‘What the hell was that?’ Hammond’s voice.
She gulped for breath, heard the scrabble of feet. The Duke’s face appeared above her, his voice saying her name over and over again.
She turned her head and saw Carlston in a crumpled heap across the lane, eyes closed and face ashen white, his breath coming in ominously short gasps.
Good God, what had just happened? She had felt his hand touch her cheek and then all that power like lightning between them. Just one touch and now he was barely breathing.
One touch. Her touch.
The dawning realisation brought another kind of pain slamming through her heart. They had kissed, and his madness had come hard behind it. And in the salon, before he had lost control, he had touched her cheek too. She had been hurting him all along. Perhaps even causing his madness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SUNDAY, 19 JULY 1812
The next morning, Helen sat at the secretaire in her bedchamber, her eyes fixed upon the lesson in her Book of Common Prayer, but seeing none of the words. All her sight was turned inwards, reliving the fight with Lowry blow by blow, as if she were still in the squalid lane. Could she have made another move, another decision, that would have stopped him escaping with the journal?
Of course she could have. She had been too slow; she had hesitated. Everything she had done had led to the loss of the Ligatus and Lord Carlston’s incapacitation. It was all her fault, and when his lordship finally woke — please, let him wake — everyone would think through the events of the last few weeks and arrive at the conclusion that now seemed obvious to her: she was the cause of Lord Carlston’s madness. The Comte had probably known it all along, and now the cure he had offered had disappeared along with Lowry and the journal.
She stretched out her left hand, the long sleeve of her gown just covering a ring of deep bruising around her wrist. The energy she had pulled from Lawrence was still a throbbing presence in her veins, a faint echo of its fierce violence curling her fingers. How had she absorbed the whip and not been destroyed by it? Perhaps a new direct inheritor power, but to what end? It seemed she could do nothing with it except harm Lord Carlston. Another thought came, hunching her shoulders: maybe Benchley had been right all along and she was, in fact, a bringer of evil.
She glanced at her glass knife on the desk. Thankfully, Mr Hammond had retrieved it from the lane. God is in the glass. Perhaps; but did she still have God’s grace?
She bowed her head, the tip of her steepled hands against her lips — half in prayer, half in fear — the press of her fingers bringing a small jab of pain. Another reminder of Lowry. Even so, she was lucky; by the time they had made their hurried exit from the narrow battlefield, her Reclaimer power had relieved most of the pain and swelling.
Lord Carlston’s healing capacity had not been so efficient. He did not rouse from his unconscious state and so Quinn had picked up his limp, bleeding body and forced a way out of the crowded lane, Helen and Mr Hammond close behind, with the Duke determinedly following their retreat. They had emerged on the Castle Tavern corner, dishevelled and attracting far too much attention from the fashionables on the Steine.
To Helen’s horror, the Duke had immediately taken charge, hailing a hackney coach to take them back to German Place, and quelling the alarmed driver’s protest with the flash of a guinea.
He had asked only two things in the carriage on the short journey up Marine Parade.
‘Are you badly injured, Lady Helen?’
‘It is nothing.’
She had glanced at Mr Hammond seated opposite. A frown on his stricken face had warned her from making any more comment.
‘This is his fault, isn’t it?’ the Duke had then said, jerking his chin towards the senseless form of Lord Carlston propped against Quinn’s sturdy shoulder. The Terrene had also been wounded: a deep, bloody gash across his tattooed cheekbone that his own healing ability had already started to close.
Helen shook her head at the accusation, but it was Hammond who answered. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace, but we are unable to explain anything. We must all abide by an oath of secrecy to the Home Office.’
‘It is better that you do not get involved,’ Helen said. ‘Please.’
‘Too late for that,’ he had said curtly, but had tempered his frustration with a small smile.
Even under such circumstances, the Duke held on to the manners of a true gentleman.
Helen closed her prayer book, abandoning all attempt at reading it. At some point, the Duke would come for an explanation. He was not a man to quietly step back, even when the authority of the Home Office had been invoked. And of course Pike would come too, as soon as he heard what had happened.
Helen closed her eyes. How was she to explain her failure to buy the journal as arranged, or Lord Carlston’s pursuit of Lowry? As soon as Pike knew Carlston was involved, he would assume she and Mr Hammond had broken their oaths and told him about the journal. Treason.
‘Dear Lord,’ she whispered. ‘What are we to do?’
A knock on the door lifted her head. ‘Yes?’
‘My lady, may I enter with Mr Quinn?’ Darby called.
Had his lordship finally awoken? She reached with her Reclaimer hearing and found his breathing: shallow and regular. Still unconscious. Still.
She rose from the gilt chair. ‘Of course.’
They entered with an air of great purpose. Mr Quinn carefully held a rolled piece of parchment in his big hand.
‘Has his lordship shown any progress?’ Helen asked.
‘A little, my lady,’ Quinn said, rising from his bow. Although he was trying not to show it, his anxiety was writ into every move. ‘The shoulder wound has started to heal and that must mean the Reclaimer fugue is doing its job. It’s just taking a bit longer this time. You’ll see. Lady Margaret is watching over him.’
Helen nodded. Last night, Lady Margaret had ordered Quinn to carry his lordship upstairs to her brother’s bedchamber again, and neither she nor the Terrene had left Carlston’s side the whole night. Helen, agonised by guilt and worry, had stood outside the door for hours, but had not dared enter. What if she harmed him even more? All she could do was listen to his breathing and pray that she had not irreparably damaged him.
Darby swiftly closed the door and made her curtsey. ‘We have come on another matter, my lady. Go on,’ she urged Quinn.