The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  A knock lifted her eyes from the letter. “Yes?”

  The door opened to admit Garner, Lady Margaret’s butler.

  “My lady, Lord Hayden awaits below. Shall I show him up?”

  Helen slowly put down the pen. “Yes.”

  As Garner withdrew, Helen took a deep breath and rose from her chair. What had Uncle told Andrew? No doubt something that cast her in a heinous light. But at least her brother had come.

  “Lord Hayden,” Garner announced. Andrew entered and stood watching her, unsmiling, as the door was closed behind him. He had not removed his greatcoat; the capes glinted with a sprinkling of raindrops. A short visit then. And, it would seem, not a friendly one.

  “Hello, Andrew,” Helen said, finally breaking the silence.

  He crossed his arms. “Who are these people you are staying with?”

  “Friends.”

  Andrew shook his head. “Aunt says that you have known them for only a few weeks.”

  “Yet they are kind enough to take me in.”

  He walked to the fireplace. “What happened, Helen? All Uncle will say is that Carlston has ruined you, and that he will not have you in his house again.” His open face sharpened into savagery. “By God, if that is true, I will kill Carlston.”

  “It is not true,” Helen said quickly.

  “Uncle said you would defend him.” Andrew’s voice was heavy. “He has hinted that he found you on top of—” He stopped and turned his face away. “That is not true, is it?”

  Helen clasped her hands, feeling the heat rise into her face.

  “Good God.” Her brother’s eyes widened. “What has come over you? Do you think yourself in love with him?”

  “No!”

  “Yet you blush. I think you are lying to yourself as well as to me, Helen. Even if one could overlook his black heart and his crimes, he is still married by law!” Andrew paced a few angry steps. “You cannot stay here. You must come to Deanswood. Now! At least there I can make sure you are safe from him.”

  Helen clutched the back of her chair. “No, Andrew. I will not be hidden away.”

  “You have no choice. Uncle will not free your money. Do you propose to live on the charity of these so-called friends?”

  “If that is what must happen,” Helen said stonily. “But I had hoped you would help me.”

  “To your own destruction? Are you mad?” His jaw tightened. “Uncle thinks you are mad, like Mother. Tell me he is not right.”

  “Uncle’s mind is always bent to the worst,” Helen said. “You know as well as I do that Mother was not mad.”

  “Perhaps not, but she was selfish and wanton. I thought I would never say this, but I see her within you.”

  “Then I am glad.”

  Andrew shook his head. “If I cannot control you, Helen, Uncle will step in. He will force you into compliance.”

  Helen remembered the fear in her uncle’s eyes. “No, I don’t think he will.” She met Andrew’s hard gaze. “Will you force me, brother?”

  The pained anger in his face shifted into resignation.

  “No,” he said. “You know I will not.”

  She stepped forward. “It will be all right, Andrew. Trust me. I am going to Brighton with Lady Margaret for the summer. She is taking a house for the season. She is a widow, a suitable chaperone. Every propriety will be observed.” How easily subterfuge came to her lips now.

  Andrew gave a reluctant nod. “You know you are causing Aunt enormous grief,” he said.

  Helen bowed her head. “I know.” She reached for the letter addressed to Lady Pennworth. Even with all his anger and disapproval, she knew her brother would deliver it safely. “Will you pass this straight to her—when Uncle is not nearby?”

  “Of course I will.” Andrew crossed the floor and took the packet. He turned it over in his hands, his gaze upon it but his sight clearly inward. He was coming to some decision. “If you are to stay here,” he finally said, “I will not have you living on the charity of others. I will make you a small allowance, but you must stop any contact with Lord Carlston. For the sake of your future.” He slid the letter into his pocket. “The Duke has asked me to inquire if he may call on you.”

  For a moment Helen saw a sharp, terrible image of the Duke and Carlston arriving at the same time. “No, not here,” she said. “I know he has a right to the interview, but not here.”

  “You misunderstand me, Helen. He does not want to withdraw his suit. Quite the contrary.”

  She shook her head, nonplussed. “You must be mistaken.”

  “No. He said to me that he would not stand by and let you suffer the same fate that befell Lady Elise. He lost one woman he loved to Carlston. He is determined it will not happen again.”

  “His Grace is acting from misplaced nobility and honor,” Helen said quickly. “Please, tell him to expect a letter from me. I will release him from his obligation.”

  “He is acting from deep regard for you and your safety. I can assure you he is a determined man. For goodness’ sake, girl, he still wants you.”

  “You must persuade him otherwise, Andrew.”

  “I certainly will not. Look me in the eye and tell me that you no longer have any regard for him.”

  “It is not that at all.”

  “I thought as much,” her brother said. “Anyway, I agree with him. You need to be protected from Carlston.”

  Helen looked away, fighting back the impulse to tell him the truth about Lord Carlston. But she was part of the Dark Days Club now, and that world—including his lordship’s honor—had to be hidden. Besides, if she started to talk of Reclaimers and Deceivers and alchemy, Andrew would surely think her mad.

  “When do you leave for Brighton?” he asked.

  “The day after next.”

  “Then I’ll write to our lawyer today and arrange for the allowance.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gave a brusque nod and bowed. “I’ll take my leave.” He paused at the door and looked back. “I am still worried for you, sprite. Perhaps if you are good and quiet in Brighton, Uncle will have you back, and everything will be as it was.” His smile was full of boyish hope.

  The door closed behind him. Helen stood, her eyes upon the vacated space, transfixed by a sudden understanding. Her brother had not yet learned that, in the end, nothing ever stayed the same. Least of all, people.

  THE NEXT MORNING she was writing the last of her letter to Delia when the sound of a carriage drawing up stopped her pen. Lady Margaret, seated near the window with her embroidery, peered out.

  “He is come,” she said. The excitement in her voice and the flush to her cheeks could only mean one particular arrival. Lord Carlston.

  Helen laid down her pen, wretchedly aware of the ink stains upon her fingers. No time to wash them. And, despite all the waiting and wondering, no time to gather herself.

  “Lord Carlston, my lady,” Garner announced.

  Lady Margaret stood and smoothed the front of her gown. “Show him in.”

  Helen rose, feeling a little light-headed. What if his lordship was angry after all? A Colligat in the hands of a Grand Deceiver was no small matter.

  Lord Carlston entered. He had removed his gloves and coat—a long visit. Lady Margaret would be glad.

  “Good morning,” he said, bowing to their curtsies. He held a small flat box in one hand.

  “It is such a pleasure to see you, Lord Carlston,” Lady Margaret said.

  “I am sorry I have been so long in calling upon you,” he answered, but his eyes flicked to Helen.

  “Are you well?” Lady Margaret took a few steps toward him. “Lady Helen says she is without effect, but you took those three whips—”

  He held up his hand, halting her concern. “I am well, thank you. Is Hammond already in Brighton?”

 
“Yes, as you ordered.”

  “Good.” He gave a short nod. “I wish to speak to Lady Helen alone. Would you be so kind as to leave us?”

  Helen saw Lady Margaret’s gaze snap across to her, then back to his lordship: she did not like being excluded. “Of course.” She curtsied again and withdrew, her glance staying upon Carlston as she closed the door.

  Helen cleared her throat. They were alone, but propriety no longer mattered. Not now.

  “Are you truly well?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” She lowered her eyes, trying to suppress the sudden image of lying astride the length of him. The taste of brandywine. “And you?”

  He nodded. Of course, Lady Margaret had already inquired about his health. The pause lengthened into awkwardness.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Helen asked, motioning to the two armchairs before the small fire.

  They sat.

  Helen clasped her hands in her lap, staring at the ink stains along her fingers. If she looked up, she would remember the touch of his mouth upon hers, and surely he would see it in her face.

  “I am sorry for the grief you must be feeling regarding the estrangement from your family,” he began.

  “It was my choice, sir,” she said, cutting in. “I only hope you do not blame me for letting that creature take the Colligat.”

  He shook his head. “Lady Helen, let me assure you that I respect your choice.” He paused, his half smile arriving with a soft laugh. “Especially since it saved my life.”

  Today that smile did not seem so irritating.

  “I am not sure how you did it though,” he continued. “By rights, the energy we shared should have still required release into the earth. But it did not. Nor do we have any perceivable effects from keeping it. At least, I do not.”

  “Nor I,” she said, adding a silent prayer of thanks.

  He nodded, as if expecting her answer. “It is all unusual. But then, you are a direct inheritor. Your power is unusual.”

  “Even so,” she said somberly, “it is my fault that the Colligat is in the hands of the Grand Deceiver.”

  “At least we now know that the Grand Deceiver is a true threat. From this time on, he must be our focus. He has one part of a Trinitas; we cannot allow him to collect the other two.” He gave a sigh. “I cannot mourn for Benchley—he was no longer the man I once knew—but I mourn for the knowledge that he took with him.”

  “Did he not keep any written record?”

  “No, not that we know of.” He looked down at the case in his hands and then held it out. “This is for you, Lady Helen.” The smile lifted his lips again. “As an appreciation of your courage.”

  She took the box, neither its weight nor the gold-embossed stamp upon the green leather giving any clue as to what it held. She unhooked the two brass catches and lifted the lid. Nestled in a swath of white silk lay a sea-green touch watch. The central arrow was made of diamonds, like his lordship’s, but the twelve markers around the edge were beautifully cut emeralds. The light from the window played upon the glossy green enamel, sending a shimmer across its surface, like a breaking wave.

  “If you open it,” he said, urging her to take it from the box, “you will see that inside, it has the same lens configuration as my own. I had two made, in case one was damaged.” He reached for it. “Please, allow me.”

  Their fingers touched as the watch passed between them. The memory of that dizzying jolt of power flashed across Helen’s skin, sending an echo of delight through her body. He felt it, too: she knew it from the catch of his breath and the flare of his eyes, their centers completely black. Now she understood why he did not want to release the Deceiver energy. Why he fought Quinn to keep it.

  “A beautiful gift,” she finally said, looking away from the lock of his gaze. “Thank you.”

  “It does not replace the power of your mother’s miniature, of course,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You will have to use the lens to see the Deceivers.” He leaned over and replaced the unopened watch within the silk as if it burned his fingers. “Your training will start in earnest in Brighton, but I thought perhaps this morning we could review the use of the lens and the energy breaker within it.” He glanced at the desk. “I see, however, that you are writing letters. If you would prefer to continue, I shall take my leave and return later.”

  “I am finished for now,” Helen said.

  After Delia’s letter, there was only one more to write. Her first and last letter to the Duke of Selburn. Words of apology and regret—sincere regret for any pain caused—and, finally, words of adamant release. But for now, those words could wait.

  She picked up his lordship’s gift again and ran her finger across the diamond-studded arrow. It pointed to twelve o’clock.

  “I do not think we have a minute to waste, Lord Carlston,” she said, and held out the watch to him. “Show me how to use it as a weapon.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  Author’s Note

  I had an obscene amount of fun researching Lady Helen’s world and the Regency era. There is some difference in opinion about what period in history is considered the Regency, but I sit firmly in the “true Regency” camp—1811 to 1820—when Prinny was acting as his father’s Regent.

  I have worked hard to make the London of 1812 and its social milieu as accurate as I possibly can, as well as maintaining a strict eye on the actual events that occur in the background of the action. I checked the historical weather reports, read military and crime accounts in The Times, made notes on the phases of the moon, perused the fashion plates in La Belle Assemblée, studied numerous eighteenth- and nineteenth-century museum exhibits, consulted Regency experts, walked along Rotten Row and the streets of Mayfair, watched countless documentaries and Jane Austen–inspired films and miniseries, collected and wore a wardrobe of Regency gowns and stays, learned how to dance in the Regency style, tried Regency recipes for food and drink, and read, read, read everything I could get my hands on about the era. I am now, officially, a Regency bore.

  Even so, after all that research and those vows to remain historically accurate, there are a few editorial departures from fact that I want to mention:

  Vauxhall Gardens did not open until June first in 1812, due to renovations, but I have merrily opened it in early May because I really wanted to set those important scenes in the Gardens and the deliciously named Dark Walk.

  Lord Byron did attend a party at the Howards’ on the night of Sunday, May 3, but it appears to have been much smaller than the one I depicted. In addition, there is no documentation that Lady Caroline Lamb also attended; although, in my defense, she did often follow him around.

  To my knowledge, there is also no documentation that supports the assertion that Napoleon Bonaparte was a Grand Deceiver . . . but you never know.

  A number of the minor characters are my interpretations of real historical figures: the Prince Regent, of course, as well as Queen Charlotte and Princesses Mary and Augusta, Beau Brummell, Lady Jersey, Lord Byron, Lady Caroline Lamb, Lord Perceval, and John Bellingham. The events around Lord Perceval and Bellingham are also true—Bellingham did assassinate the Prime Minister—and my depiction is entirely based on newspaper and magazine reports from the time, as is my description of the terrible Ratcliffe Highway murders. The scandalous love affair between Byron and Caro Lamb is well documented too, although I have given it my own slant. A number of other real people are also mentioned: the artists Sir Joshua Reynolds, William Turner, and Sebastiano Ricci; the Berry sisters; David Brewster; the aforementioned Napoleon Bonaparte; Bishop Meath; Annabella Milbanke (who would later marry Lord Byron); Messrs. Haggerty and Holloway; and Lord and Lady Cholmondeley. Pug Brompton, however, is not real. She is inspired by some of the romping aristocratic girls depicted in Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford, and my delving into the lifestyles of the twentieth-century “between World Wars”
rich and horsey.

  A few extra things you may find interesting:

  The touch watch is modeled on a real timepiece: a magnificent watch that Napoleon Bonaparte gave his brother-in-law as a gift. You can see it, as well as other beautiful jewelry, Regency fashion, and ephemera on my Pinterest page at www.pinterest.com/alisongoodman.

  The pornographic cards that Helen and Darby find in Berta’s lockbox are actual illustrations by Rowlandson and an unknown artist. They are, however, not on my Pinterest page.

  The simultaneous lighting of the lamps at Vauxhall Gardens was one of its advertised “spectacles.” In a world where only candles and oil lamps supplied artificial illumination, it must have been a spellbinding experience to see darkness suddenly driven away by such a blaze of light.

  Mr. Hammond is described as having a respectable fortune of 2,000 pounds a year. (It was thought that a genteel lifestyle in Regency London required a minimum of 1,000 pounds annually.) Today, 2,000 pounds would be roughly 67,900 pounds or 110,700 dollars—a very respectable yearly amount indeed! Helen, with her inheritance of 40,000 pounds, would have had over 1.3 million dollars to her name.

  All of the books, newspapers, and magazines mentioned, including The Magus, Debrett’s Peerage, and Old Moore’s Almanack, are real, and some of them (such as Debrett’s and The Times) are still being published today.

  Because of the beginnings of industrialization and a rising middle class, shopping came into its own in the Regency period as a leisure activity. (The Prince Regent loved to shop, and I mean really loved to shop, racking up a debt of approximately 75,000 pounds every year.) The first arcades and department stores were established, and I have mentioned some actual shops and businesses of the time, including Gunter’s, the confectioners; Farrance’s, the pastry shop; and the Lamb Tavern (which still exists).