Prologue
GERMAN PLACE, BRIGHTON, 30 JUNE 1812
Delia, my dear friend,
I am now residing in Brighton for the summer season, and, according to my guidebook, your village is but twenty miles from this town. I urge you to write back promptly and name a day for me to call upon you and your parents.
I have a great deal to tell you, much of which will explain your Mr Trent’s horrifying demise. I promise it will also put an end to your fear that you are going mad. All is not as it seems in this world, Delia — tricksters walk amongst us with deadly menace in their hearts — and I believe your recent encounter with this hidden realm entitles you to an explanation.
We must, however, find time to speak of this alone for I cannot offer the same explanation to your parents and restore their trust in you. It is unfair, I know, but my reasons are sound. My hope is that a formal call from myself and my chaperone, Lady Margaret Ridgewell, will soften their belief that you are ruined for decent society, and put a stop to any talk of confinement and sanatoriums.
I fear you did not receive my earlier letters. Therefore, I have instructed my messenger to place this in your hands, and yours only. He will return in two days for your reply.
Stand strong, my friend; I am nearby.
Helen
Chapter One
FRIDAY, 3 JULY 1812
At Lord Carlston’s bidding, Lady Helen Wrexhall studied the gentleman walking rapidly towards them up the rise of Brighton’s Marine Parade. Even at such a distance she could see that he was a thin, bitter-faced man in a sober blue coat, rather badly cut across his stooped shoulders, and an unfashionable tricorn hat drawn low over his brow.
‘Can you really see him in detail from this far away?’ Mr Hammond asked, squinting at the tiny figure. ‘He is little more than a blur to me.’
‘Of course she can: it is part of the gift,’ his sister said. ‘Do stop making comments, Michael.’
‘I can even see his expression, Mr Hammond,’ Helen said across Lady Margaret’s rebuke. The woman was forever criticising and correcting. ‘I can report that the gentleman’s countenance is quite sour. Probably a bad kipper for breakfast.’
Mr Hammond laughed. ‘Bad kipper. Did you hear that, Margaret?’
‘Quite,’ his sister said, her expression as sour as the one under discussion.
Lord Carlston thumped the ebony tip of his cane into the dirt path. ‘Lady Helen, focus. What do you notice about his gait?’
She smothered a sigh. So it was to be another lesson on manly pedestrianism. His lordship was adamant that she perfect a male disguise; their duties, he said, would take them into taverns and the like, and she must convince as a man. Clearly, however, she had not yet mastered her understanding of the masculine stride.
She studied his lordship from the corner of her eye. Today he looked older than his twenty-six years, weary and distant, the bold angles of his face set into stern command. The forbidding expression was becoming all too familiar. Ever since she had been cast out of her uncle’s house four weeks ago, she had watched Lord Carlston retreat from the strange energy that leaped between them when they touched, pushing it behind his new role of instructor. It felt as if a shared pulse was slowly being extinguished. Yet what could she say? Nothing between them had ever been voiced, never could be voiced. He was, by law, still married. She must quash the energy too, although she did not know how. Whenever he guided her arm through a sword stroke or showed her how to punch, it felt as if her body were aflame.
He had noticed her scrutiny. She saw something flicker in his eyes — that pulse perhaps, not totally quelled — and then a lift of his dark slanted eyebrows called her to the task at hand. She shifted her parasol, taking refuge behind the green silk shield — dear God, do not let him see the flush upon my cheeks — and returned her attention to the fast-approaching figure.
‘He moves his arms with vigour,’ she ventured. ‘And keeps his eyes to the fore.’
‘No, forget his eyes and arms. Do you see how each pace is at least this long?’ Lord Carlston’s cane plunged into the dirt again, measuring a good length from the toe of his right hessian boot. ‘And despite those rounded shoulders, there is confidence in his upper body. You must take up more space when you walk and move with greater purpose.’
Space and purpose. Helen took an experimental step alongside the flimsy fence that safeguarded the sheer drop to the beach. The hem of her promenade gown brought her up short, the sudden halt causing her touch watch to swing out on the end of its silk neck-cord and slap back against her ribs. Despite its compact size, the watch was no small weight — a product of the hidden crystal lens folded inside — and its impact left a definite sting even through her layers of muslin and lawn. She gathered up the green enamelled case and cupped it in her palm, the diamond arrow at its centre pointing to the large emerald set at the eleven o’clock mark. Lord Carlston had given her the watch to replace the miniature portrait of her mother that had contained its own lens and which she had lost to the enemy. A most forgiving gesture on his lordship’s part considering the alchemy built into the miniature, and how dangerous it was to them all.
‘Lady Helen?’ Lord Carlston’s voice sharpened. ‘Do I have your attention?’
She jerked her head up and let the watch drop back to the end of its cord. ‘Of course. More space and purpose.’
She had no difficulty with the idea of more purpose. Surely that was just a matter of taking a longer stride — something that would be far more achievable when she was clad in breeches. Her long, lean measurements had already been given to a London tailor to sew her a pair of buckskins and all the other gentlemanly accoutrements. She was to be a fine young man, at least in the cut of her clothing. Her manner, however, was not so easily stitched into masculinity. According to his lordship, she still needed to deepen her voice, be less careful with the placement of her arms and legs, and now also take up more space. No easy task since she had spent most of her life learning to control any excess gesture or movement. Nevertheless, she gathered up the hem of her gown, squared her shoulders and rocked forward onto the balls of her feet.