In reflex, she stepped back against the safety of the wall and watched the Deceiver — Lawrence — hand the Comte his cane. What did the association mean? She had seen Lawrence in Philip’s company, and she knew Philip served the Grand Deceiver. Did that mean Lawrence did also?
She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a very female gasp that brought a startled look from a man walking past. Helen turned her face and pretended to cough. Holy heaven, was the Comte d’Antraigues the Grand Deceiver? It was possible, of course; yet somehow it did not seem likely. Not after their interview with him at Lady Dunwick’s rout. Then again, Helen thought, as she watched the Comte stroll out of the gate, he had set Lord Carlston upon the search for the journal, and his man was watching the bawdy-house.
Whatever the case, there was one very sobering truth that could not be denied: the Grand Deceiver, whoever he may be, knew that Lowry had the journal. But did he also know it was a Ligatus?
Chapter Nineteen
Helen’s suspicions about the Comte d’Antraigues and his valet occupied her as she walked back to German Place. She took Marine Parade, alongside the beachfront, but hardly noticed the sun’s warmth and was only momentarily diverted by the amusing sight of two squealing ladies run aground on a pair of cantankerous penny-a-ride donkeys.
There seemed to be enough evidence to suggest that the Comte could be the Grand Deceiver, yet Helen was not convinced. Not that she could say why. Perhaps she had been affected by his charm more than she cared to admit. And that, she realised, was another mark against the Comte: charm was one of the purported traits of a Grand Deceiver. The Comte had also admitted to a lowly start; another characteristic. Still, every Deceiver in the world had been shifting from generation to generation for centuries. Most of them would have started their earthly existence amongst the lower orders.
By the time she turned the corner into German Place, Helen felt even more tangled. Her mind insisted that the Comte was the Grand Deceiver — just look at all the evidence — but her gut instinct shook its head and stood firm, although it offered no support for its spurious claim.
The argument was going around in frustrating circles, so she abandoned it for the moment and instead surveyed the street for any sign of a spy in the employ of the Duke. The stretch of four-and five-storey townhouses stood quietly in the midday sun, only the dipping, wheeling gulls above providing any movement. No footman or groom watched the house. Her letter seemed to have had the required effect.
The real test, of course, would be when she and the Duke next met in public. She sighed. The cut-direct — ignoring someone so deliberately and so completely — was the height of incivility, but it would make clear that she did not want any further association. Hopefully it would also sever any attachment he imagined he still felt.
Ignoring the sense of loss that followed that plan, she walked up the side lane to the mews. They gave access to the rear door of the house — a precaution in case anyone noticed that a young gentleman seemed to have joined the household at Number 20. As she neared the stables, a groom led out a big chestnut gelding, one of a curricle pair that she knew belonged to Lord Carlston. Sweat dulled its usually gleaming coat. His lordship had returned. Was he inside or had he returned to his own lodgings?
Helen felt her step quicken and forcibly slowed herself again as she passed the groom and horse. She must control this compulsion to see him.
Geoffrey stood in the rear yard gathering up two portmanteaus. He frowned at Helen’s approach, squaring his big shoulders, then recognised her and dipped his head.
‘Good day, sir,’ he said.
‘Good day. Has Mr Hammond returned?’
The footman glanced down at the cases. ‘He and Lord Carlston have just this minute gone up to the drawing room. I believe they are waiting for your return.’
Waiting for her return: she could not stop a smile. Even so, she must order her thoughts. There were too many secrets and too much at stake to just give in to her desire to run willy-nilly upstairs. Everything had become ten times more dangerous: the Ligatus and Pike’s dangerous belief that his lordship had helped make it, Stokes’s warning, the Comte, and of course the threat to put his lordship down like a rabid dog. She had not seen Lord Carlston for four days; what if his mental state had declined further? She kneaded one fist within the other hand. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let him be worse. If he were, could she really report it to Pike?
She continued through the kitchen door, acknowledged the curtsies from the cook and her girls, and took the stairs two at a time, arriving at the drawing room door with heart hammering. He would probably have heard her ascent. She hoped he had heard it; that would mean he had been listening for her approach. She stopped at the door, focusing her own Reclaimer hearing.
‘There is no reason to think that Canning would be swayed in that direction,’ she heard him say, ‘particularly if Castlereagh favours it.’ She raised her head: was that a smile dawning in his voice? ‘Ah, Lady Helen has returned.’
She pressed steepled fingertips to her lips for a moment, trying to contain her elation. She may have decided to quell her attraction to Lord Carlston, but it seemed her body had not.
The door opened. Mr Hammond, face pale from fatigue, peered out. No wonder he looked exhausted; he and Lord Carlston must have left London before dawn to have reached Brighton by this time of day.
‘Good morning,’ he said, and in just one glance his blue eyes passed a wealth of information: an apology for not keeping his lordship in London, concern for her, and not least, a question: Lowry?
She gave a slight shake of her head, covering them all, and walked into the drawing room. Lady Margaret and Delia were seated on the sofa. She had not expected them to be back as well. Delia smiled a greeting, but Lady Margaret’s eyes were fixed upon his lordship. Her smile was filled with the same kind of exhilaration that Helen felt.
‘Good morning,’ Lord Carlston said, bowing.
He stood by the window, the sunlight catching the ebony shine of his hair and modelling the angles of his cheekbone and jaw, their stern symmetry softened only by the welcoming curve of his lips. Helen felt herself take too many steps towards him; how mortifying that a happy mix of shape and contour should have such an ungovernable effect upon her body. She stopped and rocked back on her heels, concentrating upon the whole of him, not just his lips. He seemed more at ease; the strain and deep snapping energy subdued, and that awful knit of pain between his brows gone. No doubt part of the reason for Lady Margaret’s jubilation.
‘You appear much improved, Lord Carlston,’ she said.
‘I am, thank you.’ He walked across to the table, where a long black leather case had been set. It looked like a box from Rundell’s, but was far too large for jewellery. His lordship placed his fingers upon the top as if calming what lay inside. ‘Mr Quinn told me you have been visiting the town by yourself?’