He drew in a deep breath. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Come, sit down,’ she urged. ‘I am sure my brother and Lady Helen now realise that their heedless behaviour —’
‘Do not apologise for me, Margaret,’ Mr Hammond said tightly. He strode across to the sideboard and lifted the crystal stopper from the decanter. ‘Brandy, Lady Helen?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Helen said.
‘I do not appreciate that tone, Michael,’ Lady Margaret said.
He shrugged and poured himself a measure.
His sister regarded him for a long, unacknowledged moment, then turned back to his lordship. ‘Please, come and sit down.’
‘I am perfectly well. Thank you.’ Lord Carlston shrugged away her hand. ‘Lady Helen, tomorrow we will focus on defence techniques,’ he said curtly. ‘Wear your male garb again.’ He did not even wait for her nod but walked over to the pianoforte. ‘You play very well, Miss Cransdon,’ he said, patently trying to moderate his tone.
Delia, who still sat at the instrument, jumped at the sudden notice. ‘Thank you, Lord Carlston.’
He bowed. ‘Would you favour us with another piece?’
‘Of course.’
She played the opening notes of a sweet ballad as he walked across to the hearth and frowned into the small fire that burned in the grate, one hand clasping the mantel.
Helen took a seat on the sofa, keeping him at the corner of her eye. His fingers were back against his temple. Mr Hammond finished his brandy and poured another. Lady Margaret, stranded in the middle of the room, made her way to the armchair.
Helen listened to the heavy silence in the room that lay beneath the soaring music. She resisted the impulse to glance at Lord Carlston again, keeping her eyes on her hands clasped in her lap. Even so, she could feel his gaze upon her skin like a whisper touch. It seemed she could not please him whatever she did; either she was too much the warrior or too much the woman.
Chapter Nine
WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1812
Next morning, before breakfast, Helen flicked back her coattails and took the seat at her secretaire to compose a note to Martha Gunn. A dip, as soon as possible, she requested, then signed the letter with her flourish, folded it into a packet, and sealed it with a damp wafer pressed flat with the heel of her hand.
She sat back in the gilded chair, considering the unhappy epilogue to last night’s events. It had been humiliating to be scolded in front of everyone, but on reflection, his lordship had probably been right. Tackling the Deceiver by herself had been foolish. Although it had been a Luxure, and therefore not as vicious or unpredictable as a Cruor or Pavor, it could easily have attacked rather than fled. Even so, it had felt good to rout the creature, to have finally acted as a Reclaimer. Surely Lord Carlston would have to admit that she had, at least, managed the use of the touch watch very well.
She picked up her quill again, dipped it in the ink and inscribed the East Street address on the front of the packet.
‘Darby,’ she called.
Her maid emerged from the adjoining dressing room. In the short time that Helen had finished dressing and applied herself to the note, Darby had made some changes to her own toilette: an extra braid worked into her soft brown hair, and a new pintucked chemisette under the neckline of her second-best blue gown. No doubt all for the benefit of Mr Quinn again.
‘Will you deliver this, please, while we are at breakfast,’ Helen said, passing across the sealed packet. ‘I am seeking an appointment with Mrs Gunn. You are to wait for an answer.’
Darby read the address. ‘Yes, my lady.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I’ve heard that she is booked up for a week in advance, my lady.’
Helen beckoned Darby a step closer and lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Gunn knows I am acquainted with Lord Carlston. Tell her my need is pressing. This is Dark Days business, and is to be kept between you and me for now, Reclaimer and Terrene.’
‘Do you not mean Terrene-in-training, my lady,’ Darby said lightly.
‘No, I mean Terrene,’ Helen said with some force. She wanted no mistake made about her intent. ‘In my mind, our bond is already made.’
‘Of course, my lady. I meant no disrespect,’ Darby said earnestly. ‘I think of myself as your Terrene too.’
Helen nodded. Lud, how she wished she could tell Darby about Lowry and Pike and the journal. But she could not, and the prohibition was a sore strain. She missed her maid’s common sense and wise counsel.
‘How goes your training?’ she asked instead. ‘Has Mr Quinn said when you will be ready for the bonding ritual?’
Darby’s answer was lost to a loud knock on the door.
‘Helen,’ Delia’s voice called, ‘may I come in? I have something to show you.’
For an instant Helen considered denying her friend, but the chance for private conversation with Darby had gone, particularly now that someone as curious as Delia stood outside the door.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied.
Delia bustled in, brandishing a letter. ‘Would you believe it? I have had an invitation from Pug Brompton to their gathering on Friday night.’
‘Indeed I believe it. Pug is a very amiable girl.’ Helen turned to Darby with a meaningful look. ‘You may go now.’
Darby curtseyed, the packet shifting from one hand to the other, out of Delia’s line of sight, as she left the room.
Helen rose from her chair and adjusted the front of her jacket with a small tug; a male habit she was trying to cultivate. ‘As soon as Pug knew you were my guest, I am sure she thought to issue an invitation.’
‘It is a compliment to you,’ Delia said. ‘Her mother cut me at Donaldson’s yesterday, looked right through me as if we had not met at least a dozen times during my seasons.’ She gathered her primrose muslin skirts and sat side-saddle on the end of the bed, one satin-shod foot poking out from the ruffled hem and beating an agitated rhythm. ‘I will always be haunted by Mr Trent, won’t I? I will always be the ruined girl.’
Helen kneeled on the royal blue bedcover, then tucked her legs up underneath herself; a much easier operation in a pair of buckskins. ‘You have a new calling now. Forget about the scandalmongers.’
‘Yes, of course, you are right. I will banish them.’ Delia wiped the air between them, expelling, it seemed, all scandalmongers from her mind, then took in Helen’s relaxed pose. ‘I must say, you look very comfortable in your breeches and jacket.’ She regarded Helen with grave eyes. ‘How are you after last night? His lordship has no trouble expressing his disapproval, does he? The way he paced and that awful tone in his voice. Is he always so angry?’
Helen lifted one shoulder. ‘I probably deserved it.’