‘Henry,’ Sprat said. ‘You best get goin’. Me too.’ She stood and with one last small smile ran down the steps into the cold gloom of the cellar.
Helen made her way quickly out through the kitchen and around the side of the bawdy-house again to Union Street. She checked both ways before stepping out into the lane — still deserted — and started in the direction of Black Lion Street, her boots ringing eerily against the flags in the quiet. Now she had the task of explaining the cause of Lord Carlston’s madness to those waiting at German Place, and then the grim moment of leaving them all — the only people who understood this dangerous world and her place in it. The only people she could call her friends.
She had just passed the butcher’s when she heard another set of boots upon the stone. Behind her and accelerating. She turned her head slightly, seeing a tall figure at the corner of her eye moving too fast for a normal man. Deceiver! She felt the pulse of her blood quicken.
Gathering her Reclaimer speed, she ducked down, pulled the glass knife from her boot and whirled around, every sense focused upon the … Her hand stopped, forearm caught in an iron grip, her vision full of a tall, very thin, blond man.
‘Good try,’ the deep Cambridgeshire voice said. ‘But you went for your knife before you spun. It was like a town crier yelling your intention.’
‘Mr Stokes!’ Helen dropped back onto her heels and fought down the race of blood and violence in her veins. ‘I could have stabbed you!’ She wrenched her forearm from his hand.
‘Not with that move, you couldn’t.’
He stepped back, regarding the still raised knife. Helen lowered it. She could feel a tremor of unused energy in her hand.
‘What are you doing here? Did you follow me?’
‘I did.’ He smiled, although there was none of his usual bonhomie within it. ‘You are doing well with your masquerade. I did not immediately recognise you when you left German Place.’
‘You have been watching me?’
‘Watching for you.’ He tilted his head towards the end of the lane. ‘Come, keep walking.’
Helen stooped, slid the knife back down into the scabbard in her boot, then skipped a few steps to catch up with his long pace. His normally warm hazel eyes were fixed upon the passing ground in a bleak stare, his lips pursed.
‘What is it, Mr Stokes?’ she prompted.
He scanned the buildings around them, then said, ‘While this is not expressly against my orders, it is definitely not within the spirit of them.’ He stopped beside a dry-goods shop. ‘Can you hear anyone nearby?’
Helen focused her hearing: a soft scritching in the cellar below them, probably rats; a creak of a roof in the wind; the low rumble of carriages and voices upon nearby Black Lion Street. ‘No one, as far as I can tell.’
He gave a nod of agreement. ‘This must not be overheard. I have come to warn you that Pike has dispatched a letter to Lord Sidmouth requesting permission to proceed with the control of Lord Carlston.’
Helen lifted her hand to her throat as if she could hold down the fear that leaped through her body. ‘Control means kill, doesn’t it?’
‘It does. Pike says Lord Carlston has made a deal with a French Deceiver, fought a former Terrene in the middle of a crowded street, and attacked the Duke of Selburn. He said you had to knock him senseless to stop him from killing the Duke. Is that true?’
‘Yes,’ Helen said, her reluctance drawing the word out. ‘But it is not his fault. It is mine.’ She tapped her chest. ‘I am causing his madness.’
‘Pike does not believe that, and I must say I find it hard to believe too,’ Stokes said. Helen opened her mouth to explain, but he shook his head. ‘It does not matter even if it is the case. Pike is convinced Carlston is too far gone: irretrievable, like Benchley. A danger to those around him, and a danger to the security of the Dark Days Club.’
‘He is not irretrievable.’
‘Do you know that for certain?’
She wrapped her arms around her body. ‘No.’
Stokes gripped her shoulder. ‘It will take at least five days for the decision to be made and ratified, and then the messenger to get back here. I would wager my estate that the response will be a signed warrant. Lord Sidmouth will take Pike’s direction in the matter. Carlston has five days.’
‘Who will Pike send?’
‘Another Reclaimer,’ Stokes said, releasing her shoulder. ‘Someone who knows him and whom he trusts. Someone like me.’ He regarded her sombrely. ‘Five days, and if there is another public show of insanity, I don’t think Pike would wait for the warrant.’
With that, he turned and walked towards Black Lion Street, the sound of his quick footsteps beating out the hard rhythm of Helen’s heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In her note Helen had asked the Duke to arrive at two o’clock, but by the time she made her way back to German Place at just on half past one, he was already standing at the hearth in the drawing room. The positioning, Helen realised, was no accident. He faced the door with solid marble at his back and two sofas between himself and any direct line of attack. Understandable, considering what had happened during his last visit to the room. He also held his silver-capped cane, usually relinquished at the front door with his gloves and hat. He had come armed; again understandable, if not very polite.
She tried to smile as she returned his bow. His early arrival was inopportune to say the least. Now that he was here, she could not risk telling Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret about the warrant. The Duke would probably greet the news with pleasure and she was not sure Mr Hammond would maintain his composure under such provocation. More importantly, the Duke’s loyalties were not yet known. It was entirely possible that he would pass on their knowledge to Pike. News of the warrant would have to wait until she found a moment alone with the twins, or if that did not occur, then by letter once she had left the house.
‘The Duke says you requested that he come here,’ Lady Margaret said. She and Delia sat on the furthermost sofa, inadvertently making a charming contrast: black hair and blonde, red gown and white. Lady Margaret’s expression, however, was not so charming. ‘What is this about?’
‘It is about Lord Carlston,’ Helen said. ‘Is he …?’
‘Still in the fugue,’ Mr Hammond answered.
‘Glad to hear it,’ the Duke said coolly, earning a savage stare from Lady Margaret. He smiled at Helen. ‘You make a convincing young man, Lady Helen. Please be assured that I am happy to oblige you in every one of your requests.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
Mr Hammond shot her a curious glance. ‘Requests?’
Helen paced across the room, rubbing her palms together. She should wait until his lordship awoke — it was he who needed to know the truth about her effect upon him — but she could no longer afford to be in the same house with him. Or more to the point, he could not afford it.
‘I asked you all to gather because I believe I know what is causing Lord Carlston’s madness,’ she said. ‘It is not just the vestige —’