Then again, maybe her phantom sighting of Philip had made all footmen into Deceivers. Was she overreacting again? Even if she were, it would do no harm to check. Most of the time it was impossible to prove the identity of a Deceiver. However, if this footman had been skimming life force from oblivious passers-by then maybe she would be able to see his feeding tentacle through her Reclaimer lens. It was a hundred-to-one chance, nevertheless she opened her reticule and scooped up the touch watch, finding the tiny clip that held the case shut.
But how could she assemble the lens and raise it to her eye without causing comment? A swift glance about the room gave her the answer: she could not. There were too many people around, and Pug had already noticed the watch cupped in her hand. Lord, how she missed her mother’s miniature. Somehow, the Colligat alchemy within it had allowed her to see Deceiver energy just by holding the tiny portrait; no need to assemble a lens. But its power was in the hands of the Deceivers now. With one last look at the young man rapidly crossing the road, Helen let the watch drop back into her bag.
‘I say, that is a pretty timepiece,’ Pug said. ‘It looks just like the one that Lord Carlston carries, except his is blue. Are they from the same maker?’
‘I would not know. I have never noticed his lordship’s watch,’ Helen lied, and walked further into the library, leaving Pug in her wake.
Mr Hammond came to stand at her side. ‘Grand, is it not? This is only the first of many rooms beyond.’ He added under his breath, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It is,’ she said to both questions, and turned her attention to the library in an effort to throw off her sense of unease.
A remarkably large skylight in the ceiling allowed the day’s brightness into the long spacious room. The walls were lined with shelves of books — as was to be expected — most of them bound in the serviceable blue cardboard that was the badge of the modern circulating library. A handsome mahogany counter stood to the right, manned by a portly individual dressed in a black coat and with luxurious whiskers who was showing a periodical to a young lady. Three older gentlemen sat bent over newspapers at a long reading table set beneath the skylight; at one end of the table was spread a neat display of that day’s Times, Gazette, Morning Post and the local Brighton Herald. The smell of fresh newspaper ink and the fustiness of the books mixed with a faint trace of rose perfume. A curiously pleasant scent. Helen breathed it in, finding a measure of calm again.
A number of small tables had been arranged around the floor with enough distance between them for a quiet tête-à-tête, and some were already occupied by ladies and gentlemen conversing in soft tones. Nearby, a pair of young ladies strolled arm in arm past a series of glass-topped display cases, pausing now and again to study an array of jewellery and stationery for sale, their coos of delight like distant doves.
‘Oh, look!’ Pug’s voice cut through Helen’s new-found serenity. ‘They carry rings. I do love a ring. And perfume too!’ She leaned closer to Helen’s ear, although did not drop her volume. ‘It’s probably smuggled from Paris.’
The gentle activity in the room ceased for a moment and all eyes turned to the new arrivals. The portly librarian, having concluded his business with the young lady, rapidly made his way towards them.
‘Lady Dunwick,’ he said in a rich voice that seemed more suited to the stage than a library. A neat bow showed the shiny freckled top of a balding head. ‘It is an honour to see you here again. How may I be of service?’
Lady Dunwick waved an expansive hand, collecting Helen, Lady Margaret and Mr Hammond into its arc. ‘We are here to subscribe, Mr Fountwell.’
‘You are all most welcome,’ he said. ‘Please, come this way and sign the book.’ He gestured to the counter where a large green-bound ledger sat open. ‘Our terms have not changed since last summer, Lady Dunwick, and I think you and your companions will agree they are most moderate. Five shillings for one month or ten shillings for three months.’ He turned his attention to Helen and Lady Margaret. ‘And if you are so inclined, we also sell subscriptions to the concert series.’
‘I do not know if my health will allow me to attend the concerts,’ Helen said, stepping up to the counter, ‘but I will subscribe to the library. For two months.’
‘I believe one month will be sufficient, my dear,’ Lady Margaret said.
Helen met her eyes for a fleeting moment — were they only staying a month more then? — and saw the affirmative.
‘Of course, just a month,’ she amended. Why was she always the last to know these things?
‘Excellent,’ Mr Fountwell said, casting a rather narrow look at Lady Margaret. He offered Helen a well-trimmed quill. ‘If you would be so kind as to sign the register.’
Helen took the pen, dipped it into the ink and bent to the ledger, her eye skimming down the names already written across the page.
‘Who is here?’ Pug leaned in to study the book. ‘Oh, look, the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues. It says here they have a house in Marlborough Row. They must be near us then. You know she was a famous opera singer in Paris?’
‘Yes,’ Helen said, but her attention had fixed — horribly — on another name in the register. In almost the same moment, Pug’s gloved finger jabbed at the bold signature.
‘Oh, my goodness, His Grace the Duke of Selburn is here!’ She turned her head, the feathers in her bonnet brushing Helen’s face. ‘Did you know he was coming?’
‘No,’ Helen managed.
Just six weeks ago, a few days before her presentation ball, the Duke had asked her to marry him — an honour that she had more or less accepted on the condition that he still wished to do so after her ball. Admittedly, it had been a strange caveat, but she had expected to strip herself of her Reclaimer powers that night, and the effect of such alchemy could have destroyed her wit and intelligence forever. She had felt she could not in all conscience accept his proposal as a bright, lively woman, and then expect him to live an entire life with a diminished, idiot version of herself. All that had changed, of course, with Philip’s attack upon her in her bedchamber and her choice to be a Reclaimer, not a Duchess. She had written to the Duke and released him from any obligation, but had not seen him since that letter had been delivered.
Pug’s thick fingertip traced the ledger line across to the date column. ‘His Grace arrived the day before yesterday. I rather thought he would have stayed in the city, what with the new government and all.’
‘Two days ago?’ Helen looked at Mr Hammond and saw a flash of guilt cross his face. He had known; and beside him, Lady Margaret’s face told the same story. Without a doubt, their silence was on Lord Carlston’s orders. Helen’s anger heated her cheeks.
Pug sent her a knowing glance. ‘You are blushing. Perhaps his arrival is a compliment to you, Lady Helen. The general view in London is that there is an understanding between you.’
‘You are mistaken. There is no understanding.’