Therefore not her business, she reminded herself as she folded the three-part lens back into the body of the watch. A Reclaimer was to approach a Deceiver only if it was glutting upon one person, or its skim-feeding was causing obvious harm to its victims.
‘Lowry is already here,’ Hammond said, tilting his chin at a man sitting alone at one of the plank tables set at the far wall. ‘Do you wish to stay for a moment more, or shall we go in?’
A candle in a sconce above Lowry cast his face into shadow, but Helen could sense his fixed stare upon the doorway. A wide space had been left around his table. It seemed the patrons of the Bear recognised a dangerous man when they saw one.
‘I am ready,’ Helen said, ignoring the tightening of her gut. She kept the watch in her fist; a handy weapon. ‘I shall go first.’
Hammond hesitated, then stood aside.
They entered the large room — intolerably humid from the press of people and an unnecessary fire in the hearth — and weaved their way around the crowded tables and benches. Helen took shallow breaths, her Reclaimer sense of smell revolted by the stink of malty ale, sour wine and hot bodies all underpinned by a faint wash of urine. The sweat under her breast-band itched almost as much as the false hair at her temples, yet she could not address either.
She focused on Lowry. He had straightened at their entrance and she saw a flash of pale tongue as he licked his lips. Was it nerves or anticipation?
‘Oy!’ Helen turned at the sharp protest. An old man in a drab suit glared up at her from a stool. ‘Watch where you’re going, pup. You nearly had my drink over.’
Helen lifted her chin and drew in a haughty breath, then froze. She had almost told him not to speak to her in such a way. A woman’s words. No, a lady’s words.
The man stared at her; what should she do? A raucous burst of laughter from a nearby table broke her indecision.
With a slight bow, she said, ‘My apologies, sir.’
The man squinted at her, then nodded and turned back to his ale.
‘That was close,’ Hammond murmured.
She glanced sharply at him; he had seen her falter. Well, she would not allow another mistake.
Ahead, the Deceiver had his hands under the woman’s patched skirts, the tentacle, no doubt, crawling across her private skin. Helen forced her eyes away from them. She could not challenge the creature, but maybe she could intervene. At Almack’s, she had seen Lord Carlston use his touch watch to persuade a Deceiver to leave the ballroom. Perhaps she could do the same here. Show Mr Hammond she was a true Reclaimer.
‘This way,’ she said to him, and swerved around a table of soberly dressed tradesmen intent upon the words of one of their number who had come to his feet with the passion of his speech. She caught a snatch of his polemic: ‘… not at the current price of wheat. We must act!’
The Deceiver was at the next bench, his attention fully upon the harlot in his lap. Helen clutched her touch watch, feeling her palm dampen around the smooth enamel. Did she dare? What if the creature attacked? No, it was not likely in so crowded a public place.
She was almost upon him. It was now or never.
With heart thudding, she lurched into him and grabbed his meaty shoulder. The telltale itch of his recent feed crawled across her skin. With her other hand, she pressed hard upon the diamond arrow on the watch, deforming the Iceland spar inside to create a spark of energy. It passed through the circuit of her Reclaimer body: a slight tingle for her, but something far more brutal for him. His heavy muscles jerked under her grip as the mechanical charge delivered a dose of toxic energy. He swung around, his pained outraged eyes meeting her own.
‘My apologies, sir,’ she said, showing her teeth.
‘I’m doing no harm,’ he hissed, pulling away.
‘Harm enough,’ Helen said.
The woman smiled blearily in her direction. ‘Yer a pretty boy,’ she slurred. ‘Wanna join us, sweethe—’ The invitation turned into a shriek as the Deceiver pushed her off his lap onto the filthy floor. ‘I thought we was having a night of it,’ she whined. ‘You said all night.’
Helen moved on, leaving the harlot’s protests behind.
‘I take it that was the creature?’ Hammond asked.
Helen nodded. Her hands were shaking.
‘He’s leaving,’ Hammond reported.
Holy heaven, she had just chased away her first Deceiver. ‘Good,’ she answered with a smile, riding the elation.
Ahead, Lowry was watching with interest; he had seen the confrontation. She fought the impulse to look over her shoulder to make sure the creature had gone. A real Reclaimer would not look back, and she had to appear strong in front of Lowry.
He stood as they reached his table, a jerk of his chin acknowledging the tussle. ‘A Luxure?’
Helen nodded.
‘I hate Luxures,’ he said without heat and waved over a wiry serving girl. ‘Three tankards, and don’t dawdle.’
The girl ducked her head and bustled off with the order.
Bartholomew Lowry was exactly as Helen remembered: not overly tall, but with a broad, powerful build and a fleshy face that was veined from drink. A line of sweat sat above his upper lip and in the cleft of his heavy chin, and stringy brown hair hung blunt on either side. His clothes were the usual low-middling mix of old and new: his burgundy weskit still had rich colour and sheen, but the cravat at his neck was yellowed and limp, and the points of his linen shirt were grimed above the worn collar of his drab jacket. His eyes were green and pig-small, with a cunning intelligence that set the skin crawling. Especially, Helen thought, when they lingered insolently on her groin. She clenched her teeth; she would not flinch.
His pale tongue flicked out again. ‘You make a comely man. You should watch yourself around him.’ He nodded at Hammond. ‘He might forget you’re not a real boy and take you back-wise.’
Helen froze at the profanity. But that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To shock her and enrage Hammond. She cleared her throat, sending a warning glance at her companion: Do not rise to it.
Hammond’s blue eyes were dark with fury, but he gave a slight nod.
‘Where are my manners?’ Lowry said and waved a mocking hand towards the benches. ‘I beg you, sit, Mr …?’
‘Amberley,’ Helen said.
‘Mr Amberley.’
Helen stopped herself from saying thank you and stepped over the bench, remembering at the last minute to flick out her coattails as she sat. Hammond took the seat by her side. His face was rigid with dislike, but he had himself under control.
‘You know why we are here,’ Helen began. ‘I have the authority —’
She stopped as the serving girl approached with tankards clasped in her reddened hands.
‘’Ere you go.’ The girl slid them onto the table, sending a small, gap-toothed smile in Helen’s direction. ‘You want anyfing else?’
Lowry gave a yellowed leer. ‘My young friend here might be up for a tumble later,’ he said, raising his brows.
The girl eyed him waspishly. ‘I ain’t no whore, sir.’
‘Well then, he won’t pay you,’ Lowry said, snorting a laugh.
Helen smiled at the girl. ‘That will be all, thank you.’