‘You are mistaken,’ Helen said flatly. She aimed her own cold glance at Mr Hammond. ‘Lord Carlston is not displeased.’
She turned back to the mirror. Beneath her heartbeat she could still feel the other persistent pulse — that unbidden attunement to him. She dug her fingers into her new-waxed crop, driven by a sudden fierce impulse to push it back to how it had been before. But her hair was gone; she could not go back.
Slowly she lowered her hands, averting her eyes from the shorn, wretched girl in the mirror.
Chapter Seven
TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812
Even at dusk on a Tuesday evening, there were still a number of carriages on the road into Lewes. Mr Hammond had neatly steered their gig past a stately landau, a post-chaise and a sleek phaeton, but their quick progress came to an end as they drew up behind a farm dray, its wide berth and ambling progress forcing the chestnut to drop into a slow walk.
‘What is the time?’ Mr Hammond asked, glaring at the broad back of the farmer. ‘Lowry said to meet him at nine.’
Helen dug her fingers into the leather-lined fob pocket of her breeches and pulled out her touch watch. She squinted at the diamond arrow set in the centre of the enamelled case, but with no carriage lamps lit and only a sliver of rising moon she could not make out the time. Still, that was the advantage of owning a touch watch. She drew her forefinger down the diamond arrow and slowly felt her way along the line of gems to the head. It pointed between the eighth and ninth emeralds set around the edge.
‘Close on half past eight,’ she said, and returned the watch to her pocket. The weight of it against her hip was a comfort, as was the hidden Iceland spar lens inside. She would make sure to check the tavern with it before they entered. They were not there to chase out Deceivers, but it was always best to know if any were present.
‘We are no more than ten minutes from the inn,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘We should be well in time.’
Helen sounded her agreement, but her attention was on the castle silhouetted on the hill to the left of the town. She had read about it in her guidebook: built in the eleventh century, and now a ruin of only two round towers and a gatehouse. Even so, it held a certain Gothic majesty, especially in the nominal moonlight. She was not one for omens, but the sight of it standing over the town seemed portentous.
She rubbed her hands along the soft buckskin on her thighs, trying to dry the dampness of her palms and quell the nervous jump of her leg. Lowry had almost the same strength as she did and knew how to disable a Reclaimer. She could think of no reason for him to attack — he wanted to sell the journal, after all — yet she had to be ready for all eventualities.
‘Thank the Lord,’ he said as the dray made a ponderous turn into a side road. ‘We could have made better time on foot.’
Helen glanced at him, surprised by the heat in his words. She was not the only nervous one. The thought was even more unsettling.
He urged the chestnut into a trot and they were soon in the middle of the town, passing a neat post office, McLee’s Circulating Library and the White Hart Inn, a handsome Tudor posting house. Helen caught sight of a fine blue bonnet in a milliner’s window, and then they were climbing School Hill and crossing a narrow bridge in a hollow thud of hooves and grind of wheels. The River Ouse, Helen remembered, as she peered down at the dark water beneath them. Then Mr Hammond called, ‘Hold on!’ and she grabbed the edge of the gig as they swung into a right turn, drove under a low archway and came to a clattering halt in the cobblestoned yard of the Bear Inn.
Three men in shirtsleeves and faded westkits — river-men by their bare feet and muddied breeches— sat on blocks of stone near the tavern door watching their arrival.
Mr Hammond gathered the reins into one hand and said loudly, ‘I told you I’d get you here in under an hour, Amberley. Do you concede I am the better driver?’
The masquerade was on. Helen, in her guise as Charles Amberley, young buck about town, drew back her shoulders and climbed down from the gig, making a show of looking around. The yard was enclosed by a double-storey tavern, a long wing of rooms for travellers, and a ramshackle assortment of outbuildings.
‘I concede I owe you a bottle of claret, Hammond.’ She was pleased with the pitch of her voice: a good, manly tenor. It had been a hard road over the past weeks to modulate her feminine tones, but Lady Margaret’s coaching had been most effective. ‘That is if we ever get a boy to take the horse,’ she added.
The snide comment was designed to carry, and a few moments later a shifty-eyed ostler appeared from the dingy stable. Hammond tossed him a coin, gave a few brief instructions for the mare’s tenancy, then made his way towards the tavern.
Helen followed, glancing over her shoulder as the ostler led the mare and gig to a stall. It was clear from the tavern’s shabby exterior and the lounging river-men at the door that the Bear had lost the war for genteel custom to the more centrally located White Hart.
Helen pulled out her touch watch again as they passed the men and strode through the doorway. Better to be busy with a timepiece than try to outstare so much masculinity. Maintaining a bold gaze was one of the hardest parts of the masquerade.
‘Hold a moment,’ she said softly in the dim foyer. Only one sputtering candle in a dirty lamp lit the cramped, smoky area, the dull light catching the rich green enamel of the watch case, making it ripple. Ahead, the sound of male voices and shrill female laughter thrummed from the taproom. ‘Let me check for Deceivers.’
Hammond stood at the inner door, shielding her as she clicked the three parts of the lens into place. She held it to her eye. Pale blue outlines shimmered around all of the bar patrons. Except one.
Her lens stopped on a sandy-haired man seated on a bench with a woman on his lap, most of her sagging breasts shockingly exposed, and another gent seated at his side. To all ordinary eyes the sandy gent was a handsome middling sort, wearing a good coat and with a fine set of whiskers. Only Helen could see the bright blue energy around him and the obscene grey feeder tentacle that extended from his back. It curled around the bare shoulder of the woman lolling against his chest, its thick circumference pulsing as it drew on her energy.
Helen quelled a shudder. A Luxure Deceiver, if she were not mistaken, feeding on the drunken lust of the woman. The tentacle rose like the head of a cobra, then slid across the other man’s hands as he squeezed the harlot’s breasts, drawing on his energy too. The three of them laughed raucously, the woman thrusting her chest harder into the kneading hands. Helen felt her jaw lock with revulsion.
‘There is one,’ she said, lowering the lens, ‘but it is skimming.’