Delia nodded, her mouth pressed into obedient silence.
Cautiously they climbed the stairs, Helen leading the way with ears strained for any sounds of approaching servants. On the ground floor, she heard the tutting of Mrs Kent in the vestibule, the scritch of a nib and an irritated sigh in the morning room — Lady Margaret answering correspondence — and Garner in the dining room ordering a footman to replace a butter knife.
They hurried up the next set of steps. Helen found two voices murmuring: maids indulging in an illicit chat as they tidied the drawing room. Otherwise, all was silent. They crept up to the second floor. Near the top of the flight, Helen paused and listened carefully to a new set of footsteps. Was it a maid in her bedchamber? No, the movement was in Lady Margaret’s room: no doubt her woman, Tulloch. Grabbing Delia’s hand, she pulled her along the corridor and into her own bedchamber, shutting the door firmly behind them.
‘These are my rooms,’ she said, gesturing around the royal blue and gold interior that had been decorated — rather unpatriotically — in the French empire style. The adjoining door that led to her small dressing room stood open. She walked across and closed it. ‘We shall be private here. Come, sit down and rest.’
She pulled out the gilt chair from beneath the matching writing desk and waved Delia over. It was not the most comfortable of seats, but it was the only one in the room apart from the bed. Delia slumped into its delicate curves and plucked fretfully at the ribbons of her straw bonnet.
‘You are very good to help me, Helen. I fear I have placed you in a very difficult position with your chaperone.’ She sighed and lifted the bonnet from her head, a dusty arc of road grime across her forehead. ‘I have waited so long to know the truth, and now I am here.’ She smiled wearily. ‘At last.’
‘At last,’ Helen echoed. ‘Would you not like to wash before we talk? Let me send for my maid.’
‘No!’ Delia half rose from the chair. ‘I do not want to wash. I just want the truth.’
‘Of course,’ Helen said, dropping her hand from the bell-pull.
Delia perched on the edge of the seat. ‘Forgive me. I have been waiting to hear it for so long.’ The bonnet’s straw brim buckled under her grip.
‘I do want to tell you,’ Helen said, feeling the weight of her oath thundering towards her like a runaway coach. ‘But things have changed.’
‘Changed? How?’
Helen hesitated. Whichever way she tried to frame an answer, some kind of explanation about the Dark Days Club was required. Even why she could not offer an explanation. Not many young girls in their first Season were held to silence by the Home Office. No, all avenues of discussion were blocked. Yet here was Delia, sitting before her and rightfully expecting her to keep her word.
She took a deep breath. ‘I am so sorry, but I cannot say.’
There, the words had been spoken. May God forgive her for such a betrayal of her friend’s trust.
Delia looked up at her, a knit of bewilderment between her brows. ‘Are you funning with me? If you are, it is most cruel.’
‘I am not, I swear.’
‘Then why can you not say?’
‘I am bound to silence by an oath.’
‘To whom?’ Delia rose from her chair, her voice shrill. Her bonnet, crushed beyond repair, dropped to the floor. ‘Tell me.’
‘I cannot.’
At the edge of her senses, Helen heard the thud of approaching footsteps. A summons from Lady Margaret already?
‘Why are you doing this, Helen? Do you want me to be locked away in an asylum?’ Delia stopped, something awful overtaking her indignation. ‘Oh, dear God, I am insane.’ She grabbed Helen’s forearm, her fingers digging hard into the tender flesh. ‘Did you send me letters that promised the truth, or did I imagine them? Did you? Did you send letters?’
‘Yes. I sent the letters.’ Helen pulled herself free from the desperate grip. Delia’s eyes were wide, the whites showing like a panicked deer’s. She had to tell her friend something to wipe the ghastly horror from her face. ‘I am bound by an oath to the government, Delia. To His Royal Highness the Prince Regent. On my honour, it is true.’
The door burst open, wrenching them both around to face the small rigid figure of Lady Margaret on the threshold.
‘Lady Helen!’ There was no mistaking her fury; her voice shook with it, and both hands were clenched into fists. ‘Who is this? What is she doing here?’
‘Lady Margaret,’ Helen said, clutching at the safe haven of civility, ‘may I present Miss Delia Cransdon.’
Delia curtseyed. ‘How do you do. Please forgive me for imposing —’
‘Lady Helen, come with me, please,’ Lady Margaret said abruptly. ‘Wait here, Miss Cransdon.’
Helen hurried past Lady Margaret into the passageway. She caught a glimpse of Delia’s pale, set face, then Lady Margaret pulled the door shut, turned on her heel and without a word led the way down the stairs. Helen could feel the rage pounding against the woman’s silence. Her spine was ramrod straight, the artfully arranged black curls swinging with every stiff stride towards the salon. She flung open the door, stood aside as Helen entered, then closed the door with the barest of clicks, the self-control more alarming than if she had slammed it shut.
She turned, hands on hips, navy eyes brilliant. ‘What have you told her?’
Helen stepped back. ‘Nothing.’
‘Liar. I heard you say you had taken the oath.’ Her disgust was distilled into every word. ‘Did you tell her about the Dark Days Club?’
‘No. I only said I could not tell her anything because of the oath.’
‘Who is she? Why is she here?’
Helen pressed her hands against her forehead. ‘She is a friend, from my seminary days. Delia Cransdon. She eloped with a man who shot himself in front of her at an inn. Do you remember the scandal?’
For a moment the fury in Lady Margaret’s eyes shifted into recollection. ‘About two months ago?’
‘Yes. I believe the man — no, I am sure the man was a Deceiver. Delia saw him light up from within when he died and passed into his next body. No one believes her story. Her parents think her mad and are going to send her to an asylum. I thought …’ Helen paused. How could she explain the creeping suspicion that somehow it was all her fault, that her friendship with Delia had placed her in the path of a Deceiver? ‘I sent her some letters; I did not want her to think herself mad. I promised to explain why Mr Trent had killed himself and died in such an odd way.’ Helen looked away. ‘I may have hinted that he was not of this world.’
‘God’s blood!’ Lady Margaret said. ‘What were you thinking? You have taken an oath —’
‘I sent the letters before I had taken the oath,’ Helen protested.