Helen looked down at her plate, remembering that flash of desperate fear in Lord Carlston’s eyes before they had met with the Comte.
‘But is he?’ Delia pressed. ‘If he is suffering the vestige madness, can you be sure his judgment is unimpaired? Surely it would be a dire situation if the journal fell into the hands of a Deceiver? If Mr Pike and Mr Stokes are also here to obtain it, should it not be given to them?’
‘You have no idea what you are talking about,’ Lady Margaret said coldly. ‘I have been his lordship’s aide for many years and his judgment is as sound and brilliant as ever. If he does not think the journal should go to Pike, then it should not. He will have his reasons. He always has his reasons.’
Not the opinion she had whispered to her brother in the foyer, Helen thought. Was she lying to herself now as well as to them?
‘I did not mean to impugn—’ Delia began, but Helen shook her head a fraction, stopping her.
Lady Margaret signalled to Garner, who pulled out her chair as she stood. ‘The Dark Days Club is a small group facing an overwhelming enemy, Miss Cransdon. We do not need doubt or dissension within our ranks.’ She picked up her brother’s letter.
‘The Dark Days Club is not just Lord Carlston,’ Helen said. Her own confused loyalties speaking perhaps, but it was the truth.
‘No, Lord Carlston is the Dark Days Club, Lady Helen. Without him, it is little more than a disparate group of thugs under the control of a bitter and power-hungry bureaucrat.’ Lady Margaret’s usual composure was replaced by sudden heat. ‘The only other honourable man amongst them is Stokes, and he does not have the subtlety or vision to lead such a group. Look what happened when his lordship was in exile.’ She jabbed the air between them, punctuating each word. ‘Benchley: that is what happened! What is more, he happened under Pike’s watch.’
That was true, and now Pike was adamant that it would not happen again.
‘But what if his lordship is heading the same way as Benchley?’ Helen demanded. There, she had said it. ‘What if Delia is right and the Comte is lying about a cure?’
‘The seeds of Benchley’s savagery were sown well before he descended into madness, Lady Helen. To even think his lordship could become such a thing is …’ Lady Margaret paused and shook her head in disbelief, ‘a heinous suggestion.’
‘I must think it, if only to stop any possibility of it coming about,’ Helen said.
‘If you truly knew him like I do, you would not even think it a possibility. You would know he was incapable of that kind of mindless violence. You may be a Reclaimer like him, and perhaps his eyes do follow you, but he knows it is I who will always stand by him. He knows it!’
On that, she turned, her brother’s letter crushed in her hand. Garner quickly opened the door and she walked out, her usual gliding step locked into a stiff march. The butler closed the door again, his face carefully blank.
‘Lud!’ Delia said, slumping back in her chair. ‘She is in a vile mood. Did you hear her say his lordship’s eyes follow you? Maybe that is what has made her so angry.’
Helen had indeed heard the comment, but Delia was missing the truth of Lady Margaret’s outburst.
‘I do not think she is angry,’ she said slowly. ‘I think she is afraid.’
It took far longer for Helen to write her reply to the Duke than she had expected. Writing a polite letter was easy; writing a purposely rude letter designed to end a friendship was a far more difficult proposition. In the end, her note was as brief as his own: a refusal of his invitation to drive, a request to no longer importune her with invitations or correspondence, and a very abrupt final statement: I do not wish to further our acquaintance.
She bowed her head over the completed letter. It was as rude and ugly as the fear that hammered in her heart for him.
‘For God’s sake, stay away,’ she whispered over it. ‘For your own good.’
She sealed it and rang for Geoffrey.
‘Deliver it immediately,’ she said. ‘I do not require an answer.’
A few hours later, Delia stood in the doorway of the drawing room, swinging her closed parasol by its bamboo handle. She had changed into a walking gown — pale blue muslin with the shorter hem trimmed with red bows — and a straw-chip hat that she had tied jauntily over one eye with its matching red ribbons.
‘Are you sure you will not come?’ she asked Helen. ‘At this time of morning Donaldson’s is quite abuzz.’
Helen shook her head. ‘I really must study.’ She shifted her legs beneath the heavy edition of Elements of Alchemy, In a New Systematic Order, Containing All the Modern Discoveries. It was crushing her own muslin gown. The weight of knowledge, she thought wryly.
‘Please, Helen,’ Delia dropped her voice, ‘do not leave me alone with Lady Margaret. She is like a bear with a sore head.’
‘You may stay here with me.’ It was not what she wanted, but she had to make the offer.
‘No, I can see you are set upon your books.’ Delia sighed. ‘Perhaps Lady Margaret’s informer will have news and improve her mood.’
Alone again, Helen returned to her reading. In a canon of boring texts, this had to be one of the worst. Nevertheless, she had to understand the interactions between alchemical elements, and it was a relief of sorts to step away from the turmoil of her mind to focus upon the stolid text.
As she read, she heard Delia and Lady Margaret leave the house; the creak of the hanging hessian sack and the murmur of voices as Darby and Quinn trained in the salon above; and the return of Geoffrey from his errand. The footman’s cheery hail to the kitchen girls brought Helen’s head up from the book and she found herself watching the drawing room door, waiting to see if there was in fact an answer from the Duke. No footsteps ascended the staircase and the door did not open.
She forced herself to return to the grim description of the combustible nature of phosphorus, otherwise known as the Devil’s Element. Apparently, when ignited and in contact with skin, it burned without end. Like lies, Helen thought, searing an ever-bright sore through the soul. Burning even when in the service of a sacred oath.
Two chapters later, a loud rap of the front knocker interrupted her concentration. She extended her hearing to the foyer as Garner opened the door.
‘Mr Stokes, to see Lady Helen,’ a deep Cambridgeshire voice said. ‘I am not expected.’
Indeed, he was not. It could be no accident that he had timed his visit to coincide with one of the rare times she was alone.
She shifted from the armchair to the sofa, which offered a better view of the door, and waited for Garner to present the Reclaimer’s card. It duly arrived, set upon the silver salver. Helen picked up the printed introduction: as unembellished as the man himself.
‘Yes, I am at home,’ she instructed the butler.