‘A Deceiver will make an appearance, you can be sure of that,’ Carlston said. ‘Most likely Philip, and possibly the Comte’s man.’
‘She does need the experience, sir,’ Mr Hammond said.
‘If they or any other Deceiver do come, I will not engage,’ Helen added. ‘I promise.’
Quinn cleared his throat and looked up from lacing the guard. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but you heard young Sprat. Lowry’s hiding out in the molly rooms. It might be easier if you and Lady Helen do go in together, if you catch my meaning. He won’t be able to stand against two Reclaimers, and with the both of you, it will be easier to get into those back rooms unremarked.’
Helen heard an odd note in the Terrene’s voice, and it was not just due to the untoward subject under discussion. No, Quinn was communicating something else to Carlston. Helen concentrated on the Islander’s expression beneath the swirl of tattoos across his face. He did not think his master had enough strength and control left to face Lowry alone.
Lord Carlston stared at his man. ‘I see your point,’ he said.
Sweet heaven; Carlston agreed with him.
‘What do you mean, molly rooms?’ Delia asked.
Quinn looked around the group, but no one else offered to answer. ‘The bawdy-house caters for many tastes, miss, including …’ He paused, plainly searching for an unalarming way of expressing it. ‘Those who seek the Greek love.’
Delia pressed her hand to her mouth. ‘Helen, you cannot visit a place like that!’
Beside her, Darby nodded. ‘My lady, you cannot see such … It is not for your … My lady, it will sully you!’
‘It is not I who will be visiting it.’ Helen met Lord Carlston’s eyes. ‘It will be Mr Amberley.’
She saw the dawn of his half-smile. ‘Well, Mr Amberley, you must do everything I say, without question and immediately. If I tell you to get out, you do not even look back. Agreed?’
‘Yes. Agreed.’
‘Where am I to go, sir?’ Hammond asked Carlston. ‘Front?’
‘Yes, but on no account enter.’
Lord Carlston raised his hand, stopping his protest. ‘Lowry may no longer be a Terrene, but he still has Terrene strength. If the Deceivers make an appearance as expected, I do not want to have to worry about you as well as Lady Helen.’
Mr Hammond gave a reluctant nod.
Helen watched Carlston check the lacing of the armguard. Somehow, she and Hammond needed to get to the journal first, although how they would keep it from his lordship was not clear. None of it was clear except a deepening sense of foreboding.
A rather apt line from Walter Scott’s poem Marmion came to her mind: Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!
At least they now had the whereabouts of Lowry; with him came a possible way to the journal and maybe even his lordship’s cure and an end to this wretched business.
Chapter Twenty-One
Helen followed Carlston into Holt’s Coffee-house, edging her way past two men in the doorway engaged in vigorous debate. She heard the words capital game and three notches to the Weald Coast and then she was inside the dimly lit, hot room. No more than thirty men sat at the small tables — at just past nine o’clock it was too early for the evening to be fully underway — but the air was still heavy with the smell of coffee, ale and the sour stink of male sweat. Every now and again the thunkety-thunk of a sea shanty, played upon an inferior instrument in another room, punched through the thrum of conversation.
She looked back out of the doorway to the lane. Mr Hammond leaned against the wall of the daffy house opposite, the light from its oil lamps falling across his bowed head. She could not see his eyes beneath the brim of his beaver, but the line of his shoulders showed his tension. They had not had much time to make their own plan to retrieve the journal. If Helen did manage to capture it first, she was to pass it to Hammond, who would then take it to the nearby Raggett’s Club and wait for her arrival. Admittedly it was under-conceived and relying upon luck and prayer, but it was the best they could do. God willing, they would get the journal first, but if they did not … Helen shook her head. No, they must.
‘That is the entrance to the bawdy-house,’ Carlston said near her ear, drawing her attention back inside the coffee room to a low-set doorway at the far end with a heavy red curtain drawn across it. He placed his hand upon her shoulder; to other eyes a friendly gesture, but to Helen it meant the hunt had begun. Corner Lowry in the molly rooms and get the journal.
Her heart quickened, her Reclaimer senses sharpening the rank smells, overheated air and chatter within the room into a roar of sensation. She drew a resolute breath, steadying her way through the sensory onslaught, and followed Carlston between the tables and conversing men towards the curtain. She flexed her wrists back, surreptitiously checking the leather guards beneath her jacket sleeves. Her glass knife was hidden down the side of her boot. Carlston had shown her how to wax the inside of the leather scabbard to ensure a smooth draw. Good Lord, what if she did need to draw it?
They had reached the curtain. Carlston pulled back the patchy velvet. The rattle of the curtain rings seemed unnaturally loud, but none of the men nearby took any notice as she and Carlston stepped across the threshold into the bawdy-house.
It was somewhat of an anti-climax. They were in a corridor, its short length lit by candles set into plain iron sconces along a dingy wall. The air stank of old perfume and another more animal smell that made Helen wrinkle her nose. The pianoforte music had increased in volume, originating, it seemed, from a brightly lit room at the end of the hall.
A doorway to their right suddenly filled with a large body. Helen flinched. Carlston’s hand closed upon her shoulder again, this time heavy with caution. A bruiser of a man in a patched shirt and gaudy blue waistcoat stood in their way, regarding them through narrowed bloodshot eyes.
‘Go on then,’ he said, stepping aside and jerking his heavy chin towards the far room.
Carlston steered her forward, hand still on her shoulder. ‘Follow my lead,’ he whispered.
Helen was not sure what she expected a bawdy-house to look like. She had thought red and pink would feature in the colour scheme, but the room they entered was decidedly blue and brown, and rather like a shabby drawing room. Of course, she had never been in a drawing room with so many half-clad women lounging around it.
A girl wearing yellow feathers in her brown curls sat at the pianoforte playing the shanty, her small breasts exposed above a loosely laced red stomacher. She looked up from the keys at their arrival and smiled, one black tooth marring the pretty effect. At a round table nearby, three more girls sat playing cards. All Helen registered were more breasts, smooth shoulders and pale thighs before she hurriedly looked away. Her gaze landed upon a familiar plump body and pink banyan curled on a chaise longue. Binny! The girl sat up and gave a tight smile of acknowledgment.
‘Evening, gentlemen.’ An older woman bustled towards them, set apart from the others by the fact that she was fully dressed and had a decided air of command. If that were not enough to place her as Kate Holt, procuress, her face clearly announced her kinship to Lowry: the same florid complexion, small piggy eyes and cleft chin. Unlike her brother, however, Kate Holt had a head of clean luxuriant black hair and a rather pleasant smile.
‘Jessie, their hats and gloves,’ she said.
The music stopped and the girl at the pianoforte rose from her stool. Helen quickly removed her hat and passed it across, keeping her eyes away from the girl’s freckled chest, then handed over her gloves. They were placed alongside Carlston’s on a nearby bureau, with only one other hat, set of gloves and a silver-topped cane in residence. A slow night indeed.
‘Can I offer you wine or some ale? Some meat?’ Kate Holt asked.
‘Claret,’ Carlston said.
With a jerk of her head, Kate Holt sent Jessie to a cabinet to draw out a bottle. ‘And what else can we offer you?’
‘I hear you have rooms o
ut back,’ Carlston said.
‘Mollies,’ one of the girls at the table whispered to her neighbour and picked up her cards again.
Kate Holt regarded Carlston’s hand once again upon Helen’s shoulder. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I heard it about.’
Kate Holt crossed her arms beneath her broad bosom, suspicion dawning in her small eyes. ‘Nothing like that here,’ she said briskly. ‘And you can bloody well tell your friends in the new Watch the same. It’s all girls here.’
Carlston smiled. ‘We are not Watchmen.’
‘Well, you ain’t mollies neither, are you? I’ll thank you to get out of my house,’ the woman said flatly.
‘They don’t look like the Watch, Mrs Holt,’ Binny said, rising from the chaise longue.
‘You be quiet,’ Kate Holt ordered.
Helen glanced at Carlston. What should they do?
He took out a sovereign and held it up. ‘My good woman, all we want is a private room. We are not here to raid you.’
Kate Holt regarded the coin for a long moment. She sniffed. ‘If you are mollies, show me.’ She nodded at Helen. ‘Go on, buss him.’
Buss?
Shrugging, Carlston put the sovereign back into his pocket and turned Helen to face him. She looked up into his eyes and saw their message: Stay calm. Calm? Her heart was already thundering. Surely the whole room could hear it. At the corner of her eye, she saw Kate Holt watching, mouth pursed in disbelief.
She forced herself to smile and saw the answering warmth in his eyes. He cupped the back of her head in the long span of his hand and drew her closer, leaning down to brush his lips against her temple. She felt a word breathed soft against her ear — baciami — Italian for kiss me. Ah, that was what buss meant.
The moment of relief disappeared. She had never kissed a man before. Not intimately. She did not know what to do, how to act. She felt his lips slide featherlike across her cheek towards her mouth. The memory of lying atop him in her bedchamber, their bodies pressed against one another, flashed hot through her blood. Yes, they had kissed then, but it had been life and death, and a product of the Deceiver energy. Hadn’t it?
She smelled the clean, male scent of him, felt the rougher texture of his skin against her cheek, and drew a shaking breath. That pulse she had so brutally suppressed hammered into every part of her body, her fingers bunching with the sensation. She found herself turning her face to meet his careful progress, her lips finding the soft curve of his mouth. They both paused, breath mingling, and then she felt the warm pressure of his tongue against her own, the taste of him, salt and wine, merging with the clean smell of his skin. It was startling and soft and tender … and then it changed. Something wild crashed through her, a wave of throbbing energy that drove her up against his body, her fingers winding hard into the short crop of his hair. She felt him sway back, his breath catching into a gasp. She opened her eyes and saw the shock in his face flare into something more primal. She wrested him back to her mouth, any tenderness subsumed by animal need. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her hard onto his chest, both of them locked into the dizzying sensation of their mouths and tongues and bodies pressed against each other. She felt as if she wanted to crawl into his skin, taste him, touch him, fill herself with him.
‘Lordy,’ a girl’s voice said. ‘Look at ’em go.’
Carlston wrenched his mouth from hers, breath short and hot against her cheek. She caught the astonishment in his eyes before he stepped away. Bereft, she rocked back; the sudden loss of sensation as if she had been stripped to her nerves and left open to the world. She touched her lips; swollen and raw.
‘I reckon that be real, Mrs Holt,’ Binny said dryly. She was standing beside the procuress. ‘I’ll take ’em downstairs if you want.’
Kate Holt gave a short nod. ‘All right.’ She eyed Carlston. ‘I’ll have that sovereign now. You got a room for an hour.’
Carlston shook his head. ‘Two hours, undisturbed,’ he said, his voice little more than a rasp, ‘and two more bottles of claret.’
Kate Holt smiled. ‘Two hours. One more bottle of claret.’
Carlston nodded and passed the coin.
Helen stared at the patched carpet on the floor, mortified. Whatever had risen within her had called something within him, and the savagery of it had been exhilarating. And terrifying. It had been just like the moment her Reclaimer strength had arrived, and when she had flung herself atop him. He had felt it too — it had been in his response — yet he had not looked at her since they had stepped apart. Was he shocked by her wantonness? Of course he was. Even she was shocked by it. Yet all she could feel was that pulse in her marrow still hammering its beat of need.
With both bottles in hand, Binny motioned to the door at the other side of the room. Helen led the way, face hot, not daring to look at the other girls as she passed. Giggles and a low whistle followed her and Carlston out of the room.
They stepped into another hallway, lit again by candles in iron wall sconces. In an effort to force her mind back to their task, Helen counted the rooms: two each side with doors shut fast, and another room at the end, door ajar. The clatter of pans and the lingering stink of boiled meat marked it as the kitchen; and, if she recalled correctly, a way out to the backyard.
Before it stood a stair alcove. Helen caught a glimpse of steps heading up to the next floor, and down to the cellar. Down to Lowry.
Binny closed the door behind them, the draught setting the candle flames flickering.
‘He’s still here.’ She edged past, motioning them to follow. ‘Come wiv me, quick.’
‘No,’ Carlston said. ‘Just tell us which room.’ He broke off and doubled over, his knuckles pressed hard into his forehead. ‘Sweet Jesus!’
Helen and Binny stared at his hunched body.
‘What’s wrong wiv him?’
Helen ducked down. Dark blood seeped from his nose. It was the same as in the salon. She tentatively touched his arm. ‘Carlston, you are bleeding.’
His hand went to his nose. ‘It is nothing.’
‘You are bleeding like before. What if the same thing happens?’
‘It will not.’ He grasped her forearm with his other hand. She could feel the desperation in his tight grip. ‘We have to get this done. I have it under control.’
He did not have it under control; she knew it, and it was clear he knew it too. Yet neither of them wanted to give up their chance at the journal. They were so close.
Helen pulled her arm free. If he lost control, maybe she could get to the journal first. She stood up, appalled by the ruthless thought.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He drew a deep, shaking breath and tentatively lifted his head to address Binny. ‘Lowry?’
‘In the cellar, last room.’ She motioned to the stairs with one of the bottles. ‘Past the ale kegs.’
‘Go back inside with the others,’ he ordered. She turned to go. ‘Wait.’ He took the bottles from her, hefting one like a weapon and passing the other to Helen. ‘All right. Go.’
Binny gave Helen one last anxious look, then ran back to the door.
Helen gripped the bottle by the neck, the glass already slippery in her damp palm. She followed Carlston to the staircase. The blood still seeped from his nose; she saw the dark track of it in the yellow glow of the single wall lamp that lit their way. His breath was coming in short gasps, the pain almost palpable. She should make him go back. But how?
The worn wooden steps creaked beneath their progress, the air cooling as they descended. The earthier odours of damp stone and old wood replaced the noxious smell of boiled meat from above. Helen extended her hearing. Beyond their own respiration she heard two more sets of breathing, straight ahead, at the end of the dim vaulted passage.
‘Lowry!’ Carlston suddenly yelled and began to run.
What was he doing? He had just lost them their advantage.
She lunged after him, pressing herself into as much
speed as she could gather in the short length of corridor, catching flashes of rooms on either side: beds, armchairs, and another stacked with kegs.
Carlston reached the end of the corridor. He spun around and kicked at an iron-bound door, roaring. It was the same way he had kicked the stuffed hessian bag in the salon — barely in control. Beneath the crack of the blow, Helen heard wood splintering and the rattle of a crossbar. A man’s voice cursed — Lowry — and then came the shriek of rusty metal and the clunk of wood thudding against stone. Oh, no! She knew that sound. Lowry was in an old coal room and he was opening the coal hatch.
‘He’s getting out!’ she yelled.
Carlston roared again — an animal rage — and aimed another kick. The door came off its hinges, slamming into the room beyond with a shrieking scrape of iron across stone. Carlston ran in, Helen a moment behind.
The room still held traces of its former use, a tide of black coal dust embedded halfway up the brick walls. Single candles stood alight in tin holders on the stone floor, casting a dim light across an iron bed with a thin woman curled upon it. Bloody welts on fair skin, torn chemise and matted hair. Lizzie. Was she alive? Helen saw the shallow rise of the girl’s thin chest. Alive, but insensible.
Carlston leaped onto a table set beneath the hatch: a ladder to the lane above. They both saw the flash of Lowry’s florid face peering down, a leather post bag strapped across the greyed linen of his shirt. The journal!
Carlston threw the bottle. Helen heard the smash of glass on stone — target missed — and the sound of receding footsteps on the cobbles above. Grabbing either side of the hatch, Carlston pulled himself through in one smooth movement. A sound of scrabbling across the flags and then a scream. Had he brought down Lowry?
Helen dropped the bottle on the bed and climbed onto the table, sending up a silent prayer for Lizzie. The girl needed help, but she had to follow Carlston. Right now, he could tear the narrow street apart. More to the point, she had to follow the journal.
She clamped her hands on the stone flags above and pulled herself up into the lane, landing in a squat in front of the coffeehouse. The ease of the movement brought a moment of elation, and then the full force of the situation burst upon her. Less than a yard away, a blur of bodies rolled and smashed into the wall of the coffee-house at an unearthly speed, punching a hole through the wood. In the dim lamp-light, Helen’s Reclaimer sight separated the blur into two men: Carlston on his knees, clawing for the journal bag strapped to Lowry’s body; and the former Terrene kicking viciously at Carlston’s head as he scrambled backward, splintered wood flying into the air.
Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact Page 29
