Chapter 9
Helena shifted in the dark carriage. Her riding habit was hardly appropriate for any evening social events, but the lack of bustle and split skirts would allow greater ability to manoeuvre and the dark blue would blend better in the shadows.
Hamlet jumped from the carriage floor onto the squabs next to her and pressed his lithe body against Helena’s side.
It had been a hot day, but even in the middle of summer, the nights were cool, and she appreciated his warmth.
He bumped his head against her arm, his golden eyes glowing in the lamplight leaking through the window.
‘Don’t look at me that way. I’m just doing this to stop the foolish woman from getting into even more trouble. If Ellie’s vision is right, Cynthia Burrows is more reckless than I thought.’
And more dashing. More courageous. More intriguing.
Helena pushed the thoughts into a dark corner of her mind reserved for truths she didn’t wish to acknowledge.
They were in a shadowed alley just off West Street and well in the heart of Seven Dials.
She brought two of her burliest footmen and a groom who had once been a bare-knuckle boxer as protection.
If they failed to scare away any nefarious rapscallions, she could always call forth her powers and drown any fool who tried to accost them.
A green door lit by a well-placed streetlamp glowed like a beacon across the cobblestone street.
It seemed completely innocent. Just another nondescript brick building, nothing more.
And yet, Helena knew differently. This was the entrance to the Devil of Seven Dial’s notorious club aptly named The Devil’s Bargain.
Behind that freshly painted door lay the den of a thousand vices.
Gambling. Drinking. Pleasure in its varied forms, all available for the right price.
Ellie had seen that exact door in her vision. She saw what lay beyond it. And she saw Cynthia in the centre of the Devil’s den. Trapped in a room swathed in crimson velvet and black lace.
It had been a week since Helena left Cynthia in her sun-filled parlour.
She knew as Cynthia walked her through the marble entrance of her tastefully decorated home to the intricately carved mahogany door, the woman was creating a plan.
Even if Helena couldn’t hear her thoughts, the tapping of her finger against her lips, the spark of trouble in her hazel eyes, the way she wouldn’t meet Helena’s gaze as she bid her goodbye all told a very clear story.
Lady Burrows was going to conduct her own search into Hubert’s murder. She had said as much that afternoon. It was one of many revelations that haunted Helena after they left the elegantly decorated parlour where not a single thing was out of place. Except Cynthia.
Helena had developed certain opinions about Lady Burrows the few times she had met her that were proven categorically false during Uncle Lachlan’s interview.
The stunning marchioness who always dressed in the highest fashion, greeted every situation with a pleasant smile on her face, and had a witty quip or kind observation for all parties present, was actually miserable.
Or had been until her husband died. She had been drowning, but as Uncle Lachlan pulled back the veil and exposed her marriage for the sham it was, Helena watched a drowning woman learn how to swim.
It was impressive. And humbling. And disconcertingly arousing.
Now that same woman had decided to leap into the deepest, most treacherous water she could find in the heart of the Seven Dials.
Of all the foolish, brave, stupid, impressive things Cynthia could have done, this sat like a crown on a pile of terrible ideas.
Helena had hoped her uncle would gain some valuable information when he questioned Damien Sinclair.
She had been slightly offended she wasn’t asked to join him.
But Uncle Lachlan insisted she stay well away, claiming Damien was far too dangerous, even for the likes of a powerful waterwitch.
He didn’t want the man to set eyes on anything precious in Lachlan’s life, most especially his three nieces.
He wasted no time hunting the man down with Thomas at his side. He had left Cynthia’s home, collected Thomas, and stormed into the Seven Dials that very same day.
Damien Sinclair was brought to heel by Uncle Lachlan for a grand three hours before his solicitors demanded his release.
Uncle Lachlan didn’t expect the seedy criminal to keep such well-respected men on his payroll.
Nor did he take well to his interview being interrupted by a gentleman in a perfectly tailored suit with a sheaf of papers, threatening to hold Scotland Yard responsible for a grievous breach of justice if Sinclair wasn’t released immediately.
Uncle Lachlan refused to comply, holding out until the magistrate demanded Lachlan follow the law or face losing his position at the Yard. They had no clear evidence to hold Damien Sinclair in the bowls of Newgate prison, and it was a breach of the law to do so. Uncle Lachlan had not taken it well.
Helena had arranged to meet with her uncle the following day to plan out the next steps in their investigation. Uncle Lachlan couldn’t discuss the case without the conversation devolving into a litany of curses all focused on the dastardly Damien Sinclair.
Apparently, Sinclair was skilled at provoking law-abiding, respectable gentlemen to threaten all manner of bodily harm and violent mischief against his person.
Clio had come to visit Helena, Aunt Rowan, and Ellie on the following Tuesday.
She reported Thomas was in a similar state of fuming frustration.
Perhaps that is how Sinclair claimed his title as London’s most cruel and crafty criminal.
Uncle Lachlan and Thomas might be convinced of Damien’s guilt, but they lacked the one thing required to convict him: proof.
Given the lack of progress being made, Helena understood why Cynthia might be frustrated. But to take matters into her own hands with such a blatant lack of self-preservation filled Helena with heated anger. And as a waterwitch, she disliked such hot emotions.
Helena was cool and calm by nature, much like her element that flowed over obstacles with smooth determination. But Cynthia kept swirling the tranquil pool of Helena’s emotions into a cyclone of wild waves and choppy waters.
Ellie’s vision took what little serenity Helena still possessed and crashed it against the shores of chaos. Cynthia was walking into a trap, and the silly woman had no idea what dangers lay in wait at The Devil’s Bargain.
Helena had to protect her. If Thomas found out Sinclair hurt Cynthia, he would kill the man. Uncle Lachlan would help, and they’d both end up in Newgate. Saving the woman was Helena’s only option. She had no other choice.
A hansom cab stopped in front of the green door. The driver waited long enough for someone to alight, then clucked his tongue and flicked the reins. The carriage pulled away, revealing the distinct figure of a woman.
‘Cynthia Burrows. What the devil are you up to?’
She wore a decadent velvet cloak in rich purple with the hood pulled up to cover her hair and half her face.
But Helena would have recognised Cynthia fully cloaked on a moonless night.
A resonant knowing pulled her to the woman as inevitably as river water flowed to the sea, eternally seeking its origin.
Without thought, she slipped out of the carriage, locking a disgruntled Hamlet inside. The last thing she needed was for her fox to find himself in any trouble. She had enough to worry about with Cynthia.
Racing across the street, her leather boots whispered secrets against the cobblestones. She caught Cynthia’s wrist before the woman could rap her knuckles on the door.
Whirling her around to face Helena, a punch of need nearly knocked her over as Cynthia’s hazel eyes widened, her chest expanding on a sharp inhalation. For a wild moment, Helena imagined pulling her close, pressing her lips against Cynthia’s mouth and tasting the flavour of her shock.
Cynthia recovered quickly. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ she hissed as surprise was replaced by something hotter. Her eyes flashed with indignant rage, and colour flooded her pale cheeks. She tried to pull free from Helena’s grip.
Helena tightened her fingers, refusing to let go.
‘I could ask you the same question.’ She let Cynthia’s anger fuel her own.
It was a far safer emotion than the raw desire pulsing in her blood.
‘I am here to save you from ruination. What are you thinking?’ She glanced down.
Cynthia’s cloak had fallen open and revealed a shockingly indecent gown of black satin.
‘And what the blazes are you wearing?’ The neck was cut so low, her gloriously full breasts nearly spilled out.
Her corset didn’t help. It was cinched tight enough to make Helena wince and presented Cynthia’s breasts like an illicit offering.
Helena fought the need to touch. Taste. Devour.
The daring ensemble was slightly ruined by a hectic flush creeping over Cynthia’s pale skin. No sophisticated widow would blush with such innocent embarrassment.
Cynthia wrenched her arm free and swept her cloak closed. ‘This is how one dresses when entering a haven of sin. I would assume. I’ve never done it before. Besides, it is still black. I am a widow in mourning, after all.’
Helena couldn’t stop the snort of laughter. ‘Oh, certainly. No one will question your devotion to Hubert when you enter a gambling hell dressed like that.’ She nodded to Cynthia’s breasts, frustratingly hidden beneath the blasted cloak.
Cynthia’s nostrils flared. ‘It is my devotion to finding Hubert’s killer that has forced me to take such measures. I can’t wait around for you and your uncle to try and solve this case.’
Cynthia’s throat flashed white in the dark night, a delicate column Helena couldn’t decide if she’d rather kiss or strangle.