Involuntarily, Helen looked over her shoulder. She could not see him of course, but just knowing he was there sent a frisson of panic down her spine. There could be no doubt that he would at some stage seek her out, and since the goal of the evening was for her and Lord Carlston to meet with the Comte, the Duke would most likely find her at Lord Carlston’s side. Helen closed her eyes for a moment, seeing in her mind all too clearly the moment at her own ball when the two men had clashed, snarling at each other like wolves.
‘We do not know His Grace very well,’ Pug continued, ‘but he acknowledged us in Edward Street and stopped to converse. He has a house on the Steine, you know. He made it so clear he wished to attend tonight that Mama invited him there and then. Such a coup for her, you see. I could hardly stop her, could I?’
‘I understand,’ Helen murmured, privately consigning Lady Dunwick to the devil. ‘Tell me, has Lord Carlston arrived?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Pug said. ‘He is over there, by the front window.’
Helen found him immediately. He stood a head’s height above most of the other men and was also set apart by the close cut of his dark hair amidst all the more fashionably dishevelled styles. He must have felt her gaze for he looked around and gave a small nod, warmth springing to his eyes. Helen looked away lest he see her gratification. There, self-control.
‘Mama told me about the old friction between His Grace and Lord Carlston over poor Lady Elise,’ Pug said cheerfully. ‘I think Mama hopes for some of their fireworks to liven up the party. It is so hard to make a memorable evening these days.’ She cupped Helen’s elbow. ‘Come, I’ll call the first dance. You both,’ her glance took in Delia, ‘will be inundated with dance requests. Just you see.’
And so it transpired. Helen and Delia were secured for the first set by two young officers from the 10th amidst many offers from their comrades. Helen’s partner was a dark-skinned young man by the name of Nesbitt whose English relatives, Helen gathered from his conversation, had secured him his commission as a Cornet despite his maternal Indian connections. He proved to be an excellent dancer and a charming companion with a ready flow of amusing anecdotes about his childhood in India and life in the Hussars. Helen, however, saw the habitual watchfulness behind his smiling demeanour. It must be very difficult, she thought, to be one of the few coloured men in the officer ranks. Even as they danced, there were some side-glances that were not entirely friendly. Ignoring them, Helen focused all her energies upon her partner and the figures, finding some respite from her worries in the felicity of motion.
As the second dance, a robust reel, drew to an end, Helen caught a signal from Lord Carlston, who was watching from the edge of the dance floor: a tilt of his head towards the door. She curtseyed to Cornet Nesbitt and, with a warm smile of farewell, turned her attention to the elderly couple who stood at the entrance. This, then, had to be the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues.
The Comte surveyed the room through a gold quizzing glass held up to his eye by an elegant hand. His superbly tailored blue jacket made the most of his tall build, and the crisp cravat between his stiffened shirt points was expertly arranged in the fiendishly difficult Waterfall, the same style that his lordship favoured. The Comte’s expression was one of delight, his small mobile mouth curled into an attractive smile. He had to be near sixty, Helen estimated, but had the straight bearing of someone half his age, and would be called a fine-looking man in any company. The benefits, perhaps, of leaching the life energy from those around him.
The Comtesse had not fared quite so well, but then she was not a Deceiver. She still had the remnants of what must have been a ferocious beauty, enhanced now with yellow hair dye and artful cosmetics. The fire in her eyes, however, was in no way diminished, nor was her commanding manner.
‘J’ai besoin d’un peu de champagne, Louis,’ she said, her trained opera voice penetrating the hum of the crowded room.
The Comte waved over one of the footmen and procured the required glass, earning a brilliant smile from his wife that hinted at her famous passion.
‘She prefers to speak French,’ Lord Carlston said quietly. Helen jumped; she had been concentrating so hard upon the d’Antraigues that she had not noticed his approach. ‘He is reasonably fluent in English, but will insist upon conversing with us in French to ensure he is at no disadvantage.’
‘Are you asking if my French is up to the task?’
‘I have no doubt that you are fluent, Lady Helen, but this will be a serpentine conversation and Monsieur Le Comte is an erudite creature. One of the more refined Hedon Deceivers.’
He held his touch watch cupped in his gloved palm. Did he have it out as a weapon or a lens?
‘I shall be quite able to follow,’ she answered in French. ‘I may have had a female’s education, but it was a good one. I can also speak Italian and read Latin.’
‘Bene,’ his lordship said.
‘Più che buona.’ She turned her attention back to the Comte and Comtesse, but knew he had appreciated the pert reply. ‘Do we go to the Comte now?’
‘No. He is most solicitous of Madame’s comfort and will see her settled with some admirers before he turns his attention elsewhere. But he has seen me and understands that I wish to speak to him.’
Helen looked down at his touch watch. ‘Has he glutted?’
‘No.’
‘Skimming then?’
Carlston repressed a smile, but his eyes were alight with it. ‘Monsieur Le Comte would never be so gauche as to skim a friend’s gathering.’
‘Yes, of course, how gauche,’ Helen said, meeting his silent amusement.
It was such moments as these — the warm sense of camaraderie and collusion — that made her so weak-willed. Not to mention those other, warmer moments that lit such a fire within her body. She forced herself to look away from a curve of dark hair that refused to sit neatly over the scar that ran from his temple to sideburn, and clenched her fingers around her fan to stop the mad impulse to smooth it down.
‘Are there any other Deceivers here?’ she asked.
‘One. That woman in ill-advised pea green near the orchestra. Mrs Carrington-Hurst.’
Smiling at the acerbic description, Helen located the Deceiver: a short blonde with a rather prunish face. She was watching them warily.
‘She is a Hedon like the Comte. As you see, she is aware of us and will no doubt make her adieu to Lady Dunwick before long.’ He touched her elbow. ‘Half an hour, meet back here. We will make our compliments to the Comte.’
She watched him move into the crowd, nodding now and then to an acquaintance. To the casual eye he looked as self-possessed and vital as ever, but Helen saw the hidden exhaustion that dragged at his smooth walk and the strange taut energy deep within him. He had not recovered as well as he claimed.
‘I am ravenous,’ Pug said, arriving at her side, fan waving vigorously. ‘Come, let us get a bite to eat and a drink before the next set. Dear Mama is keeping a cold supper table throughout the evening. Some of the army men will have to leave before the hot supper and she could not bear to think they would miss out entirely.’
‘Wait.’ Helen scanned the room for Delia. ‘I must find —’