It was at that defeated moment that Philip, the Deceiver, walked into view, this time near the opposite corner of Pavilion Parade. Helen gasped. There could be no mistake: it was him. And he had seen her too, insolently tipping his grey beaver hat to her, a sly smile on his freckled face.
She stopped in the middle of the path, uncertain what to do. Run after him? But then the Duke, even now regarding her with concern, would surely follow and she could not place him in the path of a Deceiver. Not to mention the scandal that would rise at the sight of a young lady running through the Steine with the Duke of Selburn in pursuit.
She looked back at Lady Margaret and Delia, but they were caught in an exchange with the decrepit Lady Staves.
She found Philip again. He was heading towards the corner at some speed.
The Duke followed her gaze. ‘Is that an acquaintance?’
She could not let him just walk away. He was their only link to the Colligat and the Grand Deceiver.
She gathered up her skirts, crushing silk and letters into a tight grip, and ran into the oncoming crowd. Startled gasps met her headlong dash, gentlemen pulling ladies out of the way. Suddenly her path was obstructed by two couples who had stopped to converse. She darted to the right, but found no clear route; the rotund man and his hysterical poodle were blocking the way. She darted to the other side. No way there either. There was only one thing for it. Gathering her resolve, she pushed past the ladies.
‘I say, what do you think you are doing?’ one of their male companions called out.
Helen looked back. ‘My apologies!’
‘Lady Helen, wait!’ the Duke called, closing in behind.
She shook her head, waving him away for all the good that it would do. He was going to follow her, come what may. She threaded her way through a party of sober-clad gentlemen, all her attention on Pavilion Parade. Black top hats, Army tricorns and a variety of caps, but no shabby grey beaver. Where was he?
She stopped and scanned the street. He had disappeared again. Was he taunting her?
The Duke reached her side, his eyes alight with the chase. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I will find him for you.’ He pressed his hat down more firmly, clearly intending to pursue the Deceiver.
‘No!’ She caught his arm, realising too late she had done so with her full strength. He stared down at her iron grip, astonishment quickly turning into a grimace of pain. She snatched back her hand. ‘Please do not concern yourself, Your Grace. It is nothing.’
He stared at her, rubbing his forearm. ‘Nothing?’ He lowered his voice, casting a glance around the crowd that had gathered to watch such odd behaviour. ‘Forgive me, but it is clearly something. You did the same thing at Hyde Park: suddenly you were running towards the runaway horse as if to stop it. Now you are running towards a man in a public place. What is going on?’
‘It is nothing,’ she repeated. ‘Just a foolish notion.’
‘No, you are in some kind of trouble,’ he said slowly. ‘My dear, can you not trust me?’
A commotion parted the curious crowd.
‘Let me through,’ Lady Margaret demanded. ‘Oh, Lady Helen, you poor child,’ she said loudly, ‘you are overcome.’ She pressed a hand against Helen’s forehead. ‘Yes, too much sun and excitement, I fear. We must return home immediately. Miss Cransdon, would you please help me take Lady Helen to a sedan chair?’ She turned a dazzling smile upon the Duke. ‘Thank you for your kind concern, Your Grace. Lady Helen is still not fully recovered from her riding accident.’
Sensing an end to the excitement, many of the onlookers began to move away. It was a well-known fact, Helen heard someone murmur, that too much sun was indeed dangerous to a weakened constitution.
Lady Margaret and Delia each took one of Helen’s arms. ‘For God’s sake, pretend you are ill,’ Lady Margaret hissed as they steered her towards the waiting sedan chairs outside the Castle Tavern.
Helen looked back at the Duke, standing alone on the path. He was still holding his forearm, a perplexed frown upon his face.
It was not a happy return to the German Place drawing room. Although Helen explained that she had seen Philip again, that the Deceiver had actually tipped his hat to her in some kind of sly taunt, Lady Margaret was not diverted from her wrath. Apparently she’d had her own plan to meet a trusted informer at the promenade, which had been ruined by Helen’s bad judgment and reckless behaviour. Not only that: Helen had drawn attention to herself in exactly the way that his lordship had ordered them to avoid.
Delia attempted a staunch defence, arguing that surely the retrieval of the Colligat was of the utmost importance, but in the end Lady Margaret’s accusations were more or less true. Helen waited out the harangue, then escaped to her bedchamber with the packet of letters still crumpled in her hand.
The worst of it, she thought, as she carried her night candle to the writing desk, was the Duke’s involvement. He was now convinced something was amiss, and she knew he would not give up until he discovered the truth. All her attempts to keep him safe had just placed him in more danger — from Lord Carlston, and possibly now the Deceiver world. On top of that, she had accidentally injured him.
She bowed her head. Dear God, please let his arm be only bruised and not broken.
The sound of footsteps in the next room lifted her head.
‘Do you need anything, my lady?’ Darby asked from the dressing room doorway, her voice soft with sympathy. Bad news travelled very fast in the house. ‘Did you wish to undress for bed now?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
Darby curtseyed and withdrew.
Helen took a seat at the desk and picked up the packet from Andrew. She drew a fortifying breath and worked her thumbnail under the wax seal, breaking it with a snap. Two letters were folded within: a thin missive with her name across the front in her brother’s slanted scrawl, and a fatter packet in her aunt’s neat hand.
The angriest first. She broke the seal on her brother’s letter and unfolded it. One paragraph, and another paper tucked inside. She slid the enclosure onto the desk and angled the letter to the candlelight.
The Albany, Sunday, 12th July, 1812
Dear Helen,
I have taken Selburn’s advice and will not visit you in Brighton. I urge you, however, to note his careful protection of your well-being and to reconsider your decision regarding his proposal. He is still keen — God knows why after your treatment of him — and he has my and, more importantly, Uncle’s blessing. Frankly, Sprite, you are a fool if you do not take him. Enclosed is a draft on my bank account until September. Aunt has writ too, against Uncle’s wishes, so don’t write back. He’ll just burn it and she’ll have the devil to pay.
Your brother,
Andrew
Helen bit her lip. Andrew disliked putting pen to paper, and for him to actually set down his disgust in ink meant he was very angry indeed.