The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  “Do you really intend to marry him?” Carlston demanded, his voice pitched to a savage whisper.

  “If he asks me again,” she said coldly.

  “Again?”

  “I asked him to wait until tomorrow, in case—” Why was she even explaining it to him?

  “In case of what?”

  She lifted her chin. “In case I am a completely different person tomorrow. After I use it.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Lady Helen, you have far more honor than he does.”

  They had reached their place at the head of the column. Only nine other couples stood in line, somewhat less than usual. Perhaps dancing before the Prince Regent was too daunting for some. His lordship led her into position, then took his own. The musicians immediately struck up the first notes of the lively tune. The exchange of honors was made, and then, with unquiet eyes fixed upon one another, Carlston and Helen took three traveling chassé steps to Mr. Duncannon. The young man eagerly took their hands for the circle.

  “It is a most excellent ball, Lady Helen,” he said as they sidestepped to the beat. “I wish to—”

  “Are you really going to refuse your duty?” Carlston demanded over him. “Your responsibility to humankind?”

  Helen smiled sweetly at Mr. Duncannon. “I am glad you are enjoying the evening,” she said.

  They released the young man’s hands and crossed to his partner, Miss Harris, who received no joy when she attempted to smile at his lordship.

  “Are you going to ignore the question?” he asked Helen roughly.

  “I thought you believed that this duty could not be forced, that it must be a choice,” she hissed. “Well, this is my choice.”

  They released the goggling Miss Harris’s hands and returned to the center.

  “If that is your decision, then I ask that you do it in my presence,” Carlston said, clasping both of Helen’s hands, the grip a little tighter than decorum decreed. “So that I am sure you are safe and it is completely destroyed.”

  They began the skipping journey down the middle of the column.

  “And you will not try to stop me? On your word?” Helen asked.

  “On my word.”

  She drew in a breath. There could be no greater guarantee. “It must be done at midnight. I have arranged with my maid to be upstairs in my bedchamber at ten minutes to twelve.”

  He gave a nod. “Do not go up there until I am with you, do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Helen said as they held hands and skipped back up between the clapping dancers.

  On the final note of the dance, Helen glanced at the gilt clock. Twenty minutes to midnight. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her courage, then sank into the finishing curtsy. Then another curtsy to His Royal Highness, who was pleased to incline his head before returning to the attentions of Lady Southcoate. His lordship rose from his own bow, a swift step bringing him to her side.

  “I must find my aunt,” Helen said, clapping politely alongside the other dancers. “Do you see the time?” She laid her hand on his offered arm. “I must tell her I will be retiring upstairs for a few minutes.”

  “She is over there with your brother and Lady Melbourne,” he said, indicating the group seated in a corner, conversing. Helen heard her aunt’s loud laugh ring out, and saw Andrew wince at the sound. Carlston sent a searching glance around the room. “Come, before your future husband appears in all his righteous fury.”

  Despite the sarcasm, his lordship had a point: the last thing she needed was the Duke to delay her retreat. They threaded between the knots of people gathering for the rest between dances and the cooling glasses of punch à la romaine offered by the footmen.

  “My Lord Carlston? I have a message for you.”

  Helen and his lordship turned to see Hugo, a silver salver in his hand. He bowed and offered up the scrap of paper laid upon it. “From a large gentleman downstairs,” he added. “He says he is your man.”

  Carlston took the offered missive. “Thank you.” He unfolded it. Helen caught a glimpse of the writing: it was in no language that she had seen before. His eyes flicked across its contents, the only reaction a convulsive tightening of his fingers. “There will be no answer,” he said, his voice flat.

  Hugo bowed and retreated.

  “Is it Mr. Benchley?” Helen demanded.

  “No.” The alarm deep in his eyes sent a jolt of fear through her body. “Brace yourself. Do not let any reaction show.”

  Helen nodded, her breath suspended into terrible foreboding.

  “Quinn has found Bales, Lily, and one of your other maids dead in the alley beyond.”

  Helen felt the room lurch. Lily dead? And Bales? “Which other girl?” She gasped and grabbed his arm. “Darby?”

  “Control yourself,” he hissed. “Quinn knows Darby. He would have used her name.”

  Yes, true. She took a shaking breath. “Who could have killed them?”

  “He says their bodies have the hallmark of a Deceiver glut.” He caught her elbow. “Steady now. Smile.” As she obeyed, he added softly, “I must search the house for the creature. Do not go to your chamber until I return.”

  “No—do not leave me here!”

  “It will not try anything in this crowd. You must stay.” He reached for his fob and pulled out the touch watch, the diamond arrow set upon the blue enamel case almost at the quarter-to-twelve mark. “The creature has glutted, so it will be easy to see.” He took her arm, drawing her forward. “Come, I will take you to Lady Margaret and Hammond. You must stay with them for safety.”

  The brother and sister stood beside the fireplace, Lady Margaret fanning herself in slow arcs. Even her pale skin had a flush of pink from the warmth in the room. Her face brightened as she saw his lordship approaching, her pleasure shifting into concern as they drew closer. She could see something was wrong, yet her smile of welcome did not waver. Helen stood rigidly as his lordship apprised them of the events. Lady Margaret’s hand tightened around her fan, and Mr. Hammond drew an outraged breath, but otherwise they showed no sign that a deadly creature had infiltrated the house.

  “Shall I go with you, sir?” Mr. Hammond asked, squaring his shoulders.

  His lordship shook his head. “Stay with Lady Helen.” He bowed and started to work his way toward the door. Helen saw him flip open the touch watch and start to assemble the lens.

  “Michael, fetch her some punch,” Lady Margaret said, looking worriedly into Helen’s face. “I think she is in need of refreshment.”

  Mr. Hammond snagged a glass from one of the trays carried by a passing footman and pushed it into Helen’s hands. She did not want it, but Lady Margaret gently took her wrist, urging her to lift it to her mouth, and so she took a sip of the creamy iced punch. The rum within it burned her throat and jolted her from her shock. On the mantel, the hands on the gilt clock shifted to ten minutes to midnight.

  She was going to lose her chance. Perhaps this was some kind of ruse by his lordship to stop her from stripping her powers. Helen shook her head. He could not have manufactured the alarm she had seen. But what if he was wrong about Darby? She took another, fevered sip, trying to calm herself. No, he was right: Quinn would have named her in the note. A worse thought made her cough as she swallowed the burning liquor: What if the creature was in her chamber? Where Darby waited. Oh God! Darby could already be dead!

  She shoved the glass into Mr. Hammond’s hands, the man grasping it in reflex as she spun on her heel and walked quickly into the crowd. She smiled and nodded at the faces that turned at her indecorous speed, forging past the claims on her company. A glance back showed both Mr. Hammond and Lady Margaret in pursuit.

  “Lady Helen,” Sir Egmont said, bowing. “It is such a—”

  “Lovely,” Helen said, sidestepping him and his wife, their surprise f
lashing by. She ducked into a clear space and looked back again. Mr. Hammond was gaining upon her; he would be at her side in just a few steps. She quickened her pace and saw salvation standing in the doorway.

  “Duke,” she said, dipping into a curtsy before him.

  “Lady Helen. I see that you have finished dancing with his lordship.” There was a frigid edge to his voice.

  “Under His Royal Highness’s order,” she said bluntly. She had no time for fragile feelings. She drew a breath, trying to moderate the urgency in her voice. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the stairs? I am not feeling well, and would like a few moments’ respite before the next set.”

  No gentleman could refuse a claim of frailty.

  “Of course.” He offered his arm.

  She glanced back again. The brother and sister stopped, the strain on Mr. Hammond’s face giving Helen a sharp moment of guilt.

  The Duke cleared his throat. “I would like to apologize for my behavior earlier.” He gave a grim smile. “I am afraid Lord Carlston brings out the worst in me.”

  “I think you are not alone in that,” Helen said as they reached the staircase.

  She nodded to the footman posted to discourage guests from ascending into the private rooms. He moved aside with a bow. In the ballroom behind them, Lady Elizabeth’s strident voice called, “Pray take your partners for the ‘Scottish Reel.’”

  “I do not like to see you in his company, Lady Helen,” the Duke said. “What he did to Elise—” He stopped. “Well, you are aware of what he did.”

  “I am in no danger from him,” Helen said quickly. She had to get upstairs.

  “You have my guarantee of that,” the Duke said. He lifted her hand to his lips in the old courtly gesture. “I look forward to the supper dance.”

  “Yes, of course. I am looking forward to it too.” She withdrew her hand. Smiled. Took the first step, and the second, and the third, forcing a sedate pace that almost made her scream in frustration. Finally she reached the first landing, gathered her skirts, and took the next set of stairs two at a time, her breath shortening. Dear Lord, keep Darby safe.

  Twenty-Nine

  THE DOORS TO her dressing room and bedchamber were shut. Not unusual. She paused for an instant outside her chamber, listening for any sign of Darby. Or something else. No sound within, although her straining ears could hear the start of the lively music for the reel two floors down. She turned the handle and pushed.

  The room was deserted. The candelabrum upon her writing desk cast a soft glow, and another had been placed on the mantel above the dying fire. The adjoining door stood open, the dressing room beyond shadowed and gloomy as if lit by only one candle.

  “Darby?” she whispered, closing the door behind herself. “Darby, are you there?”

  No response.

  “Darby!” her voice rang shrilly into the ominous quiet. “Answer me!”

  “My lady?” Darby appeared in the dressing room doorway. “I am here.”

  Helen gave a soft sob of relief. Unharmed, thank God.

  “Has something gone wrong?” Darby said, hurrying into the bedchamber. “We have only five minutes until midnight.”

  “The Deceiver has killed Lily and Mr. Bales and one of the housemaids.”

  “What?” Darby pressed her hand to her chest. “Which housemaid? Not Tilly?”

  “I don’t know.” Good Lord, don’t let it be little Tilly. Helen crossed to the desk, stripping off her gloves. “His lordship is looking for the creature. It has glutted.”

  She threw the gloves on the chair, then felt along the desk for the key compartment. It did not matter if Darby saw her now.

  “Glutted?” Darby’s horror propelled her to Helen’s side. “What are we to do?”

  Helen unlocked the hatch and pulled down the desk. “Get the things out, Darby. They are on that top shelf. I shall get the miniature.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, drawing up her skirts and petticoat, and freed the silk bag from the layers of her gown. As she pulled it open, a clink made her look up. The vial of sanctified water had chimed on the side of the silver bowl, set next to the tinderbox and knife. Darby turned to her. “All done, my lady.”

  Helen stood, holding the miniature. Darby’s pale blue life-force flared out around her body. “Good work,” Helen said. “Give me the knife.”

  “Give me the miniature,” a man’s voice said.

  Helen whirled around to the adjoining door, the soft voice and bright Reclaimer glow registering as Mr. Benchley a moment before she saw his seamed face and pale gray stare.

  “How did you get in the house?” She saw the answer in his attire: full evening dress.

  He entered the room, pointing a sleek dueling pistol straight at her chest. “Through the kitchens. Just another inebriated guest wandering into the basement by mistake. A pretty little housemaid helped me back upstairs to the ball.”

  Somewhere within her shock, she noted he must have come in alone. No Mr. Lowry looming behind. She tightened her hold on the miniature. For an instant she considered throwing it to Darby. The girl was so close to the door, she could escape with it. But Benchley had Reclaimer speed and no conscience.

  Abandoning that idea, Helen chose the alternative. “Darby, run!”

  Her maid leaped for the door.

  “Stay where you are, girl, or I will shoot your mistress!”

  Darby froze. Slowly, she took her hand from the knob.

  Benchley motioned her away. “Stand against the wall and do not move.”

  With a glare, Darby obeyed. “Further away,” he ordered. She sidestepped until she stood near the desk. “That will do.” He walked to the center of the room. “Lady Helen, you realize I cannot let you destroy your talents and my chance for redemption, don’t you? Not to mention the power of that Colligat. Put it down on the bed.”

  Helen frowned. “You want the Colligat for its power? I thought you wanted to destroy it.”

  “Everyone wants the Colligat, my dear, and I can assure you no one wants to destroy it. Not even Carlston. Put it down on the bed like a good girl.”

  Helen slowly placed the miniature on the velvet bedcover, her mother’s challenging gaze pointed to the heavens. The blue glow dropped away from Benchley and Darby.

  A knock on the door wrenched everyone’s attention around.

  “My lady, are you in there?” It was Philip’s voice. Helen felt a flash of hope, yet what could the young footman do against a seasoned Reclaimer? “Your aunt wishes you to come back downstairs.”

  In a few strides, Benchley was beside Darby, his hand closed around her jaw. She gave a small gasp. “Tell him to go,” he said softly to Helen. “Or I will crush her.”

  Helen swallowed, her throat drying with fear. “Leave me, Philip,” she croaked. “I am not well.”

  The door handle turned. What was he doing?

  “I am sorry, my lady, but your aunt was insistent.”

  The door opened. Philip entered, the candlelight picking up the burnished copper in his hair. For some reason, he was no longer wearing his powdered wig. His eyes widened at the violent tableau at the writing desk.

  “Shut the door,” Benchley ordered, gesturing with the pistol.

  Slowly, Philip pushed the door closed. He moved further into the room, his body lowering into an animal crouch.

  “So,” he said calmly. “You must be Benchley.”

  For an instant Helen was caught in the roar of her own confusion and the pounding of her heart. How could Philip know Benchley?

  Good God! The rush of comprehension propelled her across the bed. She grabbed for the miniature. As her hand closed around the gold frame, a brilliant blue Deceiver glow leaped around Philip’s body, three long, writhing whips curled above his head.

  “He’s the Deceiver!” she yelled.

 
The middle whip came slashing down. She rolled, flailing, off the side of the bed, the covers and mattress sliced into an explosion of feathers and burned velvet. She scrabbled backward along the carpet, her shoulder hitting the wall so hard, it sent hollow pain into her chest. Coughing, she squinted through the swirling dust and feathers. Benchley must have dived for cover too—he was nowhere to be seen. She saw Philip’s liveried figure run forward, two of his three bright blue whips slicing downward. The sound of splintering wood and a low curse from Benchley pressed Helen harder against the wall. One of the candelabra arced through the air, a whip knocking it into the far wall with a ringing clank, its candles extinguished by the velocity. The light dropped into a murky gloom.

  Where was Darby? Had she escaped?

  She heard the slamming thud of whips hitting wood. Plaster spun through the air, and a plume of heavy dust burst into the room. Surely someone would hear them over the music and dancing.

  She crawled back to the shelter of the bed, her legs catching in her gown. Wresting the skirt and petticoat out from beneath her knees, she gathered them into an unseemly bundle around her middle and inched forward. Philip had his back to her, whips poised above his head. With hammering heart, she risked a glance around the bedpost.

  A pile of wood and torn paper lay where her secretaire had stood, and a hole had been punched into the connecting wall of the dressing room. Benchley lay on his back, white waistcoat soaked with blood, Philip standing over him. Helen gasped as two of the whips plunged down. Benchley rolled, dodging one whip, the other clipping his arm, slicing open his coat and shirt in a surge of fresh blood. He cursed, the momentum of his roll bringing him up on his knees.

  Darby was nowhere to be seen, but the door was ajar. She had got out: thank God. And she would bring help. In the distance, the first deep toll of midnight struck.

  Philip glanced over his shoulder. The middle whip slammed down in front of her, slicing into the carpet. She ducked behind the bed, biting her knuckles to keep from screaming. An awful realization pushed her further back: she was wearing so much metal. She ripped the diadem from her hair, yanked out the earrings, then feverishly undid the necklace, letting it drop to the floor. There were no pins in the gown, but the miniature was surrounded in gold. Hide it? No, she had to keep it safe and with her, or she would lose her chance.