It was his house, of course, and his right to arrange such things. The last night and day had been full of numb misery — reliving those terrible, violent minutes in the salon; seeing over and over again the betrayal in Darby’s eyes — and she had to admit that it had been rather comforting to have her well-being so masterfully managed. Even so, Carlston’s warning echoed softly in her ear. The Duke was indeed used to command.
The thought of Carlston brought an ache into her throat. Amore mio. She closed her hand around the words he had pressed into her skin. Precious words, but he was not free to make such a declaration. It must have been the madness speaking. In his right mind, he would never have abandoned his oath or his vow to his missing wife. Although the words felt like the truth in her heart, she could not accept them. For her own sanity.
‘Is this whom you have been waiting for?’ the Duke asked.
She had not said she had been waiting at all; the man was too astute.
‘An informer,’ she said.
‘Ah.’ He let the remains of the walnut drop onto his plate in a tiny clatter of crushed shell. ‘Allow me to accompany you.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ Helen said quickly. ‘She will not talk with a man present.’
He sat back. ‘As you wish.’
He was not happy, but then he would be even less happy if he knew that she intended to bond with a man like Lowry.
The Duke’s library smelled of leather, beeswax and that peculiarly calming scent of ink and paper. Three walls were lined with books: a fortune’s worth of knowledge. The fourth wall was reserved for a magnificent view of the Steine through two large sash windows. Helen stood by the elegant writing desk, the top inlaid with the Selburn arms in satinwood, and watched the night activity that swirled around the town green under the light of the bright gibbous moon. Fashionables taking the air along the lamplit paths; groups of men heading towards the Old Town; and a procession of carriages on their way to evening entertainments, the grind of wheels and clack of hooves barely audible through the solid stone front of the house.
A knock on the door turned her from the view.
‘Enter,’ she said.
Fairwood opened the door and announced, ‘Your visitor, sir.’
Kate Holt swept past him into the room, her small eyes darting over its rich appointments. Helen could almost see her mind calculating the prices of the large blue and white Chinoiserie vases, the vibrant Aubusson carpet, and the inkwell set upon the desk that caught the candlelight in a flash of gold and glass.
The bawd had clearly chosen her best ensemble for the interview: a red and blue striped pelisse atop a mustard gown adorned at the hem with garish red bows. A smart chip hat sat atop her thick black hair, the ribands tied loosely under her cleft chin.
‘You can go now,’ she said to the butler. ‘This gent and I want to be alone.’
Fairwood eyed her for a long, chilly moment, then turned to Helen. ‘Do you wish for anything further, sir?’
‘No. Thank you.’
He bowed and closed the doors.
‘Well now,’ Kate Holt said, ‘this is all very grand.’ She walked over to one of the vases and tapped it, the porcelain ringing its pure tone. ‘I’ve come with word from my brother.’
Helen clasped her hands behind her back and dug her thumbnail into her palm. She must not show her eagerness.
‘Does he agree?’ she asked, keeping her voice measured.
‘He does.’
Helen drew a deep breath, easing her thumbnail from her skin. The journal was in sight.
‘But not on the twenty-fourth like you said,’ Kate added.
‘But that is when he wanted to meet.’ It could not be later: Stokes had said five days. Only five days. ‘What night then?’
‘It seems to me that this information is worth something to you,’ Kate said, folding her arms under the bulk of her bosom.
‘Are you asking for money?’ The last two days of anguish boiled up within her, a bright fury taking hold. She stepped forward. ‘You stupid woman. You saw what I did to your man. Do you think I would not do the same to you in a second?’
It was no empty threat. Helen felt ready to throw the woman across the room. To tear the message from her body.
Kate backed away, all bravado gone. ‘You got me wrong. I don’t want no money. Bartholomew says you’re special. That you got more power than any of the others. I want you to help my boy, Lester. Mr Benchley — the other one like you — said he couldn’t be saved, but maybe you can do something.’
God pity her, she was bargaining for her son’s sanity. Helen felt her fury collapse into a sudden image of Carlston’s eyes shifting into savagery. Wasn’t she doing the same: bargaining for a man’s mind?
‘I’ve seen your son,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he can be saved.’
‘You could try though, couldn’t you?’
‘Give me the message.’
Kate chewed her lip. ‘He wants to do it tonight. You’re to come with me now, so he knows you ain’t planning anything like last time. He’s got everything that is needed for the ritual. He said for me to say, “Just bring your own sweet self, girly.”’
Helen drew back. The man was foul even through a reported message. ‘Right now?’
‘Yes. He’s watching. If you talk to anyone else, it’s all over.’ Her hand cut through the air. ‘He’s gone, along with that book you want.’
Helen looked out of the window at the passing carriages, their lamplights flashing across the spiked fence railings that guarded the house. Lowry was out there somewhere, waiting. The thought sent a shiver across her skin. Whatever happened, she would have the journal — the Ligatus — by the end of the night. Nothing else mattered.
‘My boy?’ Kate Holt asked.
‘He’ll get his chance,’ Helen said.
Kate nodded. ‘Thank you.’
They waited in silence until Helen heard Fairwood’s soft tread climb the stairs in response to a summons from the dining room bell.
‘Now,’ she said to Kate Holt.
She led the way out of the library and across the large foyer, holding her breath at the sound of their steps on the marble floor. She collected her hat from the sideboard and gestured to the footman to open the door. He bowed as they passed.
Out on the busy street, Helen looked up at the shuttered dining room window. It would not be long before the Duke discovered her absence, but by then she would be in the Old Town, just another young man heading into the stews for a night of drinking and gambling. She pulled her brim lower over her eyes. She was heading into a night of drinking one man’s blood and gambling for the sanity of another.
Union Street was still bare of company compared to the bustle of nearby Black Lion Street, but a small number of men had returned to the night establishments along the narrow lane. Two of those brave souls grinned up at the first floor of Holt’s Coffee-house.
Helen craned her neck back. Four girls leaned out of the windows, calling enticements and offering flashes of pale breasts and thighs in the bright moonlight. Amongst the lewd winks and false smiles, an earnest freckled face with round blue eyes peered down: Binny. She lifted her hand as if to warn Helen to turn back, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
‘Give us a smile, Freckles,’ one of the grinners called. ‘I can get frowns like that at home.’