‘Everything you know about the Grand Deceiver.’
The two men stared at one another. Helen felt her heartbeat like a ticking clock, measuring the silent struggle. She concentrated fiercely upon the Comte’s face. There was, as far as she could tell, conflict, even fear, but no deception.
Finally the old gentleman nodded. ‘I have some information that will lead you in the right direction. Is that enough?’
Carlston regarded him closely. ‘You do not have a name?’
‘No.’ The Comte raised his hand. ‘I swear on Antoinette’s soul.’
It seemed that vow was sacred, for Carlston nodded. ‘Even so, Louis, if you want me to survive long enough to protect your son, you need to give me something now. Think of it as an investment in Julien’s future.’
‘I will tell you this, Guillaume,’ the Comte said soberly. ‘Do not underestimate what is coming your way.’ He glanced at Helen, drawing her into his warning. ‘We too have our Lusus Naturae, our freaks of nature. What they can do is beyond even my comprehension. It will take both of you to defeat the Grand Deceiver.’
Helen felt something primal tighten her spine.
‘That is what you are giving me?’ Carlston scoffed. ‘I could have told you that myself.’
The Comte smiled, but the implacability was back in his voice. ‘You do not know anything, Guillaume. Bring me the journal and I will tell you what I know about you,’ a glance gathered Helen into his statement, ‘and the Grand Deceiver.’
He held out his hand. Carlston regarded him for a long moment, wariness back in his eyes, then he grasped it and shook.
‘Now, shall we have champagne? To celebrate?’ The Comte’s bonhomie was back in place.
‘I am afraid not,’ Carlston said, standing. ‘Lady Helen and I must return to the salon before our absence is noted.’
Helen rose from her chair and laid her hand upon his offered arm, the magnitude of what had transpired gathering into a rolling, crashing avalanche through her mind. His lordship knew about Lowry. He knew about the journal. He knew.
The old Deceiver stood as well. ‘Before you go, Lady Helen, will you answer a question?’
She could barely focus upon what he said. ‘A question?’
‘Would you say you are a person who follows her head or her heart?’
She stared at him, momentarily diverted. Such an odd thing to ask. ‘I am a rational person, sir. I believe I follow my head.’
‘I see.’ The Comte bowed. ‘Then I wish you good luck.’
Chapter Fourteen
Out in the hallway, Helen took her hand from Carlston’s arm. From now on, he would be fixed upon finding the journal. Moreover, he would expect her and Mr Hammond to help him. It was all getting worse and worse. She could not tell him about their involvement, yet it felt just as much of a betrayal to hide her knowledge from him.
He watched her with a questioning lift of brow. She offered a wan smile. There was no way around it; she had to keep the secret and pray that his lordship did not see through her lies. It was terrible to think it, but his sickness-dulled senses could work in her favour.
‘That was quite a lot to comprehend,’ she started.
‘Wait. Let us return to the salon.’
He offered his arm again. She tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and allowed herself to be led through the throng milling on the landing and back into the salon, her mind rapidly turning over strategies. Should she take the offensive; deflect the subject; keep quiet?
The dancing had ceased for the while, only a fiddler and flautist providing music that was barely audible above the high hum of conversation in the large room. Most of the company had shifted to the supper room, or gathered into groups to chat and partake of the punch à la romaine offered on trays by the footmen. Carlston steered her towards a pair of empty chairs set in the corner of the far wall. He waved away a footman offering them the tall glasses of the milky, iced rum.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘we can keep an eye on anyone approaching. I do not want us to be overheard.’
Helen took a seat and busied herself with the arrangement of her gown. As Carlston took the other chair, she said, ‘If I did not know better, I would think the Comte to be one of your oldest and dearest friends.’ It seemed she was taking the offensive path.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He was plainly startled by the attack. ‘On the contrary: I do not trust the Comte and he does not trust me. It is just that we have dealt with each other many times before and have a respect for each other’s abilities. In the end, however, we both know that we will do what is in our own best interest. That is certainly not my definition of friendship.’
Helen leaped upon his wording. ‘Do you not mean the interests of the Dark Days Club?’
Carlston frowned. ‘Of course. What did you think I meant?’
‘Offering to supply pages of the journal. Promising to protect Comte Julien. That is stretching our oath, Lord Carlston.’
‘Ah.’ He rubbed his mouth. ‘Yes, it could be construed as such. But if we are to get any useful information as to the identity of the Grand Deceiver, that must be worth a step outside our purview. Do you not agree?’
‘Surely the oath must be our guide to what is correct?’
‘Nothing is clear-cut in this world of ours, Lady Helen. You should understand that by now.’
‘Certainly,’ she said stiffly. ‘Nevertheless, I do not think it has to be this …’ she searched for an appropriate description, ‘murky.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘Wait until you start dealing directly with Pike and the Home Office.’
Helen felt her cheeks heat and turned her face, pretending to survey the room to hide the telltale flush. Time to change the subject.
‘The Comte was very difficult to read. As far as I could tell, he was sincere, particularly when speaking about his family.’
‘Yes, that part of the interview rang true. I hope you did not believe all that other information about the origin of the Deceivers. I can tell you from experience that any information Louis offers for free is either a lie or a half-truth at best.’
She focused on the fan in her hands, her voice at its most noncommittal. ‘Then perhaps the existence of Mr Benchley’s journal is a lie too.’
‘No, he would not make a bargain for the well-being of his wife and son built upon a lie that could be so easily discovered. He certainly believes that a journal exists.’
Helen clutched the head of her fan. ‘Do you think it exists?’
‘Benchley was always adamant that he did not commit any of his knowledge to paper; a ploy to make himself more valuable. Even so, it is just as possible that he did write such a journal. And if he did, then its content will not be limited to information about Deceivers.’
‘What do you mean?’
Did his lordship know it was a Ligatus? If he did, then surely that must support Pike’s accusation that he had played a part in its manufacture?