The Dark Days Club (A Lady Helen Novel) Read online

  “Nor is reading people’s hearts, calculating the future, and grabbing impossibly fast missiles from the air,” he said gently. “You need only look to your own gifts to know it is all possible.”

  Helen swallowed. The world was slipping further from its safe bearings. “What is the purpose of these gifts?” she demanded. “You have not yet told me.” At that moment they did not feel like gifts—more like the hallmarks of a freak. She remembered Darby’s simple faith in her goodness. Perhaps she was not a freak, but the agent of God her maid had proposed. A terrifying thought, but better than being a freak. “Do we remove sin? Are we some kind of”—she sought the proper Godly instrument—“angels?” Just voicing it made her wince at the arrogance of such a thought.

  “Angels?” His laugh this time held no mirth. “I assure you, I have not seen any evidence of such a creature on this earth, and especially not in London. No, you are not an angel, Lady Helen. You are a Reclaimer.”

  Reclaimer? Helen stilled, hazy memories finally rising from her childhood. Whispered conversations between her parents, the dim shape of a word like Reclaimer within them. She remembered other whispers too, echoes of Lord Carlston’s words: souls and darkness. And one that she had heard over and over again: loss. If what his lordship said was true—and she was not ready to concede completely to such wild claims—her mother and father must have kept so much from her and Andrew. So many secrets. But why?

  “What is a Reclaimer?”

  He shifted his shoulders, taking in a deeper breath. “You are no doubt aware of the Bow Street Runners?”

  She frowned. The city’s small force of detectives was the last thing she had expected him to invoke. “Of course. They are famous.”

  “Are you aware that they were formed more than sixty years ago by Mr. Fielding, the novelist?”

  “The author of Tom Jones?” One of her favorite books.

  He nodded at her surprise. “He was also Chief Magistrate of Westminster. A prescient man: he saw how many people were pouring into London every year, looking for a better life and failing to find it. He realized that this despair and steady overcrowding of our city would result in more and more criminal activity. So he devised the Runners to create some order amongst the chaos. More impressively, he managed to obtain the sponsorship of the Home Office.” His voice took on a sardonic edge. “Not an easy task, since the idea of a police force is an abomination to a right-minded Englishman, being as it is a French idea. As a consequence, there are not nearly enough Runners to make a real difference to the lawlessness on our streets, but at least it is a start.”

  “So, is a Reclaimer some kind of Runner?” She laughed at a sudden ridiculous thought. “Am I set to be a thief-taker, Lord Carlston? Shall I drag a few ruffians to the gallows?”

  He smiled. “No, Lady Helen, not a thief-taker exactly.”

  She had been funning; of course no woman could do such a thing. “What do you mean, ‘exactly’?”

  “Mr. Fielding created a brother organization alongside the Runners. A clandestine group he called the Dark Days Club.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “An ironic name bestowed by a very worried man,” Lord Carlston said. “Mr. Fielding was aware that not all the evil within his city was caused by human agency.”

  Helen drew back, sure she had not heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I know it is hard to accept, but there are agencies other than human in our cities, and they require certain special abilities to contain. Our abilities. For centuries Reclaimers had worked alone, but Mr. Fielding drew our kind into one group: the Dark Days Club. We are also under the aegis of the Home Office, but unlike the Runners, not officially on the ledger. We do not officially exist.”

  Helen stared down at the gravel path, trying to absorb what she had just heard. She lifted her head. “What kind of agencies?”

  “That is what I am about to show you.” He gestured to the undergrowth. “Within these gardens is a creature that preys upon mankind, and we are here to stop it. As soon as the fireworks begin and all attention is upon the display, we will go in and you will see the proof for yourself.”

  Helen peered into the bushes. The flickering lamplight created shadows amongst the foliage, the shapes within them alive with sudden menace. What on earth was he about to show her? Some kind of ghost or ghoul? Five minutes earlier, she would have ridiculed such an idea, but now she was not so sure. He had finally kept his promise—she was getting her answers—but they were steeped in a world far beyond the fantastical. Glowing people, strange gifts, and now nonhuman creatures. Helen closed her eyes, feeling everything she had known shift into a new and frightening order.

  She opened her eyes to see Lord Carlston beckon to Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond, who immediately started back toward them. “Are they Reclaimers too?” she asked.

  “They are part of the Dark Days Club, as are Lady Jersey and Mr. Brummell, but they are not Reclaimers. Their role is to gather intelligence and assist us,” Carlston said, working his glove back onto his hand. “As I said, there are only eight Reclaimers in this country, and that includes you, the only female amongst us. Obviously, eight is not nearly enough for what we must do, so people such as Mr. Hammond and Lady Margaret are essential to our efforts.”

  He turned to greet the brother and sister, but they had stopped a few feet away, transfixed by the rapid approach of two men: one at front, the other behind in the attitude of a bodyguard. The leader was tall, each long stride kicking up gravel, the dig of his cane into the path adding a thud to the crunch of their progress. As he passed under a lamp, Helen glimpsed a grim mouth and thin nose beneath the shadow of his wide hat brim.

  “Benchley,” Mr. Hammond said. He looked back at Carlston. “You were right, sir. What should we do?”

  Helen heard Lord Carlston curse fluently under his breath in something akin to Italian. Spanish, perhaps. “How long do we have until the fireworks start, Hammond?” he asked.

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  “He certainly chooses his moment,” his lordship said. “I will give him five minutes. I suppose I owe him that.”

  Surreptitiously, Helen passed the miniature from gloved hand to bare palm. The blue glow flared up around the approaching pair: a darker blue around the leader, Mr. Benchley—the same color that surrounded Lord Carlston—and a paler hue around his man. So a Reclaimer definitely displayed a darker life-force than other people, whatever that meant. At least it was something she had determined for herself. She returned the miniature to her gloved hand and blinked as the shimmers fell away, leaving only two dim figures stalking down the path toward them.

  Thirteen

  HELEN OBSERVED HER companions: all three had braced for Benchley’s arrival as if he were a lion out of its cage. Although she had never met Lord Carlston’s mentor, even she felt her body coil into watchful readiness. There was something about his arrogant walk and the thud of his cane that spoke of a relentless nature.

  “That is not Parker with him,” his lordship remarked.

  “No. Parker is dead,” Mr. Hammond said. “This is a new one, by the name of Lowry.”

  “Parker was a good man.” Carlston’s voice held a note of mourning. “He served Benchley well. Quinn will be saddened by the news.”

  “From all I hear, this Lowry is a very low sort.”

  “Lady Helen, please stand behind me,” Carlston said quietly. “You too, Lady Margaret. Mr. Hammond, by my side.”

  Helen responded as much to the sudden tension in the Earl’s body as to his words, quickly moving back. A moment later Lady Margaret was beside her, the waft of her heavy rose perfume out of place in the cold night air.

  She clutched Helen’s arm. “It will be quite all right,” she whispered, the reassuring words somewhat undermined by the tightness of her grip.

  Carlston glanced over his sho
ulder at them, the message clear: Keep quiet and stay behind me.

  Benchley stopped a yard or so away: feet spread apart, arms loose at his sides, his spare body rocked back upon booted heels. His eyes swept over them. For just an instant Helen found herself looking into his pale gray gaze. A jolt of alarm tightened her scalp and, although she stood still, she felt something primeval within herself backing away from his unsettling stare.

  The other man, Lowry, had positioned himself at Benchley’s shoulder. He pushed back his battered hat and surveyed Lord Carlston and Mr. Hammond belligerently. A man who revels in violence, Helen thought, with the kind of veined, pulpy face that spoke of too much hard liquor. He wore a knife, too, pushed into the waistband of his breeches.

  “William, my boy,” Benchley said, his grim mouth lifting into a smile that creased his hollow cheeks into ridges. He took off his hat, exposing a curled brown wig, and sketched a shallow bow. “Back at last, I see.”

  He was clearly a middling sort—the quality of his sober clothes and flat-crowned hat attested to it—yet he called an Earl by his Christian name. The two were close, then. Or, Helen amended as she saw his lordship’s hand clench at his side, they had once been close.

  “What are you doing here, Samuel?” his lordship said. “I thought you to be in Manchester, containing the riots. Bow Street said you have been ordered away from London.”

  “Read said that, did he?” Benchley’s eyes hooded for a moment. Helen placed the name: Mr. Read, one of the magistrates at Bow Street and head of the Runners. “Well, devil take him. I could not miss welcoming back my dear friend, my best student, my compatriot in arms.”

  “I am honored”—Carlston inclined his head—“but you should not be in London. Not while you are persona non grata at Bow Street.”

  Benchley made a low sound of exasperation. “Good God, that whole Ratcliffe business is five months past now. There was no evidence pointing to me, and I was in the clear as soon as Williams hanged himself in his cell.” He shot Carlston a jovial look. “A stroke of good luck.”

  Helen stiffened. John Williams. The man who had brutally slaughtered the two families in their homes along Ratcliffe Highway. The Home Office had closed the case, and his suicide in jail had confirmed his guilt. Bow Street had even paraded his corpse through the streets to prove that the murderer had been found. Yet this man Benchley spoke as if he himself was the killer.

  “Are you saying you actually slaughtered the Marr family and the King’s Arms people?” Carlston said, echoing her thought. From her vantage point, Helen could see only his profile, but it was enough to show his disgust. “God’s blood, man, they were innocents!”

  Benchley held up an indignant hand. “You didn’t know? I thought Read had told you.”

  “Read only told me he had sent you to Manchester for the riots. The rest was rumor.” Carlston’s voice flattened. “But now you have confirmed it.”

  “Ah, well played, my boy.” Benchley eyed Carlston, wariness behind his congratulatory smile.

  “You killed innocents, Samuel. What were you thinking?”

  “Get off your high horse, William. Not all of them were innocents. There were at least two creatures in the mix. I am not that far gone.”

  For a moment, there was a terrible silence. Helen saw Mr. Hammond glance back at his sister, their eyes meeting in dismay. Carlston stood motionless, but the muscles of his jaw were knotted.

  “No, on the contrary, I would say you are very far gone,” his lordship finally said. His voice was hollow. “You gave me your word, Samuel. Your word! You said it was time to stop.”

  Stop what? Helen wondered. Killing innocent people? Beside her, Lady Margaret reached toward his lordship’s rigid back. Helen caught her wrist, meeting the woman’s stricken eyes with a shake of her head. A presumption on their short acquaintance, but it was obvious that this was not the time for solace, or distraction.

  Benchley shrugged. “It was a misjudgment. An overzealous moment. You know they happen.” He smiled, a gleam of yellow-toothed complicity. “It is no good dwelling on these mistakes, William. You should know that by now. Mea culpa is a waste of time.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Samuel, you cut the throat of a baby!”

  Helen flinched, not only at the savage blasphemy, but at the image that his lordship had conjured, made lurid by the newspaper reports she had read. What kind of monster did such a thing?

  “A baby, Samuel!” his lordship said again. “You could have saved the child.”

  “Saved it?” Benchley’s voice rose into rasping fury. “Not you too, William? I thought you would understand, of all people. You’ll be where I am soon enough. Then I guarantee even you’ll start thinking twice about reclaiming some draper’s puling infant.” He viciously stabbed his cane into the path. Once, twice, the dull thuds resounding through Helen’s head. The thud of a maul against a tiny skull. “I did what was best. They were all tainted.”

  “Tainted?” Helen repeated, aghast. His lordship turned, his eyes warning her to stop. But she could not. “How could an infant be tainted?”

  Benchley’s head snapped up. “Ah, and here is the reason you have returned to us.” His pale gaze fixed upon her again, and this time she did step back. She could not help it. For one terrifying second she thought he was going to lunge across the small space between them. Her mind projected the rise of the cane, the cut of it through the air, the impact—

  Carlston stepped forward. “Samuel!”

  Benchley rocked back, a look of madness sliding whip-tailed from his eyes. He blinked, licked his lips—one flick of a white-coated tongue—and smiled.

  Dear God, the man was deranged.

  “Will you not introduce me, William?” he asked silkily. “I am most eager to meet our little savior.” He waved a hand at Carlston. “Yes, yes, I have heard all about your grand Continental theories. Direct inheritor, sign of a Grand Deceiver. All very portentous.”

  “You have no business with Lady Helen,” Carlston said coldly. “The Home Office has placed her in my purview. That is official. Do you understand?”

  Helen cast a startled glance at Carlston: The Home Office knew about her too?

  “I am not here to poach, William. Merely to observe.” Benchley showed a flash of pale palms. He cocked his head, smiling at Helen. “Allow me to introduce myself, my lady, since Lord Carlston’s manners have deserted him. I am Samuel Benchley.” He bowed, his eyes never leaving her face. “You have the look of your mother, my dear. Do you have her traitorous nature, too?”

  Helen sucked in a breath. She felt Lady Margaret’s hand tighten around her arm. No wonder his lordship had said she would get no information from the man.

  “Samuel, leave now,” Carlston said, his voice hard. “Bow Street may know what you have done, but I will take this up with the Home Secretary. Mr. Ryder will not tolerate it. You are finished.” He jabbed his finger toward the path. “Go.”

  Benchley leaned both hands upon his cane and gave his lordship a long pitying look. “Dear boy, do you really think Ryder and Pyke at the Home Office do not know what happened? Of course they do. How else would a manacled and well-guarded man like Williams hang himself in his cell?”

  Carlston stared at him, his skin the color of ash. “Ryder and Pyke covered for you?”

  Benchley gave one slow nod. “Of course.”

  The fast crunching sound of footsteps broke the tension. A large man approached from the far end of the path, long coat flapping behind, hat in his hand. He passed beneath a lamp, the brief flare of light catching the black lines across his cheekbones. Mr. Quinn. For all his bulk, the big man moved with great speed.

  “Ah, I see Quinn is still alive and as protective as ever,” Benchley remarked. “I now have Lowry.” He indicated the man behind him. “Parker is dead. The poor fellow got too old and too slow.”

  “That is a poor eulo
gy for a Terrene who served you so well,” his lordship said.

  Terrene? Helen knew the word meant of the earth. A strange thing to call a man.

  “The fool got himself killed,” Benchley said. “Lowry here is no Parker, of course, but he has other talents, and some interesting predilections.” Behind him, Lowry grinned.

  “Samuel, go!” Carlston rasped. “Or I will forget you have the protection of the Home Office.”

  “Of course, my boy. But before I take my leave, say you will dine with me on Thursday night. At the old place.”

  Helen saw Carlston’s hands bunch into fists. “I will not eat with you, Samuel.”

  “Come now, don’t be like that. There is something of import we must discuss.” Benchley stepped closer, his voice flattening into hard urgency. “For both of us.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with you.”

  “On the contrary.” Benchley’s eyes flicked to Helen and back again. “It is about your young harbinger of evil and what she brings to us.”

  Helen frowned. Harbinger of evil? She met Lady Margaret’s sidelong glance, startled to see fear in the woman’s face.

  Carlston hissed out a breath.

  “Yes, I thought so,” Benchley said, satisfied. “Thursday?”

  His lordship gave a stiff-necked nod.

  Benchley bowed. “At seven, then. Pigeon pie, I think. And maybe some suckling pig.” He turned, his cane digging into the path again. “And a good claret to wash it all down,” he threw back over his shoulder. “Come, Lowry.”

  His man swept one last belligerent glance over them all, then pivoted on his heel and followed.

  Quinn drew up beside Carlston, his breath short.

  “Tell Dunne and Reynolds to make sure those two leave the Gardens,” his lordship ordered in a low voice. “Then return. We must still finish tonight’s work.”

  Quinn ducked his head. “Aye, my lord.” He set off, and in a moment Helen heard Benchley greet him, all affability.