‘He will want money?’ Helen asked.
‘No.’ Carlston leaned a hand upon the mantel; for actual support, Helen realised. He was weaker than he admitted. ‘The Comte deals in secrets and information. He has been a spy for many countries. Currently he is supporting the Duc D’Orléans in his bid to overthrow Bonaparte. It is why he is tolerated here in England, but I would not rely upon him as an ally. Monsieur Le Comte is a wily intriguer who has outlasted many enemies.’
Lady Margaret crossed her arms. ‘And you propose to make a deal with him, a French Deceiver spy, in the middle of a war?’
‘I do. He and his wife will be at Lady Dunwick’s rout.’ He turned to Helen. ‘I will introduce you, and then you and I will make a deal with a devil.’
Helen glanced at Mr Hammond. Was he too thinking of Pike’s suspicions? His lordship had just admitted that he had made deals with a French Deceiver — deals that involved secrets — and intended to do so again. Perhaps his loyalty had been compromised. Or if not his loyalty, then at least his judgment. There was the very real possibility that his lordship was wrong or deluded and his collapse had, in fact, been caused by the vestige darkness and its creeping madness.
Mr Hammond met her gaze and she was startled to see her own unease mirrored in his eyes. He was one of Lord Carlston’s most staunch supporters and yet even he was beginning to have doubts.
‘I hope the devil will give us the answers we need,’ Helen said, her reply as much for Mr Hammond as it was for Lord Carlston.
Chapter Eleven
FRIDAY, 10 JULY 1812
‘Ever been in the sea afore, my lady?’ Martha Gunn, the queen of the Brighton dippers, asked Helen.
The old woman was huge, in both girth and personality. She easily stood as tall as Helen, and had at least three times her heft, with burly shoulders that would have made any man proud. She stood braced on the shingles of the eastern beach — for female bathers only — her legs set wide beneath her rucked-up navy skirts, one hand on her hip, the other shielding her shrewd eyes from the glare of the hot midday sun.
‘Never,’ Helen said, raising her voice above the squeals of delighted terror that came from the women already in the water. She surveyed the white-capped waves slapping the beach with broad foaming fingers that reached for her feet. The surf had seemed so small and manageable from the roadway above. Up close, it seemed larger and a great deal more wild.
‘I did once bathe in a river,’ she offered.
‘Not the same at all,’ Martha boomed. ‘But I don’t think you’ll have much of a worry,’ she leaned forward and gave a conspiratorial nod, her voice dropping a few notches, ‘you being like his lordship an’ all.’ She gestured to a wooden bathing machine set high on four large wheels and being drawn out of the water by a salt-encrusted black pony. A ruddy-skinned man urged the animal across the broken, sliding pebbles. ‘We’ll just let the lady afore you dis-em-bark, and then you and yer maid can go in.’
Darby observed the slowly approaching machine with a wary eye. ‘It doesn’t look safe, my lady.’
‘There is no need for you to stay in it when it goes into the water, Darby.’
‘If you want me to stay, I will,’ her maid said stoutly.
‘No, that is not necessary.’
In fact, Helen thought, not wanted at all.
She looked back at Lady Margaret and Delia. They stood beneath their parasols next to a bank of rocks that was doing duty as a waiting area for those ladies who were not brave enough, or perhaps silly enough, to immerse their bodies. They were not in hailing distance, but still close enough for the eagle-eyed Lady Margaret to be curious about any intense conversation. Helen would need to wait until she was well in the water with Martha Gunn before she asked any questions.
Lord Carlston had insisted Lady Margaret accompany her to the beach, more, Helen thought, from the desire to be rid of his aide’s fussing than from any fine sense of propriety. He claimed he had fully recovered, and it did seem as if the worrying effects of his collapse were all but gone.
The beachward door of the machine opened and a slightly bedraggled lady draped in a violet shawl over a lemon muslin gown descended the wooden steps, her maid following with a stack of wet clothing and drying-sheets in her arms.
‘The same again tomorrow, Mrs Cavendish?’ Martha inquired.
The lady gave a quick nod, patted the limp curls that hung from under her bonnet, and headed towards the path to the road.
Helen gathered her own muslin skirts and picked her way across the shingle to the machine, her feet feeling every jagged edge through the thin leather soles of her sandals.
‘Careful, my lady, the steps are wet,’ Darby said behind her as they ascended.
Everything seemed to be wet: the plank floor inside the wooden box, the two small bench seats set on either side, and the walls to about halfway their height.
‘Lordy, that is a stink,’ Darby said as she closed the door behind them.
Helen sniffed: a combination of wet wood, wet hair and salt. Not wholly unpleasant, and it was a relief to be out of the midday heat.
A narrow window above each bench let in enough light to ameliorate the uncomfortable sensation that one was in a damp water-closet on wheels, and to allow the management of buttons, clasps and hooks. To that end, Helen undid the pearl button on her glove and began to peel it off her hand.
‘Wait, my lady,’ Darby said. ‘Let me put something down on that seat for you.’ She pulled out one of the drying-sheets in her arms and placed it along the bench. ‘There, now you can sit without getting wet.’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t want to get wet in a bathing machine,’ Helen said with a smile.
Darby giggled, dumped the rest of the sheets and clothing on the other seat, and bent to the task of undoing the braid frogs on Helen’s spencer. With her deft help, it did not take long for Helen to be out of her promenade ensemble and into her new yellow flannel bathing shift, her cropped hair covered by the ugly matching flannel cap.
Clanks and jingles told them that the horse had been walked back around the machine and harnessed to the seaward side, ready to haul it back into the water.
‘Well, then,’ Helen said, scrunching her bare feet against the damp wood. ‘Go tell Mrs Gunn that I am ready.’