‘My lady, I told Miss Darby everything that happened last night — about the danger you were in, and the power that passed between you and his lordship. We think the two of you need to bond as soon as possible, even without the full moon and his lordship’s direction. You need the protection of a Terrene …’ He faltered, the anguish in his deep voice pulling Darby a step closer. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I could not help you when you took the Deceiver’s power. I tried, but I’m not your Terrene and now his lordship is —’
‘It is not your fault, Mr Quinn,’ Helen said quickly. Quite the contrary, but she could not say so yet. Not until she had explained the terrible truth to Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret, and, God willing, Lord Carlston. ‘I agree that we must complete the ritual as soon as possible.’ She met her maid’s patent relief with a smile. ‘When can we do it?’
‘Tomorrow night,’ Darby said. ‘It will take us a little time to obtain all the elements, and you, my lady, need to learn the ritual.’
With a dip of his head, Quinn passed her the parchment. ‘You need to say the words perfect, my lady. They are in Latin.’
Helen unrolled the thick paper. She recognised the writing upon it immediately. ‘His lordship wrote this?’
‘Aye,’ Quinn said and gave a small smile. ‘I’ll catch an earful when he knows I’ve given it to you without his say-so.’
She found herself touching the written words as if they held a direct link to him; a foolish fancy. The directions for the ritual were brief: a rather gruesome exchange of blood collected from a cross cut into the hand by the other party, then mixed with other alarming elements including fresh goat’s blood, milk and sanctified water. All drunk in a form that promised to be foul. The Latin that accompanied it — uncomfortably close to an incantation — was quite complicated. Even so, she had memorised far longer poems for recitation. And this task was not a schoolgirl chore; it had the impetus of desperate necessity.
‘Tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘I will be ready.’
After breaking her fast, Helen set herself at the table in the drawing room — where the light was best in the house — to study the bonding ritual. The wording of the incantation was, to say the very least, disturbing. Although she knew her Latin translation was not perfect, it began:
Forge this bond of earth and air, ground and sky
Forge this bond of mind and body, strength and soul
Bind these two with blood made one, blood made whole
Bind these two to lives in battle, torn asunder as they die.
It went on in much the same heathen manner for another three verses until the final two lines:
This bond must be forged in love and trust
For suspicion and hate can ne’er be just.
That, at least, Helen thought, was based in godly truth.
She had just finished committing the first two verses to memory, when a knock announced Garner.
‘My lady, there is another child at the door insisting that he has a message for you.’
Helen rose from her chair. Could this be news about Lowry’s new hiding place? If so, Martha Gunn had worked a miracle.
The child was a boy of about eleven standing on the front portico in bare feet with a wary gaze and a letter clutched in his hand.
‘You Lady Helen?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘’Ere you go then.’ He passed her the note. It was on rough paper and sealed with a grubby wafer. ‘Mrs Gunn said to put it into yer ’ands.’ He bobbed a bow and ran down the steps.
Clutching the note to her chest, Helen returned swiftly to the drawing room and closed the door. She broke the wafer and unfolded the page.
My lady,
Last night a man matching your footman’s looks took the 9 o’clock night coach to London. Please forgive the lateness of this message, but my boy went to tell you right after he saw the coach leave, but you was out. He said he waited but then a hackney arrived and brought a lot of commotion. He took affright and hopped it, and didn’t dare tell me he hadn’t passed you the message till now.
Martha Gunn
Not Lowry, then, but Philip. The slight disappointment was quickly eclipsed by the new information. It seemed the Deceiver had left Brighton before she and Carlston had even encountered Lowry last night. Yet that made no sense. If Philip was working with Lawrence, why had he not stayed to help his comrade obtain the journal? She folded the note and slipped it into her morning gown sleeve. Perhaps she had been mistaken and they were not working together at all. No, surely they had some connection. Maybe Mr Hammond would have more insight when he returned from gathering intelligence in town.
She took her seat once again and picked up the incantation, intent upon learning the final verses.
By three o’clock, when Delia came in and suggested they take some restorative tea, she finally felt confident that she had committed the Latin and the disturbing ritual to memory.
‘You need to rest, Helen,’ Delia said. ‘Lady Margaret is burning herself to a frazzle watching over Lord Carlston. I cannot even get her to take some broth. You must not do the same.’
Helen put down the parchment. ‘I should be with Mr Hammond.’
‘You know that is not possible. In your male guise you could be recognised as one of the perpetrators of last night; and you cannot go into company as yourself, not with that bruise on your poor mouth. You look as if you have been engaged in fisticuffs.’
‘I have been engaged in fisticuffs,’ Helen said dryly.
‘Exactly. And we cannot have anyone making that connection, can we? Mr Hammond will return soon and I am sure he will bring news.’
Helen frowned. ‘I should have thought he would be back by now.’
‘He said he would attend church, and then make his way to Donaldson’s and Raggett’s to listen to the gossip.’ She leaned over and squeezed Helen’s hand. ‘I think he is just wishing to be busy until Lord Carlston wakes.’
What if Lord Carlston never wakes?
Helen fought back the fearsome question and rose from the sofa, needing to move herself away from her dark thoughts. Delia, for all her firm optimism, could offer no real comfort. She did not know that Helen was trapped in a web of lies that could, very soon, unravel into a hangman’s noose. At least, a noose for Mr Hammond. For her, a noblewoman, it would be the executioner’s block.
With a shudder at the thought, Helen walked across the room and sorted through the sounds upstairs — the snap of a sheet as a maid aired a bed, a footman prising spent candles from their holders, Lady Margaret’s weary footsteps pacing across the bedchamber — until she found the shallow breathing of Lord Carlston. No change.
‘Sit down, Helen,’ Delia urged. ‘I know you hardly slept last night. There can be no gain in exhausting yourself with worry.’ She reached over and picked up a pack of cards. ‘Come, you need a break from your studies. Shall we play a hand?’
Helen smiled wanly. Delia could offer no counsel, but she did, at least, offer some distraction.
A game of piquet later, Helen heard the sounds of arrival at the front door. Two men, their voices and footsteps identifying them immediately. She placed her cards down on the table.
‘What is it?’ Delia asked, looking up from making her play.
‘Mr Pike. And the Duke of Selburn.’
‘Oh,’ Delia breathed. ‘Together? Do you think it is a coincidence?’
That hope was quickly banished as Helen stretched her hearing to the conversation at the front door.