Lady Dunwick had refashioned the morning room into a withdrawing space for those guests who sought respite from the noise and rigours of the rout. At the doorway, Lord Carlston stood aside and ushered Helen in first, the rise of his eyebrows urging her to stay alert. As if she could be anything else after his terrible admission. She could still feel the touch of his hand upon her own; that insistent shadow pulse.
Fashionable yellow striped paper adorned the walls, clashing slightly with the blue flowered curtains. The usual dining furniture had been removed and replaced by groups of chairs arranged in twos and threes to facilitate conversation. A footman stood ready to procure drinks or provide any other service required, and a wholly unnecessary fire burned in the marble grate. Two elderly ladies in feathered turbans had taken up a position near that warmth, their conversation sporadic and limited, it seemed, to comments on the ratafia they were drinking. Helen could smell the sickly peach-infused liquor, and the rather pungent onion aroma of their heated skin.
The only other inhabitant was the Comte, seated facing the door and as far from the ladies as possible. He smelled of a musky perfume: ambergris perhaps. Helen swallowed, trying to dredge up some wet within her mouth. She felt the energy quicken through her whole body; perhaps a Reclaimer response to the enemy. It was certainly an odd sensation to see the elegant old man before her and know that within that human shell was a creature that preyed upon humanity.
He stood as they approached, intelligent eyes searching Carlston’s face. His mobile mouth pursed for a second, then quickly shifted into a warm smile. ‘Guillaume!’
Carlston bowed. ‘Comte, may I introduce the Lady Helen Wrexhall.’
His lordship’s French was impeccable, even his accent sounding genuine to Helen’s ear.
‘Your charming protégée,’ the Comte answered in his own tongue.
Helen curtseyed, rising to find the old gentleman watching her intently.
‘Please.’ His gloved hand waved to the two chairs set opposite his own.
Helen took the seat beside Carlston. The Comte seemed very friendly towards his lordship, and his lordship was surprisingly congenial in return. Was this man not the enemy?
As instructed, she concentrated on the Comte’s face, trying to read what lay behind the air of bonhomie. It was like pulling back a curtain of trailing greenery and finding a stone wall. No wonder; he’d had centuries to practise hiding his truth.
He regarded Carlston soberly. ‘You are not well, Guillaume.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Perhaps just to me.’ The Comte flicked open a little Sèvres snuffbox painted with yellow roses and edged in gold and offered it to him. The scent of rich tobacco laced with an aniseed perfume rose into the air.
Carlston eyed the box warily. ‘I thank you, no.’
The Comte’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. ‘You are remembering Paris. I assure you there is no drug in this batch.’
‘Still,’ his lordship said dryly, ‘I will decline.’
Helen glanced at him. Paris? Drugged snuff? There was certainly history between them.
The Comte sat back, his attention on Helen again. ‘I met your mama and papa in Paris too,’ he said, brown eyes half closed in recollection. ‘In the truce of 1802, before their tragic demise. You are a little like both of them, yes? The beautiful Lady Catherine and the resolute Lord Douglas.’
‘I had thought I did not resemble either, Comte,’ Helen answered. ‘But I am happy for it to be thought otherwise.’
Her accent, she knew, was not as deft as his lordship’s, but she was pleased by the approval in the old Comte’s eyes. She mentally shook herself; she did not need a Deceiver’s approval. The man was too charming by half.
The elderly ladies, having finished the ratafia, rose from their chairs and departed the room, their conversation turned now towards the impending hot supper.
‘Let us take the opportunity for some privacy,’ the Comte said, and with a flick of his hand dismissed the footman. The young man bowed and closed the door behind him.
They were alone.
The Comte settled back in his chair. ‘You asked for this meeting, Guillaume. What is it you want?’
‘I have a question, Louis, and I think you may have the answer.’
Helen shifted on her seat. They were on first-name acquaintance. Only family and the closest of friends used such intimate appellations. Surely such familiarity should not exist between a Reclaimer and Deceiver?
‘I know many answers,’ the Comte said smoothly. ‘None of them are free.’
Carlston smiled. ‘I am well aware of that.’
The Comte turned his snuffbox in his hand, seemingly transfixed by the flash of gold and painted porcelain. ‘As it happens,’ he said finally, ‘there is something that I require. Something that you may be able to obtain for me.’ He looked up, expression still inscrutable. Helen knew she was failing miserably in her task. ‘It is possible that we may come to an arrangement. What is it you wish to know?’
His lordship sat forward. ‘This sickness in me — I do not believe it is the accumulation of the vestige. You have seen many Reclaimers in your time. Do you know what it is and how I can be rid of it?’
The Comte’s eyes narrowed as if he could see the darkness within his lordship. Perhaps he could, Helen thought, although none of her reading on the subject had reported such an ability. She found herself leaning a little forward too, her breath held. Dear God, she prayed, let it be something that can be cured.
‘You are correct.’ The Comte paused. ‘And incorrect. The vestige is part of it — you have been snatching back too many of our offspring, my friend — but it is something else as well. Something far more interesting. I believe I know what it is, and, possibly, how it may be ameliorated.’
Helen laid her hand against the base of her throat, holding back a sound of dismay. So his lordship’s sickness was, in part, the vestige darkness.
The Comte glanced at her as if he had heard her distress. ‘Do you plan to follow in your mentor’s fervent reclaiming footsteps?’
‘Lady Helen’s plans are not part of this discussion, Louis,’ Carlston said. ‘Are you willing to deal?’
‘I am.’
‘What is it that you want?’
The Comte flicked open the snuffbox with his thumbnail and shut it again, flick and shut, flick and shut, his eyes never leaving Carlston. ‘I have heard that there is a journal available for sale, written by your former mentor, Benchley.’
Helen drew a sharp breath. Sweet Heaven, not the journal.
‘I want that journal, Guillaume,’ the Comte continued. ‘It has some information in it about myself and my wife that I would not wish to come into the hands of your Home Office.’