She picked up the bank draft: authorised for three months. A clear message that she was to come to her senses by the end of summer. Well, she could not afford to refuse the offering. She had left London with only pin money in her purse and that was almost gone.
She turned her attention to the other packet. As she unfolded it, two ten-pound notes dropped onto the desk, bringing a sudden sob into her throat. Dear Aunt; so brave to have written a letter and enclosed money against Uncle’s orders.
The missive was full of lighthearted gossip, not a word of reproof, and Helen could almost feel herself back at Half Moon Street, listening to her aunt in the drawing room, each at their sewing. There was nothing of great consequence in the closely written lines until she came to a paragraph near the end:
I do not know if the news has yet reached Brighton, but your dear friend Millicent Gardwell is betrothed to Lord Holbridge. Such an excellent match, but then she does have enough countenance and connection to overcome her lack of fortune. They are, I believe, planning a winter wedding and she has asked if she may send a letter to you in Brighton. Have you not written to her, my dear? Do so directly, for I am sure she would wish you to witness the nuptials.
Helen pressed the heels of her hands against her wet eyes. Such happy news. Millicent and the Viscount would do well together; her decisive nature would complement his easy good humour. Sniffing back her ridiculous sentimentality, Helen opened the secretaire drawer, searching for paper. Millicent had always wanted to marry quickly and well, and now she had got her wish. Helen paused in her search, remembering their conversations about marriage: their adamant agreement that they must at least like their husbands, that a house in London was absolutely essential, and that if a son came first, three children were enough.
The warm recollection shifted abruptly into a stark realisation. Unlike Millicent, she would never have a husband or the chance of children. Of course she had known that before she’d read Aunt’s letter but now it felt brutally real. She had signed a different kind of vow and there could be no place for a family within it.
Helen scrubbed at her eyes. There was no value in self-pity. Best to forge onward. She pulled out a clean piece of paper and reached for the inkwell, then stopped again, an even worse realisation hollowing her heart.
She could write to Millicent and wish her well, but that was all. She could not risk attending her friend’s wedding, or even visiting. If the day’s events had shown her anything, it was that wherever she went, the danger of the Deceivers followed. She would not expose Millicent, or anyone else she loved, to that world. Even if that meant never seeing them again.
Chapter Seventeen
TUESDAY, 14 JULY 1812
The next day at breakfast, two letters arrived in the morning post: one from London for Lady Margaret; and the other, hand-delivered, for Helen. For a heart-stopping instant, Helen thought the thrice-folded note on Garner’s silver salver might be from Martha Gunn. Then the butler bowed and offered her the slim packet, and she recognised the writing across the front: the Duke of Selburn’s hand. It would seem Lowry had decided to stay away from Brighton until the full moon; or perhaps he was just better at hiding from them than they were at finding him.
She picked up the Duke’s letter and broke the seal. If he was writing, then at least his arm was not broken, she thought gratefully as she unfolded the single page.
Grand Parade, Brighton, Tuesday, 14th July, 1812
Dear Lady Helen,
After yesterday’s events, I feel I must speak to you. Please, do me the honour of driving with me this afternoon. I would be most obliged.
Yrs, etc,
Selburn
Helen folded the note again, ignoring the unabashed curiosity on Delia’s face. The Duke’s persistence was far too dangerous. She had tried polite refusal and blunt request. It was time for blatant discourtesy. A curt note then, and if ever they met, she would have to deliver a cut-direct: pretend he did not even exist. It would hurt him greatly, and her too, but it had to be done. For his own protection.
‘Lowry is here,’ Lady Margaret said, looking up from her own letter. She passed it across the table to Helen. ‘From my brother.’
St James’s Square, Monday, 13th July, 1812
Dear Margaret,
According to his lordship’s sources, Lowry is in the vicinity of Brighton. A most frustrating outcome, but at least we now have information to follow. His lordship asks that you instruct our informants in the area to search out any clues as to his location. We return with every expediency.
Yr affectionate brother,
Michael
Helen kept her eyes on the note, composing her expression. She had hoped Mr Hammond would have been able to hold Lord Carlston in London until the following week.
‘A strange coincidence that Lowry is hereabouts,’ she said, looking up with a careful frown.
‘The coincidence, I think, lies in Mr Pike and Mr Stokes being here as well, and I would wager that is no coincidence at all,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘They are after the journal too.’
Helen nodded thoughtfully, her heart beating harder. Lady Margaret was too clever by half; and his lordship would have come to the same conclusion.
Delia put down her teacup. ‘How annoying for Lord Carlston and Mr Hammond to go all the way to London just to discover that.’
‘Indeed,’ Lady Margaret replied, her voice clipped.
‘I will send a note to Martha Gunn,’ Helen said quickly. ‘To keep a lookout for Lowry.’ Not to mention to cover the fact that the old dipper already knew they were looking for him.
Lady Margaret nodded. ‘Good idea. I will contact my people too.’
‘I know I am very new amongst you,’ Delia said hesitantly, ‘but there is something that puzzles me.’
‘What is it?’ Helen asked.
‘If his lordship does find the journal, is it really the best course of action to take it to a Deceiver?’ Delia looked from Helen to Lady Margaret, her fine brows lifted in inquiry. ‘From what you have told me, deception is an integral part of a Deceiver’s nature. His lordship seems to be relying upon the word of the Comte d’Antraigues that his sickness is not just the vestige madness. He is also relying upon the Comte for the cure. I know this is an awful question, but is it possible that his lordship is in fact suffering from the vestige madness, and the Comte is using his lordship’s desperation to obtain the journal for his own purposes?’
The clock in the breakfast room ticked through the silence. Helen chewed her lip. Delia had voiced Lady Margaret’s doubts, and her own dread.
Lady Margaret smoothed out her brother’s note, the plane of her fingers across the paper like the switch of a cat’s tail. ‘His lordship has dealt with the Comte d’Antraigues for many years, Miss Cransdon. He is well able to judge if the Comte will keep his word.’