‘We’re goin’ to 20 German Place,’ Sprat’s voice said. ‘Hop to it.’
‘How you gunna pay?’ a man’s voice demanded, rough and suspicious. ‘How you gunna get the cove out t’other end now Big Tom’s gone?’
‘I got the ready — look. An’ you make no mind of t’other end. This ’ere cove’s quality. He’s got servants.’
German Place? There was something about that address that she should remember.
The world rocked; a slam of a door and a clip-clopping lurch that rolled her back against the seat. Lamps flashed past a rattling window, the yellow light sliding across a pair of small dirty hands holding her arm.
Sprat’s face loomed over hers again, crooked teeth showing in a reassuring smile. ‘Won’t be long, my lady.’
She had something important to say. What was it? But the rocking motion beneath her body soothed the sense of urgency, drawing her once again into the gentle, healing darkness.
A thick fingertip pulled back her eyelid, the white ceiling and chandelier above her blurring into a smear of light. Worried brown eyes edged with a swirling tattoo peered intently into her fixed gaze. Quinn. Where had he come from?
‘She’s in a Reclaimer fugue. It doesn’t look deep. I would say she’ll come out of it in an hour or two.’
Fugue? But she had something to say. Something important. Something about … She could not grip on to the words that drifted through her mind.
‘There don’t seem to be any physical injuries.’ Darby. Voice thin and tight. ‘She’s holding something, but I can’t shift her fingers.’
‘It’s a book,’ Sprat’s voice announced. ‘She called it a jer-nell.’
‘Journal?’ Carlston’s voice, urgent.
Now she remembered. Must not go back to German Place.
Too late. Carlston’s face hovered over her; a half-healed split across his cheekbone, mouth still bruised. She’d done that. Amore mio. She saw his hand reach towards the book.
Do not touch it! She screamed the words, but they were caught in her mind. No sound.
A blur, then Quinn’s fingers locked around his master’s wrist. ‘You must not get too close to Lady Helen, my lord. Let me get it.’
Carlston’s hand balled into a fist. ‘Of course.’ He jerked his wrist out of Quinn’s grip. Eyes pained, space between his brows furrowing. ‘Sprat, that’s your name, is it? Tell me exactly what happened.’
She saw Quinn’s head bend to his task. Felt her forefinger prised from the book. She tried to fix her scream into her eyes. No! Quinn, do not let him touch it!
‘Like I said afore, my lord. She killed Mrs Holt’s bruvver and saved Lester. He was touched in the head, real bad, but now he’s not. Just like that. It’s all ’cause of that book. She says it’s writ in blood. Made her real sick.’
‘Blood?’ Carlston leaned over again and she saw the realisation dawn in his eyes, their black centres flaring with horror. ‘Dear God, get it off her now, Quinn! Benchley made a Ligatus!’
She felt the journal wrenched from her hands. The terrible weight of it shifted from her mind, the sudden ease like a sigh through her soul that pulled her inexorably away from Carlston and into the quiet grip of oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
WEDNESDAY, 22 JULY 1812
Helen surfaced through layers of heavy languor that dragged at her consciousness. The white ceiling blurred into focus again as she fought to form one sentence through her parched, aching throat.
‘Do not touch it!’
The words grated across her throat in a raw sting. She struggled upward, elbows sinking back against the give of damask cushions. She was on the sofa in the German Place drawing room: how did she get there? In the candlelight, the clock on the mantel showed that it was just past midnight, but the shutters on the windows had been left open. They framed Delia, clad in her blue pelisse, as she peered pensively down into the dark street.
‘My lady!’
Beside her, Darby straightened from a tired hunch on the ottoman pulled untidily next to the sofa. She touched Helen’s arm as if checking the sudden animation.
Delia turned from the window. ‘Helen! Thank goodness you are awake.’
A small face bobbed up beside the ottoman. Sprat smiled. ‘See, I told you she’d be spruce.’
Darby cast a quelling frown at the girl, then addressed Helen, her face softening with relief. ‘How are you feeling, my lady? Let me help sit you up.’
She rose and wrapped her arm around Helen’s shoulder, pulling her up against pillows and cushions, her broad body a warm anchor in the sudden dizzy swirl of the room.
Delia crossed from the window. She was wearing gloves as well: dressed for travel. ‘Mr Quinn assured us you would emerge from your fugue soon, but I was so worried. You did not move at all.’
‘We were all worried,’ the Duke said, coming into view. He was not wearing his jacket, and his linen shirt and green waistcoat were creased, his blond hair raked back and lost to all style. He was smiling his relief too, but underneath Helen saw an ominous solemnity.
Now she remembered: stealing away from his house; Lowry; the journal; Sprat. She closed her eyes. Of course, Sprat had brought her here by mistake. Straight to Carlston.
She opened her eyes, noticing damage around the room. Broken vases, a wall mirror cracked, a hole punched into the wall, pieces of plaster hanging from it.
‘Where is Lord Carlston?’
The Duke’s face pinched, nostrils flaring, piqued that her first question was about Carlston. Right now she did not have time for his sensibilities. Not with the Ligatus anywhere near Carlston.
She caught her maid’s hands. ‘Where is the journal?’
Darby looked up at the Duke, deferring to his rank, her soft mouth pressed into a worried line.
‘Carlston is on his way to London with the book,’ the Duke said, crossing his arms. ‘That journal, or whatever it is, did something to him. As soon as he opened it,’ he waved his hand at the side of his head, ‘he nearly destroyed the place. Screaming about the Comte d’Antraigues and a cure.’
Helen shuddered, remembering the chittering, howling presence of the journal in her mind. It must have wreaked havoc upon Carlston’s fragile sanity.
‘He was just like Lester, my lady,’ Sprat said. ‘All snarly an’ sick an’ jibbery.’
‘Quinn too, my lady,’ Darby said. ‘He tried to read the book, but it made him purge over and over again. Said it was like having claws in his mind. In the end, Lady Margaret managed to look through it. She wasn’t so sick with it. She found what his lordship wanted, but he couldn’t tear it from the book. Just made him sicker and sicker.’
‘Yes, it would.’
Helen released her grip on Darby and dug her hands into the soft seat, pulling herself upright. The room shifted again into a nauseating spin. She took a steadying breath, waiting for the dizziness to pass. She had to get up and follow the journal and Carlston.
‘Mr Hammond fears his lordship is going to offer the Comte d’Antraigues the whole journal,’ Delia said. ‘We — Mr Hammond, Lady Margaret and myself — are set on following him to the Comte’s house in Barnes Terrace. Mr Hammond is readying the carriage at this minute.’
Of course Hammond and Lady Margaret would follow him, but what could they hope to do?
‘Why is Carlston taking it to d’Antraigues?’ the Duke asked. ‘Isn’t the man a French spy?’
‘He is also a Deceiver,’ Helen said. ‘He has offered Lord Carlston a cure and information about the Grand Deceiver in return for information in the journal.’ She turned to Darby. ‘Did Quinn go with his lordship?’
‘Of course, my lady.’
At least he had his Terrene by his side.
‘Mr Quinn said if you were to wake in time, to bring help,’ Darby added. ‘He doesn’t think he and you will be enough to stop his lordship this time.’
Helen met her maid’s solemn gaze and nodded, acknowledging the gravity of Quinn’s admission
. ‘How long ago did Lord Carlston leave?’
‘At least half an hour,’ Delia said.
‘I must leave now.’ Helen swung her legs off the sofa, gritting her teeth as the world swung, then settled.
‘You can’t go after him, you are not well enough,’ the Duke protested. ‘Besides, you won’t have a chance of catching him in a carriage. Carlston is driving a curricle, and he has his own horses at the posting houses.’
He was right: she needed a light equipage and good, fast horses. A plan was beginning to form; not ideal, but she could see no alternative.
‘Am I right in thinking you also have your own horses stabled along one of the London roads, Your Grace?’
She knew he did; prime horseflesh, famously bred and matched for speed.
‘On the Hickstead–Croydon Road,’ he said. His jaw shifted. ‘You will go after him come what may, won’t you?’
‘I must.’
The Duke ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What is it about this journal that makes it so dangerous?’
‘It is part of a heinous creation called a Trinitas that can open the gates to Hell,’ Helen said curtly, pressing her booted feet against the ground. Her legs seemed sound enough.
‘Glory be,’ Sprat whispered. She shifted closer to Darby.
Helen looked up from the test of her legs. She should have sent Sprat from the room at the first mention of the Deceivers. Well, too late now.
‘Are you serious?’ the Duke demanded. ‘You mean Hell?’
Helen looked at him squarely; he needed to see the truth in her face. ‘If you call opening a way for more Deceivers to pour into our world a hell, then yes, Hell. A Trinitas can also be used to kill every Reclaimer across the world. Either way, it will bring death and chaos to humanity.’
Delia crossed herself.
The Duke regarded her gravely. ‘My own curricle and teams are at your disposal, Lady Helen. With one proviso: I will drive them. I know my horses and how hard they can be pushed.’
She stood. The room, thankfully, stayed still. ‘I did not want to drag you into this, but I will take the offer gladly.’
She caught his arm and squeezed it in thanks. He froze for an instant, then flushed, the pleasure tucking his chin against his cravat.
The door opened and Hammond strode into the room, buttoning his greatcoat. ‘We are ready to go, Miss Cransdon.’ At the sight of Helen, the determination on his face softened into a smile. ‘You are recovered. Thank God!’ His delight sobered. ‘You have heard what has happened?’
‘I have.’ Helen crossed to him and gripped his shoulder. ‘How bad was he this time, Mr Hammond?’
He lowered his voice. ‘The worst I have seen. I think the only thing that is holding him in any sort of sanity is the promise of d’Antraigues’s cure.’
‘The Duke and I are going after him,’ Helen said.
‘The Duke?’ It was a protest.
‘He has offered his horses and driving skill,’ she said under her breath. ‘It is my best chance to get there in time. Remember, the Comte is not the only Deceiver in that house. The valet is too. I am not sure Lord Carlston could defeat one in his current state, let alone two. And if they have the reserves to build whips …’ She shook her head.
‘Miss Cransdon says Carlston has at least a half-hour start on us,’ the Duke said. ‘Is that correct?’
‘More or less,’ Hammond said coldly.
‘We shall take my teams of four. It will give us the best chance of reaching London at the same time as Carlston.’
‘You are going to drive four-in-hand at night?’ Hammond pursed his lips in soundless appreciation. ‘You may even catch him before he gets to London.’
The Duke looked at Helen. ‘I will send Jackson, my tiger, back to my stables with the order. We can be on the road in fifteen minutes.’
‘We cannot leave quite yet,’ she said. ‘I have to get help. Reclaimer help.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hammond frowned, the answer clearly coming hard upon his question. ‘Stokes! Are you mad?’ He spread his hands at the impossibility. ‘You cannot ask him for help. Pike has ordered him to kill Carlston.’
The Duke straightened. ‘What?’
Hammond groaned, realising his mistake.
‘Pike considers Lord Carlston irretrievably mad and has requested a warrant for his execution,’ Helen said, unable to keep the challenge from her voice. She regarded the Duke through narrowed eyes. Would he make the mistake of showing accord with that decision?
The Duke merely nodded.
She addressed Hammond. ‘Pike’s dispatch was only sent yesterday. The warrant cannot have been issued yet. Besides, Stokes told me to go to him if I ever needed help.’
‘It is a fine line you are treading,’ Hammond said. ‘Are you sure Stokes will tread it too?’
Helen had to concede her doubt. Even so, she had been treading a fine line ever since Pike had set them on the path of finding the journal. Perhaps ever since she had met Lord Carlston.
‘I am not sure of anything except that Stokes is a man of honour and I cannot stop Lord Carlston by myself.’
Hammond hissed an expletive through his teeth. ‘Do you even know where the man lives?’
She nodded; she at least knew that.
The brisk motion of the Duke’s gig down Marine Parade cleared the last echoes of the journal from Helen’s body. It was just past one thirty in the morning, the moon high and brilliant, capping the waves on the beach with silver and lighting the road and townhouses in bright relief. The Duke had already sent his man Jackson to ready the racing curricle for the drive to London. Now all Helen had to do was find Stokes and persuade him to come with them.
They rounded the corner onto the Steine. The large green held only a few pedestrians upon its paths, and the windows of Donaldson’s Library were dark. The evening concert had finished, its subscribers long gone. Most of the night’s remaining activity clustered further up North Parade, around Raggett’s Club and the front entrance of the Castle Tavern.
Helen tapped her fingers against her knee, trying to contain the urgency that clamoured in her blood. Hammond, Lady Margaret, Darby and Delia had already left for London on the Hickstead Road with the Duke’s advice to turn at Streatham. Sprat — sworn to silence — was in the care of Garner and Mrs Kent for the remainder of the night. Helen gave a slight shake of her head: something would have to be done about Sprat. She could not stay in that bawdy-house. Although, Helen conceded, what could be done for her entirely depended upon the night ahead.
The plan — if indeed such a loose series of possibilities could be given such a grand name — was to secure Stokes’s assistance, exchange the Duke’s gig for his curricle, intercept Carlston and retrieve the journal. It was at the intercept mark that the plan became hazy. Had the journal’s blood-soaked energy pushed Carlston beyond saving? It did not seem fair that the foul thing would save Lester, but only increase the madness of Lord Carlston. But then, Lester was an offspring whereas Lord Carlston was a Reclaimer. It clearly had a disastrous effect upon Reclaimer energy. His lordship had erupted into violence again at its touch; and at Holt’s she had felt its chittering evil drag her towards dark insanity. It was not the same power that had ripped Lowry apart — that had come from the Deceiver energy she had somehow stored within herself. No, the journal was something entirely different.
The thought brought another wave of urgency. One thing was certain: the journal had to be destroyed. Such a foul and dangerous thing could not be allowed to exist. Nor could it be allowed to fall into the hands of the Deceivers. Yet destroying it would also destroy the valuable information within it, including the details about her parents that she had not had the strength to find in Lester’s cell.
Ahead, a stream of fashionables were departing the weekly Assembly ball at the Castle Tavern, the streetlamps catching flashes of white muslin, high shirt points and pale, tired faces.
‘Not much of a crowd tonight. We should be able to c
ut through Pavilion Parade to Church Street without too much trouble,’ the Duke commented as he steadied the grey’s trot along the Parade. Even so, they were still progressing fast enough that Helen had to hold on to the brim of her beaver hat. ‘I believe a good wedge of our fine Brighton society has gone to a masquerade ball out of town.’
Helen recalled Pug’s excitement at the promenade. ‘Yes, you are right: the Olivers’ ball.’ She laughed; it came out dry and hard. ‘I cannot conceive of dancing at a ball ever again.’
The Duke flicked the whip above the grey’s head, prompting a new spurt of speed. ‘Do not say that. If you give up on dancing, then you give up on joy.’
‘Dancing is not the only joy.’
‘True, but it combines two of the most divine favours of humankind: music and elegant women.’
She glanced at his profile, keenly aware of the absurdity of discussing the glories of dance on their way to a battle with unearthly creatures. ‘You do not truly understand what is coming, do you?’
He turned his head, the lamps along North Parade catching the quirk of his mouth. ‘Perhaps not. Pike only gave me a brief history of the Deceivers and the Dark Days Club. Tell me, what are we really following to London? Is Pike right: is Carlston irretrievable?’
Helen could not quite hold his eye. ‘I do not believe so.’
‘Is that based on knowledge or hope?’ It was said gently, but with the implacability that she had heard before in his voice.
‘It does not matter,’ she said, hands pressed upon her thighs as if the braced position could somehow protect her from the question. ‘They have the same outcome. I will do everything I can to save him.’
‘What if you cannot save him?’
The answer to that was not made of words, but of pain, lodged in her heart and ready to open into spikes if she let her mind dwell upon the possibility. Best to focus upon what she could do: find him, contain him, and, after all that, leave him before she hurt him further.
The grey climbed the Church Street hill at a quick trot, the mill of carriages around the Marlborough Row corner quickly left behind. The majority of the houses and buildings were dark, with only a few still with shutters rimmed by light. Most of the locals had found their beds by now.
Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact Page 38
