The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  Aunt put down her cup with a click of authority. “My dear, I can see you hardly got a moment—you’ve rings under your eyes and no color. You must rest as much as you can before Monsieur Le Graf comes at three to do your hair. After that, it will be time to dress, and resting will be out of the question. You must try to recover some of your bloom.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Helen took a warm roll from the basket.

  “If you do not, we may have to resort to the rouge pot,” Aunt said.

  A knock sent Barnett across the room. He opened the door, his subsequent whispered conversation lifting Helen’s eyes from her plate just as he stepped back and announced, “Mrs. Grant wishes to speak to you, my lady.”

  The housekeeper stood at the threshold cradling a plain deal box.

  Berta’s box.

  Helen’s hand clenched around her butter knife.

  “What is it, Mrs. Grant?” Aunt called. “Has Gunter’s not delivered the sweet course yet?”

  The housekeeper dropped into an awkward curtsy. “Gunter’s has delivered, my lady. This is about something else. Earlier, I pulled out the box belonging to Berta, the maid who ran away, and it has been broke open.” She held up the evidence.

  Helen stared at the splintered wood around the lock. The awful memory of it cracking apart resounded in her head.

  “This is hardly the time to be bringing it to my attention,” Aunt said. “We have a ball this evening.”

  “I know, my lady. I just thought that since we are having all the plate out tonight, you should know that there may be a thief among the staff.”

  Aunt gave a small grunt of irritation. “Well, let us have a look at it then. Although how we will be able to determine if something has been taken is beyond me.” She waved Mrs. Grant over. “At least, Helen, you will be able to look for some way of contacting the girl’s mother, as you wanted.” Aunt stopped, her eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, my dear?”

  “No,” Helen said with a little too much force.

  Thankfully, her aunt’s focus was upon the box. Good Lord, what if she found the obscene cards in The Lady of the Lake?

  Barnett swiftly shifted a plate and knife as Mrs. Grant placed the box between Helen and her aunt, and then stepped back. Aunt opened the lid, letting it rest back on its hinges.

  Everyone peered inside.

  “It is not packed very neatly,” Aunt remarked. She pulled out the white chemisette, placing it on the table.

  “Rifled by a thief, madam,” Mrs. Grant said firmly.

  Helen felt as if all eyes turned upon her, but when she looked up, everyone was still inspecting the box.

  “I cannot see why Berta would leave this behind.” Aunt held up the blue dimity dress length. It followed the white chemisette onto the table. The heart-shaped tin box was next. Aunt opened the lid. “Just coins.” She studied the remaining items. “There do not seem to be any letters.”

  “I’m not sure Berta could write, my lady,” Mrs. Grant said.

  “There are books here,” Aunt said. “She could obviously read.” Helen held her breath as Aunt reached into the box again. “Maybe one of them will have some clue for you, Helen. An address or a letter between the pages.”

  She nodded. Finally her aunt pulled out the leather-bound Bible. “Ah, perhaps we will find an inscription in here.”

  Helen breathed out again. “I’ll take the other book, shall I, Aunt?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she leaned over and levered out the copy of The Lady of the Lake, laid flat on the bottom. Just where she had left it. She turned slightly away and fanned the pages. They flicked smoothly through to the end. Where were the cards? She fanned the pages again. Nothing. She took the book by the thin spine and shook it over her lap. Nothing dropped out. The cards were gone. Had she misremembered? Left them in the Bible? She glanced across at her aunt, flicking through the first few pages of the Holy Book. No, she had definitely jammed them into The Lady of the Lake.

  Someone else had taken them. A lascivious servant?

  The other possibility hardened into icy alarm. Another Deceiver.

  “Is there anything in that book, Helen?” Aunt asked.

  Helen shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Nothing in this Bible, either. Surely if a thief had broken into the box, he or she would have taken the coins. Perhaps it has simply been damaged somehow, Mrs. Grant.”

  “Perhaps, madam.” Mrs. Grant’s disbelief was thick in her voice.

  “May I have a look at the Bible, Aunt?” Helen croaked. She had to be sure.

  With a tiny shrug, Aunt passed it over. Helen fanned the pages, knowing even as she did so that it was fruitless.

  “Take it away, Mrs. Grant,” Aunt said, gesturing for the housekeeper to pack away the meager belongings. “We will think what to do with it all after the ball.”

  “Yes, madam.” Mrs. Grant deftly stowed the belongings, clearing her throat to gently prompt Helen to return the Bible. Helen handed it back, feeling as if she were handing over a last hope. It went into the box, atop the chemisette, and the lid was closed with a soft, final thud.

  FINALLY RELEASED FROM the breakfast room, Helen made her way upstairs, weaving around the busy servants. Huge arrangements of flowers were being heaved into place, oil lamps trimmed and hung from sconces, and large mirrored trifold screens set up in corners to reflect the light of the extra crystal candelabra. She passed faces she knew and a few she did not, every one of them a potential Deceiver.

  Back in the safety of her bedchamber, she called for Darby. Her maid appeared at the dressing room doorway, her arms full of linen. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Come over here.” She motioned Darby across to the chaise under the window, as far away from the door and its ubiquitous guard as possible. “Aunt just opened Berta’s box, and the cards are missing.”

  “Missing?” Darby’s eyes widened with horror. She lowered her voice into barely a breath. “You think they were taken by another Deceiver?”

  Helen blessed her maid’s quick understanding. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was just one of the footmen looking for money and finding obscenity instead.”

  “Is the money gone too?”

  “No.”

  Darby’s nose wrinkled. “A footman would have taken the money as well.”

  “Yes,” Helen said, her vain hope defeated by logic.

  “What will we do, my lady?”

  Helen stared fiercely at the roses on the carpet, trying to marshal her thoughts. If there was a Deceiver in the house, then there was a good chance it was after the Colligat. Her hand found the small pouch beneath the layers of her clothing. Some of the Deceivers obviously knew she possessed it. Only a fool would ignore the possibility that news of the Colligat could have been passed along to other Deceivers, including one secreted within her household. If that was the case, she had to assume that a Deceiver now knew of the weapon, and that it would be intent upon stealing it. But the creature could not know she intended to use it that night. All she had to do, then, was keep the miniature safe. Then she could use it to strip her powers, destroying the weave of hair and its magic, and it would no longer be of any use or interest to the Deceivers. Or a threat to the other Reclaimers. Just as she would be of no use or interest or threat to either party.

  Helen gave a sharp nod. Her reasoning was sound. Still, it would not hurt to have someone search for the Deceiver in her house.

  “Find Lily,” she said.

  Darby dropped the linen on the chaise longue and hurried from the room.

  Helen paced to the door and back again, unable to stand still. She crossed to the window and looked down into the street. Her eyes found the gap between the two houses, her heart lifting as she saw a man leaning against the wall. Too big for his lordship. Quinn, then. Helen pushed away the absurd disappointm
ent.

  A soft knock, and the door opened again. Darby and Lily entered. It did not take long to apprise Lily of the very real possibility that there was another Deceiver in the house.

  She rubbed her mouth, considering. “I’ve truly seen no sign of one, my lady. If it has eluded me, it must be very canny.”

  “If there is one, why does it not strike?” Darby asked. She glanced at Helen. “Sorry, my lady.”

  “No, it is a good question.”

  Lily gave a small shrug, not offering much reassurance. “There could be many reasons. It may not be in communication with others. Or perhaps it is collaborating, and searching for the Colligat. That would take some time, I can assure you. It is not easy to find something in a household as big as this.” Darby nodded her emphatic agreement. “Is the piece safe, my lady?”

  “Yes,” Helen said. A new caution stopped her from adding its location.

  “The safest place for it would be on your person at all times, my lady,” Lily said. “A Deceiver would only strike, I think, if it had glutted and built whips. To me, it seems unlikely that one would attempt to glut and risk being discovered by you. Without weapons, no Deceiver would risk attacking a Reclaimer. Even such an untrained one as yourself, my lady.”

  Helen nodded, although she was taken aback by the idea that a Deceiver would consider her a danger. Hard on the heels of the surprise, however, came a fleeting sense of fierce power.

  Lily straightened into new purpose. “I’ll keep searching, my lady. And I’ll try to get a look at the belongings of the other maids and the footmen. See if I can find those cards.”

  “There is something else you can do, Lily,” Helen said. “I know Mr. Quinn is out front—”

  “And Mr. Bales at the back,” the girl interjected.

  Helen had not known that, but let it pass. “Go out and tell Mr. Quinn the news so he can take it to Lord Carlston. Perhaps his lordship or Sir Jonathan will have some new idea who the Deceiver could be.”

  Although the expression on Lily’s face told her it was not likely, the girl nodded. “I will, my lady.” She curtsied and withdrew.

  “Anyone could be a Deceiver,” Darby said as the door closed. “There could even be more than one.”

  “I know,” Helen said, trying to keep the hollow fear from her voice. “We just have to keep my mother’s miniature safe until midnight.”

  Twenty-Eight

  HELEN GLANCED AT the small gilt clock on her dressing table. A quarter before ten. In less than fifteen minutes, her first guests would start to arrive. She could hear the musicians tuning their instruments in the drawing room-turned-ballroom, the twang of a fiddle and a snatch of “Juliana” from a flute. The smell of the sumptuous supper, particularly the game pies and roast fowl, permeated the whole house.

  “Don’t move, my lady,” Darby said softly, poised to replace a diamond pin that had come loose from her coiffure; Helen had touched the elaborate braids and curls once too often since Monsieur Le Graf had departed. Darby pushed the pin into the twisted knot at Helen’s crown, exhaling with relief. “There.” She stepped back, judging the result. “No harm done.”

  Helen kneaded one gloved hand with the other, her eyes upon her own reflection in the mirror. Ringlets fell rather becomingly on either side of her face, and another longer curl from the back of the coiffure had been arranged over her left shoulder. An emerald diadem curved across the front of the high-set hair, her drop earrings and necklace matching the gleaming headpiece. It had been a gift from Aunt, from her own jewels.

  “I will come up at about ten minutes to midnight,” she said, meeting Darby’s eyes in the mirror.

  “What if it is in the middle of a dance, my lady?”

  “If necessary, I will say I need a few moments to rest.” Helen wet her lips. Every part of her felt parched. “You saw how long it took Lord Carlston to mix the alchemy for Jeremiah—no more than a few minutes. I will prepare everything and then wait to drink at the stroke of twelve.”

  Darby nodded, but her face buckled into itself as if she were trying to hold back tears. “And if you cannot go out to the ball again, I will find your aunt and make your excuses.” Her voice held the flat tone of rehearsal. Or perhaps it was dread.

  “Too much excitement combined with my injury: she will believe that,” Helen said. She forced some brightness into her tone. “All will be well.”

  “Will it, my lady?”

  Darby was right to be doubtful. No one knew the full effects of using the Colligat. Not even Lady Catherine, and she had created it.

  Helen took her maid’s hand. “I don’t know what I will be when I—” She stopped, not sure what she wanted to say. An apology, perhaps, for whom she might be afterward?

  Darby closed her other hand over Helen’s. “I just hope you don’t become like Lady Anton,” she said.

  Helen gave a dry laugh. Lady Anton was renowned for throwing things at her servants.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, my lady?”

  “It is what my mother wanted. I don’t want to go mad or be hunted forever.”

  She turned back to her reflection, finding refuge from her own doubts in the fierce contemplation of her gown. Madame Hortense had outdone herself. The pleated cream bodice sparkled with brilliants, and the band around the high waist was thick with spring-green embroidery and pearl flowers, the lustrous gems also sprinkled across the sheer overskirt. The sleeves had been caught up at the center of each shoulder with a pearl-and-diamond fleur-de-lis, exposing a delicate lace half sleeve beneath. It was a suitably magnificent gown for her last night as her true self.

  A rap on the dressing room door made her jump. Lud, her nerves were as tight as fiddle strings.

  She turned as Darby opened the door to Philip, dressed in his formal red-and-gold livery, a freshly powdered wig upon his head.

  He bowed to Helen. “Lady Pennworth requires you in the ballroom, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” Helen stood and smoothed her skirt. Once again Darby had secured the little bag with her mother’s miniature—her mother’s Colligat—between her chemise and petticoat, tied to her stays. She was ready.

  HELEN DREW AN appreciative breath as she walked into the ballroom. The mirrored screens against the walls reflected the hundreds of candles set into crystal and silver candelabra, creating a soft but brilliant light. Arrangements of cream roses, to match her gown, stood in lustered vases, a riot of the blooms filling the fireplace. The floor had been chalked, ready for dancing, and small groups of gilt chairs stood in the corners.

  Aunt was making one last critical circuit, the scarlet feathers in her turban swaying as she appraised every detail. The musicians dipped their heads as she passed, visibly relieved when she nodded her approval. Two liveried footmen stood at the doors, and four more were stationed at the corners of the room. Helen studied the face of each young man, their politely blank expressions—a requisite for their role—taking on a new menace. One of them could be the Deceiver.

  Aunt turned from her scrutiny of a candelabrum, saw Helen at the doorway, and bustled across the room. “How are you feeling, my dear?” She peered into Helen’s face. “Did Darby use the rouge? You still look pale.”

  Helen touched her cheek. “She used a little.”

  “Well, we cannot risk too much. We don’t want you looking like a trollop.”

  The sound of orderly commotion downstairs halted her aunt’s scrutiny. “Ah, I think our first guests are arriving.” Her voice vibrated with excitement. “Come, let us take our places to receive them.”

  Aunt had decided to have the receiving line in the foyer, just before the stairs. Uncle would greet the guests first, then Aunt, and then Helen. Guests could then move up the stairs to the ballroom or, if they were not inclined to dance, to the small chamber behind the supper room set aside for cards.

  Uncle stood ready, resplen
dent in his bottle-green evening tailcoat and tight satin breeches. He eyed Helen critically as she took her place beside her aunt. “I hope you realize what a concession this is after your recent behavior,” he said.

  She was saved from answering by Barnett’s announcement of the first guests, Lord and Lady Southcoate. The ball had begun.

  Millicent and her parents arrived soon after. The Gardwells had traveled by foot, rather than carriage, so they were not caught up in the long queue of coaches along Half Moon Street.

  Helen raised her hand in a small wave as Millicent made her way into the library—now doing duty as the ladies’ retiring room—to change from half boots to dancing slippers and discard her silver cloak. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, Helen thought as she smiled and greeted a number of other guests, but then Millicent was never quick about such things. Finally her friend emerged in a delicate gown of pink gossamer net over white satin, made her greetings to Uncle and Aunt, and stood across from Helen.

  “I am so glad to see you,” she said, catching both of Helen’s hands in her own as they rose from their curtsies. “I didn’t know what to think when I was turned away on Sunday. Are you sure you are well?”

  “Very well,” Helen said, managing a genuine smile.

  Millicent looked down at her hem. “Look, I tore my lace on the walk over. It took forever for one of your girls to mend it, and I don’t think it will last. I shall be in rags by the end of the first set.”

  “I am sure Lord Holbridge will not complain about that.”

  “He is coming?” At Helen’s nod, Millicent beamed, quickly shifting her expression into a more suitable, demure smile. “You are a very good friend!” She glanced at the ever-growing line of guests. “I shall see you in the ballroom, yes? We’ll manage a few sets together!”

  With one last squeeze of Helen’s fingers, she headed toward the stairs where a young gentleman, hovering hopefully at the bottom step, offered his arm for the onerous journey to the first floor. Helen watched them ascend, Millicent laughing at a whispered comment from her admirer. She was such a dear, and a good friend. Helen had to admit that over the past few weeks, she had not been a particularly good friend in return. After midnight that will change, she vowed, and turned to greet the next guest. She would not have to lie to Millicent anymore. She would be just a girl again—albeit not the same girl—full of breathy excitement over balls and assemblies and the latest gossip. That would not be so bad, would it?