He walked over and handed her the box. ‘One Reclaimer to another,’ he said firmly. He must have seen her discomfort.
It was heavier than she had expected. ‘Most kind of you, Lord Carlston.’
‘I do not know if you should call it kind. Perhaps expedient would be more appropriate.’
It was definitely not jewellery then. She dug her fingernail beneath the gold catch and flicked it free. With a glance at him — both of them smiling at nothing apart from anticipation, it seemed — she lifted the lid.
‘Oh,’ she breathed.
A curved knife, the blade made from glass and the handle carved in ivory, lay upon a bed of royal blue velvet. The knife’s blade was etched with scrolling leafwork and flowers entwined around the words Deus in vitro est. The translation: God is in the glass.
‘You will find its leather scabbard under the velvet,’ Carlston said.
She touched the etched surface of the knife, feeling the velvety corrugations of the foliage. ‘It is so beautiful.’
‘Mr Wedgwood made it for you.’
‘The gentleman who makes the dinner sets and vases?’
‘Indeed. Like his father before him, Josiah Wedgwood is quite an alchemist in his own right. He creates our knives to be almost unbreakable and able to withstand Deceiver energy.’
He moved to her side and leaned closer, tracing the Latin with his fingertip. ‘This has also been worked with a protection talisman for you.’ He cast her a mock-guilty glance. ‘I have to confess I saved some of your hair from the hairdresser for the alchemy.’
He had saved her hair?
‘What does the talisman do?’ she asked.
‘The knife can never be turned against you. If someone tries, it will always miss its mark.’
Helen shook her head in wonder. Alchemy was the most troubling aspect of her duties — she had always considered the practice a sham at best and irreligious at worst — and yet here was alchemy woven into a battle cry that invoked God’s name.
‘It is hard to believe, I know,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you?’
‘What do you propose? To stab me?’
‘It will miss you. I guarantee it.’
She regarded him, startled. ‘No, thank you. I do not wish to be stabbed!’
‘Do you not trust me?’
One part of her did, but another part had seen the darkness in him, and the violence.
‘I do not trust the alchemy.’ A sidestep of the question.
‘This will change your mind.’ He tilted his head, considering her hesitation. ‘At some point, Lady Helen, you must make your peace with the mysteries of alchemy. It is not inherently evil or godless. It is but one more tool for us to use in our battle.’
He gestured to the knife — a request for permission to gather the weapon from its velvet bed. It was, she realised, another Reclaimer test: could she place her faith in alchemy? She had to admit it was not only worked into horrific weapons by madmen. She had seen it save a child’s soul; and her mother’s miniature, the lost Colligat, had enabled her to view the Deceivers without a lens.
‘I suppose if it fails, it will not take my Reclaimer power long to heal me,’ she said dryly, offering him the box.
He smiled at that, and picked up the knife, weighing it in his hand. ‘Beautifully balanced.’ He gripped the handle in a businesslike manner and nodded towards the table. ‘Palm down.’
Helen pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and gingerly placed her hand on the polished tabletop, the wood cool against her skin. The danger of the position was like a long scream through her body; every instinct commanded that she snatch her hand away.
‘Do not move,’ he instructed.
Easy for him to say; he was not about to be stabbed. She pressed her hand more firmly against the wood.
Without another word, he plunged the knife down at Reclaimer speed, the tip aimed between her knuckles. Her Reclaimer sight followed its blistering acceleration. His aim was straight and true and had his full strength behind it, but a mere inch from the soft flesh between her bones, the tip veered to the left, sliding past her hand as if caught upon another surface. With a loud thud, the blade hit the table beside her little finger, the force of the blow gouging its tip into the wood at least two inches deep.
She let out her breath.
‘I have tested other Reclaimer knives, of course, but it is still such an odd sensation,’ Carlston said. ‘I felt sure I was on target, and then it felt as if I had hit something and I could not hold the course. The pull of it was remarkable. Mr Wedgwood has certainly excelled himself this time.’ He wrenched the knife from the wood, and inspected the damage to the table. ‘You can see how deep it went; I was not holding back. Are you convinced now?’
‘Quite,’ Helen said, a little shakily.
‘Here.’ He held out the knife. ‘Test its balance.’
She closed her hand around the offered handle, its deeply etched pattern of tight swirls and flowers rough against her palm. Designed, she realised, to stop it from slipping in her grip. She raised the knife and sliced the air in a series of crosses. Weight and balance perfect, with enough heft to give each cut of the blade maximum purpose.
Ha, she thought, smiling; now she was assessing a deadly weapon as if she were an expert.
‘It is a marvellous thing,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Lord Carlston.’
‘Call me Carlston.’ He paused, his half-smile appearing. ‘Amberley.’
An invitation for Mr Amberley to address him without title. Clearly he meant it as a gesture of friendship between two men.
She bowed, trying to hide the heat that had come to her face. ‘Most kind of you, sir.’
‘And when you are Lady Helen, I hope I will also be Carlston.’
The change in his voice was so slight that she may have imagined it: a deepening that sent a charge through her body. She busied herself placing the knife back upon its velvet bed.
‘Thank you … Carlston.’ It felt overwhelmingly intimate.
‘Quinn tells me that Mr Stokes visited you while I was away.’
Through her delight, she felt a bright flare of self-preservation. She must concentrate. He knew about Stokes, and he knew the man would not have visited for tea and polite conversation. The impulse to tell him the whole was so strong, but she could not. Must not.
An unwelcome thought occurred. Were the gift and invitation, and indeed his charm, designed to weaken her defences?
The suspicion was not only unwelcome, but unworthy. She was painting everyone and everything with her own subterfuge.
‘Yes,’ she said carefully. ‘He came to give me a warning.’
‘Warning?’ His voice had sharpened.
‘He told me that some of the other Reclaimers believe I should absorb the vestige darkness from you. They think you are the warrior meant to battle the Grand Deceiver. Not I.’
Carlston cursed beneath his breath, in Italian and using words she had never heard before. ‘Stokes should not have told you that. It is not a solution I would ever take.’ He fixed his dark eyes upon her, his voice taking on more force. ‘Ever! I would never do that to you.’
‘I did not think you would, nor does Mr Stokes.’ Even so, it was a relief to hear him say it so emphatically.
‘I will make that very clear to those Reclaimers who think it is a viable proposition.’ He rubbed his forefinger between his brows, frowning at some new thought. ‘Besides, we do not know the role you will take against the Grand Deceiver. You must be at your strongest, and taking any vestige will weaken you. I think perhaps you should refrain from reclaiming as well.’
He smiled. ‘For now, let us start work on how to use that knife to best advantage.’
Helen nodded, but her whole focus was upon his fingers pressing hard against his forehead. The awful knit of pain was back between his brows.
Chapter Twenty
SATURDAY, 18 JULY 1812
‘No, do not lunge wildly for the whip, Lady Helen. You must a
nticipate the position of it,’ Lord Carlston said again. ‘Listen for the draw of the leather, feel the way it is moving through the air. Build the picture of it in your mind.’
Helen, blindfolded with glass knife in hand, heard the impatience in his voice. Over the past three days they had been training in the salon for hours at a time, and she could still not picture the whip moving through the air or catch the damnable thing. All she could feel was the sweat crawling down her back and the sting of the last ill-judged grab for the coach whip across her leather-gloved hand.
‘I am trying,’ she said.
‘Try harder,’ he snapped.
She lowered her head at his tone.
He hissed out a breath. ‘Forgive me. Of course you are trying. Take a moment to refocus.’
‘It has been such a hot day. Dusk is almost upon us. Perhaps we should all take a few minutes relief,’ Lady Margaret said.
Helen placed her near the windows.
‘Margaret, do not interfere,’ Mr Hammond murmured.
It sounded as if he stood only a few steps away from his sister. He, Lady Margaret, Darby and Mr Quinn were all in the room to provide distraction — sound and movement to unsettle her senses — and they were managing the task far too well.
Helen rolled her shoulders, easing the damp cling of her shirt beneath her waistcoat. She longed to rip away the blindfold too, but settled for hooking a finger into the top and tugging against its firm hold.
‘Lady Helen was much closer with that last one, my lord,’ Mr Quinn’s voice said.
‘Yes, you are making excellent progress, my lady,’ Darby added, near the north wall.
Loyal words, as ever, but Helen knew she was not making excellent progress at all. Even more worrying than her own failure was the ever-increasing edge in his lordship’s voice. The taut, deep energy within him had returned in abundance and Helen could almost feel his strain as he fought to keep himself under control. The elusiveness of the journal was not helping either. Everyone was on edge, waiting for some news of Lowry to emerge from one of the informers.
‘When you have conquered this exercise, sensing an actual Deceiver whip will be far more straightforward,’ his lordship said. ‘You will not be blindfolded when you face a Deceiver, so you will also be able to use his or her body as a cue to help build the shape and action of any weapons the creature has built.’
‘Then why must I do this blindfolded?’ Helen asked, unable to keep the surly tone from her voice. She twisted her wrists, trying to ease the itch of sweat beneath the leather guards strapped around her forearms.
‘You must walk all the sensory pathways that build the picture,’ Quinn said. Helen swung her head around to face him. He had moved from the back of the salon to the door in an impressively silent manner for such a big man. ‘If you are not blindfolded, you will still rely upon sight.’
‘Why not put the Iceland spar lenses into a pair of spectacles?’ she said, airing the thought she’d had during another sleepless night. ‘We could even tie them on.’
And then this torment would not be necessary, she added silently.
‘Do you think we have not tried that?’ his lordship demanded. ‘The Deceivers are not mindless animals; they saw the vulnerability of such a device immediately. The first Reclaimer who wore it ended up with the lenses smashed into his eyes. He died almost immediately. A Reclaimer’s power can heal many injuries, Lady Helen, but not a shard of crystal straight into the brain. God’s blood, girl, use your intelligence.’ His voice had deepened into a snarl.
‘Lord Carlston!’ Lady Margaret protested.
Helen could hear the anxiety in her voice. No doubt the same anxiety that she felt; he was definitely getting worse. By all rights she should report it to Pike, but she could not. He was not violent, not irrational, just increasingly impatient. Perhaps it was her failure that was prompting such bad temper.
Silence, and then she heard the Earl take a steadying breath. ‘We will go again,’ he said, his tone once again measured. ‘Remember, Lady Helen, move as soon as you have the image. At present you are taking too long to respond.’
She heard a step, unmistakably his lordship’s long stride, and turned her head, following his progress towards the right wall. Frowning with concentration, she forced her way past her physical discomforts and the distractions of the other four bodies zigzagging across the room. Every sense focused upon the whip in Lord Carlston’s hand. She held her breath, hearing the thin sound of the long whiptail rising in the air, the smell of the leather stretching as it flicked back, the small crack as it folded in on itself, disrupting the currents of air against her skin. A sudden picture formed in her mind: the thin length hurtling towards her chest, its trajectory as clear as if she could see it. She jumped to the right, grabbing for the end-point of its reach, but her hand closed on air.
‘Better,’ his lordship said. ‘At least you avoided being hit.’
Helen bent over, hands on hips, and pulled in a deep breath. She had only jumped to the left or right all evening, yet she felt exhausted.
With her hearing so exercised, she could not help but hear the knock on the kitchen door two floors down. She straightened and pulled off her blindfold, blinking in the golden light of the sunset through the windows. At this hour, only an informer would be knocking on the door.
‘There is —’ she began, drawing the attention of Mr Hammond and Lady Margaret.
His lordship, however, was staring at the floor. He raised his hand for silence. He had heard the knock too.
‘I got a message for the young lady,’ Helen heard a child’s voice say. It was Sprat.
‘Well, let me have it, girl,’ Garner’s voice said.
‘Sorry, mister. Binny says I’m to give it to the lady and you ain’t her. Binny says if I get any clapper-claw from the likes of you at the door, to say that it’s from Mrs Gunn.’
‘Clapper-claw?’ Garner repeated icily. ‘You’d best come in then.’
Helen glanced at his lordship. He smiled, but there was no mirth in it, just a hunter’s anticipation.
‘It would seem Lowry has finally made an appearance,’ he said, and tossed the whip to Quinn. ‘Bring the glass knife and my leather armour. I am certain we will not be the only interested parties after the man.’ He opened the salon doors. ‘Come, let us receive your visitor.’
Sprat had been well-coached in the delivery of her message. She stood with filthy bare feet braced upon the foyer floor and both hands clenched into fists of concentration as she recited, ‘Binny says Mrs Holt’s brother, the one you call Lowry, has come back. He snucked in, but Binny saw ’im go into one of the molly rooms. He’s usin’ it as his hideout. She says she reckons he’ll be there for a few hours leastways.’
‘Thank you, Sprat,’ Helen said.
She looked at the earnest faces that circled the girl. Carlston, of course, was fiercely jubilant. Quinn, a more cautious version of his master. Mr Hammond’s eyes held apprehension. He fleetingly met her gaze and she glimpsed hope too. Perhaps they would soon have the journal. Lady Margaret was attempting to hide her fear under a frown. And dear Darby, sweet mouth pressed into firm courage, had placed her hand lightly, protectively, on Quinn’s forearm.
‘We should move immediately, my lord,’ Quinn said.
Sprat nodded, turning worried eyes to Helen. ‘He’s got Lizzie again, mister.’ She stopped and corrected herself, ‘I mean, my lady. He took her wiv him for sport an’ Mrs Holt let him do it. If you’re gunna get him, quicker would be real good.’
‘I understand,’ Helen said. ‘We will do what we can for Lizzie.’
Carlston glanced across at her, brows lifted in query.
‘Lizzie is one of Holt’s girls. Lowry has a penchant for cruelty,’ she said shortly.
‘A harlot?’ Lady Margaret asked, her tone dismissive.
‘A girl,’ Helen said firmly. ‘In the hands of a monster.’
Sprat nodded at that assessment, then held out her cupped hand.
‘Sixpence,’ Helen prompted Carlston.
He gave her another questioning look, but dug into his breeches’ pocket and dropped the coin into the girl’s grubby hand.
‘I think you should stay away from Mrs Holt’s for a few hours, Sprat,’ Helen said. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ At her wary nod, Helen motioned to Garner. ‘Take her to the kitchen and ask Cook to give her a good solid meal.’
‘Come on, girl,’ Garner said.
Sprat chewed on her lip, then said, ‘Lizzie ain’t got more than a few hours left in her, my lady.’ She looked back as Garner ushered her to the stairs down to the kitchens.
‘Has something happened?’ Delia asked, peering over the first-floor banister.
‘We know Lowry’s whereabouts,’ Helen said.
‘Finally,’ Delia said. She disappeared from view, reappearing a few moments later descending the stairs.
‘How are we to go about it, sir?’ Mr Hammond asked.
‘We need to corner him in the bawdy-house,’ Carlston said. ‘Lowry grew up in the Brighton Lanes and is as cunning as a fox. If he gets into those, we will lose him.’ He rolled up his shirtsleeves and held out his arm to Quinn. The Terrene fitted one of the guards over his forearm and began to tighten the laces. ‘I’ll go in as a customer — try to maintain that essential element of surprise. Quinn, you are to keep an eye on the back.’
‘What am I to do?’ Helen asked.
‘You are to stay here.’
‘No! I must come!’ Helen stopped, her urgency far too strong for the moment. She glanced at Hammond, saw the alarm in his eyes. They both needed to be at the bawdy-house to secure the journal. She tried again. ‘You know I need experience in the world. Surely this is one such opportunity.’
His lordship motioned to the glass knife still in her hand. ‘You do not yet have the necessary combat skills, or the protection of a Terrene.’
Darby nodded her agreement. ‘It is too dangerous, my lady.’
‘We are facing a fading Terrene, not a Deceiver,’ Helen said. ‘How else am I to gain experience?’
Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact Page 28
