Helen dropped the bottle on the bed and climbed onto the table, sending up a silent prayer for Lizzie. The girl needed help, but she had to follow Carlston. Right now, he could tear the narrow street apart. More to the point, she had to follow the journal.
She clamped her hands on the stone flags above and pulled herself up into the lane, landing in a squat in front of the coffeehouse. The ease of the movement brought a moment of elation, and then the full force of the situation burst upon her. Less than a yard away, a blur of bodies rolled and smashed into the wall of the coffeehouse at an unearthly speed, punching a hole through the wood. In the dim lamp-light, Helen’s Reclaimer sight separated the blur into two men: Carlston on his knees, clawing for the journal bag strapped to Lowry’s body; and the former Terrene kicking viciously at Carlston’s head as he scrambled backward, splintered wood flying into the air.
Two young fashionable bucks watched from the doorway of the daffy house opposite, their mouths agape at the blurred battle. Beyond them, Hammond stood holding someone back by the arm — a tall, fair man. Helen felt her breath lock in her chest. The Duke. What was he doing here?
He had seen her. His perplexed frown shifted into horrified recognition. It was just like the hanging, only tenfold worse. This time she was dressed as a man and coming out of a bawdy-house cellar.
He wrested his arm from Hammond’s hold, turning on the smaller man. ‘Is that Lady Helen?’ she heard him yell. ‘For Christ’s sake, man, is that Lady Helen?’
The fight between Lowry and Carlston erupted upward and her sight shifted to follow their speed. Lowry was back on his feet, a vicious kick connecting with Carlston’s head. The Earl slumped back onto his knees, blood running into his eyes from a gash across his forehead. Lowry staggered across the lane and grabbed one of the wooden stools outside the coffeehouse, swinging it wildly as Carlston lunged for him again. The first swing missed. The second caught Carlston across his shoulder and back. Helen winced at the impact, but the Earl ignored it and grabbed for the journal, hauling on the strap across Lowry’s body. She could see the madness in Carlston’s face, his mouth drawn back in a snarl, the blood from the gash and his nose smeared across his face. He had more strength than Lowry, but the mania had overtaken his mind. He was fighting without care and without strategy.
Gathering all her resolve, Helen launched herself at the two struggling men, Quinn’s training like a litany in her head: Find the range, transfer weight, chassé, connect, pivot. She aimed the chassé kick at Lowry’s gut, all the strength of her lower body behind the blow. He dodged and her foot glanced off his meaty side, the impetus slamming her into his body. They staggered, holding on to each other’s jackets as if in some ghastly drunken jig.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he hissed, spraying her with bloodied spittle. He grabbed her wrist, twisting her hand from his lapel. ‘Everyone could have got what they wanted.’
She saw his fist a second before it slammed into her face. Pain exploded across her mouth and cheek. She stumbled back, tasting a flood of warm metallic blood. It felt as if she had been hit in the face by a carriage and the shock of it made her sway and gulp for air.
Lowry turned to run. He took only two steps before Carlston lunged and grabbed his ankles, bringing him down hard on the stones. They rolled away from Helen.
‘It’s a fight!’ The call, stretched into long vowels, came from within the daffy house and was echoed in Holt’s opposite.
Helen heard the scrape of stools and yells as the men inside pushed their way out to watch the spectacle, their movements slow and languorous as if they moved through water. She felt her sight shift back, their bodies jerking into normal velocity. They spilled into the lane in a ragged circle, taking a moment to register the unnatural speed of the fighters, and then the men who had surged out in front reeled backward, pushing those behind into the walls and against the windows.
‘Devils!’ someone shrieked.
‘God preserve us!’ another screamed. ‘It’s devils fighting.’
The yells sparked a stampede, some men pushing forward to see, others punching their way back into the safety of the buildings. The panic spread. Helen could almost feel it like a huge wave pounding across the lane. People ran, screaming, bringing more curious men and women out into the lane. The Home Office was not going to be pleased.
She scrambled to her feet. She needed help. Where was Hammond? She found him and the Duke still pressed up against the wall of the daffy house, hemmed in by the mob. Hammond was trying to follow the fight on the ground, all his focus upon Carlston and Lowry. The Duke, however, had his eyes fixed upon Helen, clearly horrified by her uncanny speed and bruised, bleeding mouth. He started forward, as if to wade through the panicked crowd to her side.
No, no! She shook her head, jabbing her finger wildly towards Hammond and then at herself.
His outrage disappeared into a searching frown and then he nodded. Thank heavens he was a man of quick understanding and even quicker action. He yelled something in Hammond’s ear. The smaller man straightened and looked across.
‘Hammond, get Quinn,’ she bellowed. ‘Round the back.’
He gestured to his ears — he could not hear her above the yelling and screams. She jabbed her finger towards the back of the bawdy-house. ‘Quinn!’ she yelled again. ‘Quinn!’
Finally he nodded, and leaned in to the Duke, yelling something in his ear. She strained her hearing and caught the end of his words: ‘… part of the Home Office. Stay where you are.’
Hammond plunged into the tumult, the Duke staring after him, astounded.
Now he knew. Damn it. The last thing she had wanted was the Duke involved.
Another stool came flying through the air past Helen’s head. She ducked, her Reclaimer sight finding Carlston and Lowry up against the daffy house wall, Carlston punching wildly, only half his blows connecting. Should she try to pull him off? But that might give Lowry the chance to bolt into the crowd.
Something forced itself into her fierce focus — a strong, familiar smell like the charged air after a lightning strike. She knew that smell: Deceiver whips. She swung around.
The Comte’s small, wiry valet, Lawrence, stood barely two yards away. He held up a finger as if warning her to stay back, and then in a blur even to her Reclaimer eyes, he was standing above Carlston and Lowry.
‘Carlston!’ Helen yelled.
He must have already sensed the Deceiver coming, for he wrenched Lowry to the left and they rolled as one. The cobbles beside them exploded into dust and debris. Both men scrabbled back as the whip punched down again, smashing up another burst of stone.