‘And yet his lordship has never denied it, Margaret.’
The path narrowed abruptly, forcing Helen to take a step back behind the brother and sister. It seemed Lord Carlston never denied any accusation of wrongdoing: not the murder of his wife, Lady Elise, nor Sir Dennis’s death. Did he just not care that he was blamed for such crimes, or was there more to it?
Mr Hammond looked back over his shoulder. ‘I suggest we go to Donaldson’s first and then walk across to the Castle Tavern. His lordship wants us to subscribe to their balls and card assemblies now that the Season has truly started.’
‘Are you sure he wants me to subscribe?’ Helen asked. ‘I thought I was supposed to be too unwell to attend balls.’
Mr Hammond shrugged. ‘That is what he said. No explanation.’
He turned back to navigate the path. As Helen followed him and Lady Margaret past the Marine Library — as good as Donaldson’s, according to her guidebook, but without its central position — she was struck anew by the similarity in the way the brother and sister moved: a graceful precision that gave him a wiry self-possession, and her a dainty elegance. Just in that trait their relationship to one another was obvious, but it became even more so when they turned to one another to speak and their features were mirrored: the same well-shaped nose, broad brow and expressive eyes, with a softer mouth for Lady Margaret, and the firmer lines of masculinity set upon Mr Hammond’s jaw and chin.
Helen had assumed Lady Margaret was the elder by a year or two, but such close similarity suggested they might be twins. It would explain the bond between them. For all their bickering, they had a true affection for one another. A true ease.
She looked out at the expanse of ocean, suddenly overcome by an ache that seemed to hollow her out. There was no one amongst her new companions with whom she could share a passing thought or laugh at the absurdity of others, no one she could trust with a silly secret. It was all Dark Days Club and focus, Lady Helen. Even Darby was intent upon training, all alight with her new Terrene responsibilities. But back in London, before all this madness, Helen had laughed and talked with Aunt, and her brother, Andrew, and Millicent, the best of all friends. Not now, of course. Nothing would ever compel her to drag them into the darkness of the Deceivers’ world.
Yet there was someone close to her who had already stepped halfway into the shadows of that world. Someone who would be better off with the knowledge of the Deceivers than without it. Her friend Delia. Helen wet her lips, tasting the sea’s salt on the tip of her tongue. It was just over two months since she had learned of Delia’s failed elopement. Aunt Leonore had returned from a trip to Ackermann’s Repository of Arts full of the latest gossip that Delia Cransdon had run away with a Mr Trent, who had then shot himself in front of her under the strangest of circumstances. Well, they had seemed strange at the time, but now it was obvious — to Helen, at least — that Mr Trent had been a Deceiver and Delia had witnessed his fiery demise.
Poor Delia. She had been whisked away to her family’s country estate, disgraced, disbelieved and fearing for her own sanity. Helen had written from London to say that she would soon be in Brighton, close enough to call upon her friend, but Delia had never replied, or perhaps had not been allowed to reply. Whatever the case, the ominous silence had prompted Helen to post another letter soon after her arrival in Brighton, and one a week after that too. Still no reply. In desperation she had sent another missive two days ago, this time by hired messenger. The man was due back that morning, hopefully carrying an invitation from Delia to call upon her and her parents.
And if not …?
Helen quelled the thought. She had to see her friend, with or without an invitation. She was the only one who could tell Delia the whole truth and reassure her she was not mad. It was even possible that she could arrange for Delia to accompany her back to Brighton as her companion, reinstate her in society and get her away from the threat of the sanatorium. Surely Delia’s parents would welcome such a solution, particularly since their spinster daughter’s upkeep would be someone else’s responsibility.
It was a good plan, except for one rather large, curt problem: Lord Carlston. Helen wiped her mouth with a gloved forefinger, feeling the salt scratch her lips into a burning sting. He would be furious that she had taken it upon herself to tell an innocent about the Deceivers. Yet Delia was not wholly an innocent; and if it was already done, his lordship could not change it, could he? Knowledge, after all, could not be unlearned.
They reached the bottom of the hill and Helen paused to take in the view of the beachfront: a stretch of pale pebbles that looked rather dangerous to unshod feet. She started to comment upon it to Mr Hammond, then realised she was standing alone. He and Lady Margaret had already walked ahead and made the turn into South Parade.
Helen quickened her pace to catch up, and so came upon Brighton’s famous promenade: the Steine. According to the guidebook, no other place in the kingdom was frequented by more beauty and fashion during the mornings and evenings of the Season.
That may be so, Helen thought as she surveyed the large expanse of fenced grass circled by a gravel path, but the Steine before her now seemed decidedly bare of both. The warmer weather had enticed very few visitors into the town centre, and the shops and amenities that clustered around the Steine had an air of disappointed expectation. Then again, Helen conceded, half past eleven was counted as obscenely early for many of the fashionable set.
Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret were waiting for her to join them. She fell in beside Lady Margaret, ignoring her impatient scowl, and appraised a jeweller’s window as they strolled past. A thin gold armlet in the Egyptian style demanded a second look.
As Helen paused, she caught sight of two men in the periphery of her vision, crossing the road near the Castle Tavern: a tall figure with a reddish cast to his hair beneath a shabby grey beaver hat, and a smaller, swarthier man. It was just a glimpse, but her entire body clenched with cold alarm. The way the taller man moved, his breadth of shoulder, the bright glint in his hair — all reminded her of Philip. She spun around, her eyes fixed upon the now empty street corner.
‘Lady Helen, is something wrong?’ Mr Hammond asked.
‘I thought I saw the Deceiver who posed as my uncle’s footman. The one who stole the Colligat and killed Benchley.’
‘Where?’ Lady Margaret demanded.
Helen pointed across the Steine. ‘He walked along there with another man and crossed into that street.’ It was quite a distance to be claiming recognition from one glance, even with her Reclaimer eyesight. Maybe she was overreacting. ‘I cannot be sure it was him.’