Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

Clearly the subject of his sickness was not to be discussed.

‘I have. It seemed the right time do so,’ Helen said, keeping her voice determinedly nonchalant.

Lady Margaret leaned forward. ‘I do not see why you felt the need to hide your expedition.’ The statement bordered on the accusatory.

Helen stood silent. Any answer would be wrong.

‘It was foolhardy,’ Lady Margaret added. ‘You need to apprise someone of your whereabouts.’

‘Lady Helen is a Reclaimer, Lady Margaret,’ his lordship said, turning away from the box. ‘She does not need to apprise anyone of her whereabouts.’

Delia made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort, turning it quickly into a small cough.

Lady Margaret stiffened. ‘I thought you believed she was not yet ready to go out on her own, Lord Carlston.’

‘She must be ready.’ He regarded Helen thoughtfully. ‘Was it a successful venture?’

‘Yes, I believe it was.’ Helen paused; every step hereon was treacherous. She saw Mr Hammond shift from one foot to the other. Yes, he felt the danger too. How much could she say? ‘I went into the Lanes. To a bawdy-house.’

‘A bawdy-house?’ Delia exclaimed, blonde curls bobbing with shock.

‘I did not go in,’ Helen said.

‘Oh, of course not.’ Delia smiled her relief.

‘Kate Holt’s house?’ his lordship asked. ‘Lowry’s sister,’ he added for the benefit of the room.

Ah, he knew. His London informer must have told him.

‘Yes.’ Helen caught a sidelong warning from Hammond as he crossed to the hearth into her line of sight. She forged onward. ‘I have asked Mrs Gunn and her people to inform us if he should appear there or in town again, but I decided to go there myself and ask some discreet questions.’

At least most of it was the truth.

‘Did you find anything?’ Hammond asked. He was doing a good job of hiding his nerves, but his hand had closed into a white-knuckled grip around the marble edge of the mantel.

‘I saw a man watching the house. He was, I think, the same man I saw in Philip’s company so I followed him back to his residence. He is the Comte d’Antraigues’s valet.’ She addressed the last to Lord Carlston.

The Earl’s eyes narrowed as he turned over the news. ‘Ah. Now that is interesting. Well done.’

Lady Margaret looked across at her brother. ‘The Comte,’ she said, as if it were a conclusion. ‘He must be the Grand Deceiver.’

‘Do you think it is possible?’ Mr Hammond asked Lord Carlston.

‘Anything is possible,’ his lordship said. ‘It is not extraordinary to think the Comte would be seeking the journal himself, as well as setting me upon its path. That does not immediately make him the Grand Deceiver.’ He stopped, frowning as he considered the proposition. Finally, he hissed out a breath. ‘I certainly hope he is not the Grand Deceiver — I doubt I would receive any cure from him if that were the case. My gut, however,’ he slapped his hand against his green striped waistcoat, over the flat of his stomach, ‘says he is not. Granted he is a Deceiver and deception is their nature, but I cannot see it.’

Helen nodded her agreement. Or was it just hopeful thinking on both their parts?

‘I cannot claim any logic to that feeling, just years of experience dealing with the Comte,’ his lordship added. ‘Even so, we cannot ignore the connection between his valet and Philip. Lady Helen, are you are sure it was the same man in Philip’s company?’

Helen hesitated; she could not be absolutely certain. ‘I saw only a glimpse of him that first time, but I believe it is the same man.’

His lordship rubbed his chin. ‘It is possible the Comte is not aware of the connection between his man and Philip. Either way, it does not change our goal. We must still obtain the journal before anyone else — the Comte, Pike and the Grand Deceiver, if he is in play too. Whoever possesses it has the power.’

More power than he knew, Helen thought.

‘Press your informers,’ he said to Hammond and Lady Margaret. ‘For now, I wish to speak to Lady Helen alone. If you would all leave us, please.’

The abrupt dismissal caught everyone by surprise. Helen directed a wild glance at Hammond — What does this mean? — but it was plain he knew nothing.

Delia rose briskly from the sofa, her alacrity forcing Lady Margaret to stand as well.

‘Please, do not overtax yourself, Lord Carlston,’ Lady Margaret began, then stopped when she saw his lordship’s forbidding expression. She drew herself up. ‘I am pleased to see you so well.’

He gave a small bow. ‘Thank you, Lady Margaret.’

The three of them filed out, Mr Hammond the last to depart. He sent Helen a worried frown before closing the door.

His lordship waited a moment, listening for the sounds of descent, then picked up the black box from the table.

‘Foolish of me to ask them to leave, I know,’ he said, one broad shoulder lifting with self-derision, ‘but I have something for you and I wanted to give it to you alone. I have been waiting for it to be finished, and it was delivered while I was in London.’

A gift from him, delivered alone? The intimacy of it took her breath away. By all rights, a lady should not accept a gift from a gentleman, especially a gentleman who was still considered married. Still, she had already accepted the touch watch from him.

He walked over and handed her the box. ‘One Reclaimer to another,’ he said firmly. He must have seen her discomfort.

It was heavier than she had expected. ‘Most kind of you, Lord Carlston.’

‘I do not know if you should call it kind. Perhaps expedient would be more appropriate.’

It was definitely not jewellery then. She dug her fingernail beneath the gold catch and flicked it free. With a glance at him — both of them smiling at nothing apart from anticipation, it seemed — she lifted the lid.

‘Oh,’ she breathed.

A curved knife, the blade made from glass and the handle carved in ivory, lay upon a bed of royal blue velvet. The knife’s blade was etched with scrolling leafwork and flowers entwined around the words Deus in vitro est. The translation: God is in the glass.

‘You will find its leather scabbard under the velvet,’ Carlston said.

She touched the etched surface of the knife, feeling the velvety corrugations of the foliage. ‘It is so beautiful.’

‘Mr Wedgwood made it for you.’

‘The gentleman who makes the dinner sets and vases?’

‘Indeed. Like his father before him, Josiah Wedgwood is quite an alchemist in his own right. He creates our knives to be almost unbreakable and able to withstand Deceiver energy.’

He moved to her side and leaned closer, tracing the Latin with his fingertip. ‘This has also been worked with a protection talisman for you.’ He cast her a mock-guilty glance. ‘I have to confess I saved some of your hair from the hairdresser for the alchemy.’

He had saved her hair?

‘What does the talisman do?’ she asked.

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