The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  He waved away the consideration. “I should have been quicker.”

  Helen lowered her voice. “How much strength do I have?”

  “Probably the equivalent of two men.”

  She squeezed her hands together, trying to control the heady marvel of it. “Well, then,” she said a little breathlessly, “perhaps now I will be able to drive a team-and-six, as I have always wanted.”

  Carlston laughed. “When your strength is properly trained and under control, I promise you may drive my own team.”

  “That is no small offer,” Hammond said. “His team of matched grays is legendary.”

  “You will let me drive them?” Helen looked up at his lordship, astounded. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” he promised gravely. He turned and swept a glance around the room. “The afternoon is almost gone, and Lady Helen will be expected back by her aunt before long. Let us finalize Monday morning.”

  He paced to the fireplace. “The hanging is set for eight, but the crowd will start to gather at dawn. It is my wish that we persuade the Deceivers in attendance to leave before the actual event. If too many start skimming the crowd at once, they may provoke high aggression and, with it, a fatal crush like five years ago.” He looked across at Helen. “I know that you are dubious about attending a public execution, and I understand your hesitation, but your assistance would be invaluable. I ask you to help me protect the crowd from the effects of the Deceivers. Will you?”

  Helen felt her spine straighten. She had her strength. He needed her help. She was invaluable. And he was smiling at her, one Reclaimer to another. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Margaret lean forward.

  “Yes, I will,” she said, and immediately felt sick with the decision. If she were discovered at the hanging, even with her maid, her reputation would be sullied. And if she were found at such an event in the company of Lord Carlston, in a hired house, she would be ruined.

  “Thank you,” Lord Carlston said. His smile stayed upon her for a moment longer. Did she see a new tenderness within it? Her skin warmed. “Make your way to the house on the corner of Giltspur and Newgate by seven. I have a room reserved that overlooks the gallows and the crossroad square.”

  “My own way?” Helen repeated, all the warmth replaced by cold alarm. She was expected to arrange her own transport?

  “Yes. I have another task for Mr. Hammond and Lady Margaret that prevents them from taking you to the hanging, but they will be able to return you home,” his lordship said. “Take a hackney. Go through the bottom of Smithfield and into Green Dragon Lane. Quinn will meet you and lead you to the house.”

  “Of course,” Helen said, although she had never hired a public hackney in her life, and Smithfield was another place of very low repute.

  “Once there, you will direct me to Deceivers in the crowd, using your miniature. I will create a signaling system which you can learn on the morning.”

  Helen took a steadying breath, anxiety lodging in her chest. Hundreds of lives potentially rested upon her skills. Perhaps even thousands. Never before had such expectation been placed upon her, nor such an assumption of competence. It seemed that Reclaimer strength brought more than just this wild sense of power. But what if she failed? She could already foresee a problem: how was she to leave the house in the morning without raising an alarm? Yet his lordship had faith in her ingenuity. So, by the grace of God, she would find a way. She blinked, overwhelmed by a flash of remembered sensation: the tang of sweat and blood and the warmth of his body so near her own.

  “Are you sure that you feel able to attend, Lady Helen?” he asked, breaking her moment of thrall. “If you have any doubts that you can do so, you must voice them now.”

  She felt Lady Margaret’s eyes upon her, and realized she had pressed her hands to her face again. She lowered them into her lap.

  “No, I will attend,” she said, forcing confidence into her voice. “You have my word.”

  She was rewarded with Lord Carlston’s smile, and Lady Margaret’s gaze dropping from her own.

  Twenty-Two

  THAT EVENING, HELEN sat in the town carriage with Aunt and Andrew, absently plucking at the beaded fringe on her reticule as she pondered two questions. First: How was she to attend the hanging on Monday morning without alerting her aunt and uncle? And second: What on earth had happened between her and Lord Carlston at the tavern?

  The carriage turned into Conduit Street, passing a row of handsome town houses. Helen stared out unseeingly as the pale stone facades flashed by, her mind fully occupied with that dizzying moment when his lordship’s lips had been so close to her own. She hunched her shoulders, once again appalled by the knowledge that she had swayed toward him. That sudden, wanton moment of desire had been a consequence of her Reclaimer strength—a symptom of the violence and wild pounding within her blood. Yet, if she was not mistaken, he had felt it too, although he had gallantly stepped away. He must think her a trollop.

  She tugged the edge of her shawl over her collarbone. After much deliberation, she had chosen an evening gown with a filled décolletage, and Darby had wrought a marvel of discreet bandaging. Even so, she could not shake the fear that her healing wound would somehow be divined by all and sundry through the layers of white spotted muslin. She saw a sudden image of herself slamming the poker into his lordship’s side. Her Reclaimer strength: the notion was still a tumult of wonder and fear.

  Andrew yawned, the accompanying sound pulling Helen from her reverie. A heavy sigh followed the yawn. She met her brother’s bored eyes and frowned. It was true that Aunt had cornered him into escorting them to the Handel concert, but his bad grace was wearing thin. Still, it was the first time she had seen him since the Hyde Park incident and, while he did not seem inclined to make any comment on that day, it was best not to poke a sleeping bear.

  Aunt turned from peering out of the window. “Andrew, my dear, do you know if the Duke of Selburn will be attending tonight?” Her tone was a study in casual inquiry.

  Andrew flashed a knowing glance at Helen before answering. “I believe he is escorting his great-aunt Isolde and her family.”

  “Ah, I thought so.” Aunt dabbed at her lips with a fingertip. “Has the Duke, perchance, said anything about Helen to you?”

  “Aunt!” Helen protested. “He would hardly discuss me with my own brother.”

  “Actually, sis, he can’t seem to stop talking about you,” Andrew said. “Mighty tedious it is too.”

  She frowned at him again. “Very amusing, Drew.”

  “No, I swear, he seems quite taken with you. Apparently he likes a girl with some spirit. I’d hazard a guess, though, that too much spirit would turn him sour.” He looked at Helen pointedly, the message clear: You are lucky I stopped you at the promenade.

  The bear, it seemed, was awake, although there was no real rancor in his face. Perhaps he had forgiven her after all.

  “Well, an overabundance of spirit would disgust anyone,” Aunt said. She leaned forward, hand tight around her fan. “How taken is he, do you think?”

  Andrew shrugged. “You want to know if he’ll offer, but I haven’t a notion. He has mentioned setting up house, so that could mean something.”

  Aunt dropped back against the silk cushions with a grunt of satisfaction. She patted Helen’s arm. “Well, then, we must manage some more time for you with His Grace, the Duke.”

  Helen looked out of the window again. Such machinations seemed so far removed from her world now.

  They drew up into the queue outside the concert hall. As they waited to alight, Aunt pointed out Viscount Cartwell with two ladies of the demimonde upon his aged arm: fashionably plump women in fine muslin that clung to their figures in shocking detail. “He keeps both of them, you know,” she commented.

  Andrew leaned across from his seat, a touch to Helen’s arm calling her attention from the Viscount and his comp
anions.

  “I must say, sprite,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t mind calling Selburn brother. Or you Duchess, for that matter. Do you hold him in any esteem?”

  “I do,” she said sincerely, the memory of the wit and warmth of their encounters making her smile. “He is admirable, and all amiability.” Even so, it was impossible for her to think of marriage with the Duke. She could not expose an unsuspecting man to the dangers of the Deceiver world, especially one as worthy as His Grace. As much as it pained her to do so, she had to steer herself—and her brother—away from such thoughts. “But, Andrew,” she added softly, “you know I do not wish to marry yet.”

  “Is that so?” her brother said, and sat back, a disbelieving smile upon his face.

  By the time they had made their way through the foyer and into their seats at the center of the hall, the concert was about to start. Helen drew her shawl more securely around her shoulders and turned her face politely toward the orchestra as it struck up the overture to Saul. Yet she hardly heard a note of the opening allegro. Her mind was set upon her two problems to the exclusion of everything else, even Mr. Handel’s exquisite music.

  The question of the hanging was far less confusing than her thoughts about Lord Carlston. At least with the hanging, there was a chance of her finding a solution: a feasible excuse to leave the house at such an early hour with only Darby for company. But that excuse remained stubbornly out of reach, perhaps because an image of his lordship’s lips kept intruding upon her thoughts.

  The music gathered intensity. Beside her, Aunt’s eyes were closed. Dozing already. Helen looked around the room. How many Deceivers were in attendance? The hall could seat near one thousand people, and it was full. That meant there would be at least one of them. The possibility brought a small shiver along her spine.

  A strange restiveness in the first few rows caught her attention. People were shifting in their chairs as if none of them could find any comfort for their bones; perhaps a sign that a skimming Deceiver sat in their midst.

  Helen worked her fingers into her reticule and pulled out the portrait, tucking it into the top of her glove. The room blossomed into the shimmering blue of humanity. And the brighter blue corona of two Deceivers. She had been right: one of them was seated in the second row. A woman with a pretty band of diamonds in her carefully curled brown hair. The other, an older man with a beard, stood at the very back of the hall. Both were skimming from the unsuspecting people around them. Helen watched the woman draw back her blue-black feeding tentacle, sending it out in another direction, the caressing appendage sliding over a young man’s shoulder and into his lap. He scratched at his neck. Helen looked away, wishing she could stop such an obscene, insidi-ous attack.

  The allegro finished, the swell of applause jolting Aunt upright and into a vigorous clap. Helen joined in, keeping her hands close together to stop the miniature from slipping out of her glove. At the corner of her eye, she saw the female Deceiver suddenly turn and stare straight at her, neat features twisted into a look of cold malevolence. Holy God, had the thing recognized her as a Reclaimer? Helen looked back over her shoulder. The other one was staring at her too. Neither was close enough to sense her Reclaimer energy. She searched her mind for any contact: a casual brush in the foyer? No, not that she could recollect. And if one had touched her, it would not have communicated with the other anyway. Perhaps the miniature had drawn their attention. The memory of Jeremiah’s screaming face brought certainty. She flicked the portrait out of her glove into her lap, covering it with the end of her shawl. The room plunged back into the dull yellow light of the oil lamps. She took a deep breath, and another, trying to calm her heart.

  “Are you all right?” Aunt whispered.

  “Yes. Just trying to stop a sneeze.”

  The clapping eased into silence. The female Deceiver turned to face the orchestra again as lilting strings began the overture’s larghetto. Helen studied the woman’s tensely held head and rigid shoulders. Rationally, she knew the creature would not attack. Not in the middle of a public concert. But she could feel her blood pulsing with the possibility.

  “My dear, look over there.” Aunt indicated seats closer to the stage. “The Duke.” Helen obediently peered past the ostrich feathers of the ladies seated in front of them and quickly found a set of broad shoulders, neatly cut blond hair, and the unmistakable height that could only be the Duke of Selburn. Mercifully, he was nowhere near the Deceiver and her foul tentacle.

  As if suddenly aware of Helen’s gaze, the Duke turned in his seat, catching her eye before she could look away. How humiliating. Yet he smiled warmly and bowed his head. She smiled and nodded back.

  “Ah, he has seen you,” Aunt whispered with satisfaction. “He will seek you out at the interval, mark my words.”

  Those words turned out to be prescient. In the foyer, during the short interval, he made his way through the crowd and bowed. “I hope I find you well,” he said. “But then I see you are both in sparkling form.”

  “How kind,” Aunt said, rising from her curtsy.

  “And how are you, Hayden?” he asked Andrew.

  “I must say I am champing at the bit for Monday.”

  “Monday?” Helen asked.

  “Selburn and I go to the hanging,” Andrew said, grinning at his friend. “Should be famous sport.”

  “The hanging?” Helen’s mouth dried around the words.

  “Do you have a room hired, Duke?” Aunt asked.

  “No. By the time we had resolved to go, all had been taken. But Byron has invited us to join his party, and I believe he has a room directly opposite the gallows.”

  Helen closed her eyes. Dear God, no, that had to be in the same row of houses as Lord Carlston’s room.

  “I fancy being on the ground,” Andrew said. “Right in the thick of it.”

  “I rather thought you would,” Selburn said. “We can—”

  “No,” Helen blurted. “You must not go.”

  All three pairs of eyes turned to her, startled.

  “Helen,” Aunt said. “That is not for you to say. Apologize to the Duke.”

  Selburn brushed it aside with an elegant hand. “There is no need. I am sure Lady Helen is merely voicing her concern for her brother’s safety.” He smiled at Helen, and the easy warmth of it drew her own smile again. “Please, do not worry. I promise I will not allow any harm to come to this young scapegrace of yours.” He turned a mock-stern look upon Andrew. “You have heard your sister, Hayden. We will take up Byron’s offer.”

  Helen saw the twitch of irritation in Andrew’s face—he did not appreciate her interference—but Aunt nodded approvingly. “That is very kind of you to take such care of my niece’s concern, sir.”

  “It is my honor, Lady Pennworth.” He gave a small bow, turning the end of it toward Helen. “Perhaps your niece would consider riding with me along the Row during the Monday promenade so that I can reassure her that all is well?”

  From the corner of her eye, Helen saw Aunt’s chest rise with jubilation. “She would be delighted, Duke.” Aunt beamed at Helen. “Wouldn’t you, my dear?”

  Helen curtsied. “That is very kind of you, sir.”

  “Until Monday then. I must return to my party before the bell is rung.”

  With a pang of guilt, Helen watched him make his way through the crowd. She truly liked the Duke, yet she could not, in all decency, encourage him now. For a moment she played out the possibility of marrying him. He would, of course, have to be told about the Dark Days Club and the Deceivers, and that would mean he would have no choice but to be drawn into their dangerous struggle, whether he wished to join it or not. And even if he could accept that she was a Reclaimer and had a duty to use her strange talents, he would hardly allow her to train and associate with Lord Carlston, the man who had brutally horsewhipped him and had, by all accounts, murdered the woman he had loved. No, it w
as completely untenable.

  “We must have your new habit by Monday morning, Helen,” Aunt said, her own eyes following the Duke. “I pray your hat will be ready, too. You must look your absolute best.”

  For all the impossibilities of such a union, the idea of them riding together still brought a tantalizing image to mind: their horses walking side by side, Selburn talking to her of art and books, and laughing with her at the latest intrigue. A glimpse of the life she was meant to lead. A life without Deceivers: safe and happy and normal. And yet, that life would also be without Lord Carlston. There was loss wherever she looked, even in the world of her imagination.

  “Shall I start calling you Duchess now?” Andrew whispered in her ear. “Selburn’s not usually one for riding Rotten Row with women.”

  Rotten Row. Helen drew in a sharp breath at a sudden idea, feeling the click of old knowledge into new need. Every morning at dawn, the Row was reserved for grooms employed by the Quality to exercise the horses under their care. The rule against galloping was relaxed, and it was not unusual for gentlemen to join the grooms for that opportunity to ride without restriction. Sometimes, even a few ladies joined them; she had done so herself a number of times in the past year.

  The bell rang for the end of interval. As they joined the queue into the hall, Helen bent her head as if listening to her aunt’s whispered advice about the ride with Selburn. Yet she heard none of it.

  Aunt and Uncle would not think her dawn departure too out of the ordinary. Of course, she would have to take one of the grooms for propriety’s sake. If Darby were to accompany them, Helen could send the man and Circe back to the stables after the ride, along with the lie that she planned to walk for a while in the park with her maid. Then she and Darby could take a hackney to Newgate. She gripped her reticule tightly, trying to contain her triumph. She had found her way out of the house.

  With everyone seated and the orchestra in place, Helen searched the rows at the front of the hall. Where was the woman Deceiver? Her eyes found a vacant seat: the creature had left. She glanced over her shoulder; the man had gone too.