‘Wait,’ Helen called. She thrust her glass into Mr Hammond’s hand and, with a wild glance at him, dug her fingers into the knot of her skirt. It came free, the hem dropping back around her feet in a creased swirl of linen. ‘Yes, enter.’
The door opened to admit Geoffrey, the first footman. He walked across the room — a solid, masculine stride, Helen noted — and bowed. ‘My lady, Miss Darby asks that you join her in the rear yard. She said to tell you it is most urgent.’
The messenger she had sent to Delia must have returned and with bad news. But why had Darby sent Geoffrey and not come herself?
‘In the rear yard?’ Mr Hammond said. ‘That’s an odd request.’
‘I am sure it is something to do with her Terrene training,’ Helen said. How quickly lies came to her lips now; a requisite of this new world. She dipped into a curtsey. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Hammond.’
He bowed. ‘Of course. We are done here anyway.’
The way to the rear yard was via the busy basement kitchen and Helen passed through it apace, barely acknowledging the startled curtseys from Cook and her two girls. The warm air held the aroma of cooking pastry and braised meat — game pies for dinner — the rich smell following her as she climbed the three stone steps to the back door.
It was already standing open, the framed view of the yard affording her a glimpse of a large bay horse, a dusty young man and a corner of Darby’s brown calico dress. Good, the messenger had arrived.
‘That is true,’ she heard Darby say, ‘but it is also true that my lady is not expecting you.’
Her tone was far too polite for a messenger, and anyway Helen had been expecting him. To whom was Darby speaking? Helen’s innards clenched with terrible intuition as she stepped into the yard. Three people stood beside the horse: the messenger, Darby and, yes, her friend Delia. Holy heaven, Delia had taken matters into her own hands and come for her explanation.
Helen stopped still. She had just sworn a Royal oath that commanded silence. She could not tell Delia anything, let alone the true identity of her dead suitor.