The Dark Days Club Read online

  “I am sorry. I could not help seeing it.”

  Aunt Leonore sighed, part resignation, part concern. “I suppose I cannot hide the truth; it will come to your ears soon enough. When I came in, I suddenly recalled that you have more than a passing acquaintance with Delia Cransdon. The news is about her, I am afraid. Now, I do not want you to get upset. Tomorrow is such an important day.”

  Helen stopped pulling at the thread, her hand stilled by a sudden sense of foreboding. While Delia was not her closest friend—that special place belonged to the Honorable Millicent Gardwell—she was nonetheless one of Helen’s cronies from her year at Miss Holcromb’s Select Seminary. “Delia is not ill, is she?”

  “Worse,” Aunt Leonore said, pity drawing down the corners of her mouth. “Three days ago, she ran off with a man by the name of Trent, and there has been no marriage.”

  Helen’s breath caught in her chest. If it was true, Delia was ruined. “No. That is not possible.”

  Or was it? Helen thought back over the last few months, and had to admit she had seen despair growing in her friend’s eyes. Delia had made her debut the Season before last, but had received no offers of marriage. She had none of the essential three—beauty, high connections, or fortune—and, at twenty years of age, knew she was coming to the end of her opportunities. She had even confided in Helen and Millicent that all she could see ahead was spinsterhood and its associated humiliations. Had that bleak future forced her to run away with a man who was little more than a stranger? Helen shook her head.

  “I cannot believe Delia would do such a thing. Lady Beck must be mistaken.”

  “Her housekeeper had it from the Cransdons’ cook,” Aunt Leonore said, sealing the truth of the matter. “It seems Delia and this Mr. Trent were discovered in a public house, in Sussex, of all places. You know what that means, don’t you? Sussex is in the opposite direction to Scotland—they were not headed toward the border to be married.” She clasped her hands together, the pressure pushing purple into her knuckles. “I suppose I must tell you all, since it will be the talk tomorrow. Lady Beck says your poor friend was found covered in blood.”

  “Blood!” Helen rose from the sofa, unable to sit quietly alongside such terrible news. “Was she hurt?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Then whose blood was it? Mr. Trent’s?”

  “My dear, prepare yourself,” Aunt Leonore said softly. “The man committed self-murder. He used a pistol, in front of Delia.”

  Suicide? Helen closed her eyes, fighting back the horror that rose like bile into her throat. The worst crime—the worst sin—of all, and Delia had witnessed it. Unbidden, her mind conjured a vision of her friend’s face splattered with blood, mouth open wide in an unending scream.

  “And there is something more,” her aunt continued, rescuing her from the terrifying image. “A groom from the public house vows he saw Mr. Trent through the window, lit from within as if he had those new gas candles under his skin. He says Mr. Trent”—her voice lowered into breathy significance—”must have been a ghoul.”

  “Ghouls do not exist, Aunt,” Helen said sharply, finding comfort in the solid ground of rationality. She did not share her aunt’s fascination with the demons and ghosts of Gothic novels. Yet the shocking image of blood and fear still resonated through her bones. She walked across to the front window and stared out at the everyday activity on Half Moon Street, as if seeing the row of town houses and the aproned oysterman delivering his barrels would somehow rid her of its grisly echoes. Poor Delia. How she must be suffering.

  “Did she ever say anything about Mr. Trent?” Aunt Leonore asked. “He did not seem to have any connections, and no one has any knowledge of him. It is all very strange. One could even say unnatural.” She clearly did not want to give up the idea of supernatural intervention.

  “Delia never mentioned a Mr. Trent,” Helen had to admit, “and I’m sure she would have told me if she had a suitor. It cannot be more than a fortnight since I saw her last.” She made a quick count back to the last pre-Season assembly they had both attended. “No, it has been over a month.” She turned from the window. “I saw her despair growing, Aunt. I should have called on her more often, but I have been too busy with these silly preparations.”

  Even as she uttered the word silly, Helen knew it was a misstep.

  Aunt Leonore drew a deep breath. “They are not silly preparations. Tomorrow must be perfect in all ways. All ways. Come back here and sit down. I have nightmares of you loping around like that in front of the Queen.”

  Since every move in the presence of Queen Charlotte was strictly controlled by the Palace chamberlains, Aunt Leonore’s horror was not going to come to pass. Nevertheless, Helen returned to the sofa and lowered herself onto the very edge of the seat. Perhaps if she sat very still, her aunt would not be compelled to launch into another lecture about the importance of a young lady’s Court presentation.

  “Preparation is the key to elegance,” her aunt continued, “and although we may not be beauties, we can be celebrated for our elegance. It lasts longer than beauty and . . .”

  Helen clenched her hands in her lap, trying to squeeze away the urge to spring up and pace the room as her aunt talked. Poor Delia must be beside herself.

  “. . . aside from a girl’s wedding day, her presentation is the most momentous day in her life. It is a declaration to society that she is a woman and ready to take on a woman’s responsibilities. Are you listening to me, Helen?”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Of course she knew that her entrance into society was important. Yet the initial excitement of stepping into the wider world had long been overshadowed by the fact that it was all aimed at her own marriage. Not that she was against marriage—quite the contrary. It brought with it a household and the greater freedoms of a married woman. No, what grated was her uncle’s intention to arrange her betrothal by the end of the year, as if an alliance in her first Season would prove that his good ton had finally overcome the taint of her mother.

  Perhaps she was being singular again, but she wanted more than just one Season to meet the men of her circle. At present she could claim only one truly congenial acquaintance amongst them—her brother’s closest friend, the Duke of Selburn—and while he was very personable, one man of near thirty years of age was hardly a full exploration of possible life mates. It seemed patently obvious to Helen that no one’s real character could be discovered in a few months of balls and parties—even with her special talent to read expressions—yet that was how many matches were made. Millicent, who had also secured a place on the presentation list, had no qualms about a quick betrothal, but poor Delia had understood Helen’s stance. Indeed, when they were all at Miss Holcromb’s—three years past now—it had been Delia who had always tempered their daydreams with the knowledge that once a choice of husband was made, it was final. There could be no appeal to law or family.

  Helen straightened at the memory of Delia’s caution. What had made her friend forget her convictions and rush into such an unfortunate and tragic alliance?

  “Aunt, I cannot reconcile this with the Delia that I know,” she said, turning the conversation back to the plight of her friend. “I cannot understand it at all.”

  “No one can know the secrets of another person’s soul,” Aunt Leonore said. “Perhaps she was unbalanced by her feelings.”

  “Delia is not the kind of girl to be sent mad by love,” Helen said. She looked at the clock again. It was only a quarter past two—still time to make a call. “I know you want me to rest, Aunt, but may we call on the Cransdons? Please. Delia must be distraught.”

  “I am sorry for your friend’s unhappy situation, Helen, but you cannot associate with her now. You must know that.”

  Helen sat even straighter, this time in protest. “I cannot abandon her.”

  “You are a sweet girl, but the family has already left fo
r their estate. I could not sanction a visit anyway. Not now.” Aunt Leonore pressed her hand over Helen’s, the chill of the spring day still on her skin. “You do understand that it is best that she is removed to the country. Her fall is the talk of the town: staying here would be intolerable for her poor family. She would be the object of every quiz’s gaze and society’s disgust.”

  “I will not let her think I’ve turned my face,” Helen said.

  Aunt Leonore glanced at the closed doors and lowered her voice. “Write her a letter, then. I can allow that. And I will make sure your uncle franks it before he hears of the scandal.”

  “But, Aunt, Delia was going to come to my ball. And she was to make up one of my party at Lansdale for Michaelmas.”

  “I am afraid that is all in the past.”

  “Please, say she may still come to Lansdale.”

  “Good Lord, child. After this, your uncle would not hear of it.”

  “Surely we have enough credit to survive a visit from one girl,” Helen said, unable to hold back the sharpness in her voice. “On Uncle’s own estate.”

  “I am thinking of you, Helen. I cannot allow you to be associated with such wanton and ungodly behavior.”

  “But in country society she will not be—”

  “I am sorry.” Helen saw real regret in the slump of her aunt’s shoulders. “You cannot afford to be associated with any scandal. You know why.”

  Helen bowed her head. She did know why: the daughter of Lady Catherine would be watched by the beau monde for any sign of bad blood. Even by association.

  “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Aunt Leonore patted her hand. “You are a good girl. I have always said it.”

  They both looked up as clattering hooves sounded on the narrow street outside. A smart phaeton passed recklessly close to their front window, two straining grays in the traces. For a moment the brash eyes of the high-seated driver connected with Helen’s, his wild exhilaration leaping across the well-ordered room. Helen found herself leaning forward as if dragged into the wake of such abandon. What if she just ordered one of her uncle’s carriages and caught up with Delia on the open road? A mad idea, but it flared hot for a moment in her veins.

  “Someone should put a stop to such wicked driving in Mayfair,” Aunt Leonore said, glaring at the now-empty street. She gave Helen’s hand one last squeeze. “Write the letter, but do not dwell on your friend’s disgrace, my dear. You must put it out of your mind.”

  “I will try,” Helen said, and, as she had done many times in the last few months, quelled the inner fire that rushed through her body. Although she did not want to admit it, she could not escape the thought that it was her mother’s blood that burned within her, nor the fact that it seemed to be getting stronger.

  Two

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Helen was in her bedchamber finishing the letter to Delia at the drop desk of her mahogany secretaire, when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” she said, still intent on writing the final sentence in the dwindling light.

  Hugo, the first footman, entered and bowed. He placed a newly trimmed oil lamp on the mantel, then crossed the room toward the sash windows to close the inner shutters against the press of night. As he passed the desk, Helen was sure she felt his eyes fix upon her letter. She looked up, but he was already at the far window, reaching for the heavy brass shutter latch.

  Pulling the page closer, Helen tapped the excess ink from her pen and made her signature, the usual flourish of it somewhat subdued.

  It had been a difficult letter to write: what words could bring consolation after such a devastating mistake, especially when the facts were so few and the story had become embroidered with the supernatural? In the end, Helen had decided to barely mention the event, instead choosing to reassure Delia of her own regard. It was no small pledge: steadfast friendship with a ruined girl was not going to add to Helen’s good ton. She knew her aunt would prefer that she cut the connection completely, but until that was said aloud, she would continue to write to her friend. It was the only support she could offer while under the guardianship of her uncle, Viscount Pennworth.

  A sprinkle of sand across the wet ink, a quick tap and shake of the page, and the letter was ready to be folded and sealed. Helen chose a wafer from the little drawer within the secretaire, dampened it on a sea sponge, and fixed the ends of the paper together. She turned the packet over and wrote the directions to the Cransdons’ estate, leaving a space for her uncle’s free-post frank.

  All done, for what it was worth.

  “Hugo,” she called.

  He stood at the gilt wall sconce lighting the last candle with a long taper. “Yes, my lady?”

  She held out the letter. “Make sure this goes to my aunt, please. Not Lord Pennworth.”

  He snuffed the taper’s wick between his finger and thumb—a sidelong glance checking that she saw the show—and crossed the carpet between them. With a bow, he took the letter, but his attention was not on the task or on Helen. His eyes were turning over the contents of the secretaire—her only private space—but it was too late to close the desk hatch. His bland expression had already tightened into sharp interest. She knew what he had found: two tiny portraits propped against the back of the inner shelf. The matched miniatures of her mother and father, painted by the great Sir Joshua Reynolds.

  Abruptly, she stood, blocking his view.

  “That will be all, thank you,” she said.

  “My lady,” he murmured, but she could hear the smug elation in his voice. He had snatched a juicy morsel of gossip for the servants’ hall.

  As he left the room, Helen took out the portrait of her mother, as if to reclaim it from the footman’s sly gaze. Lady Catherine had specifically bequeathed both miniatures to her, along with the secretaire, yet her uncle had nearly denied her possession of the precious paintings. He had flatly refused to have any images of his sister-in-law and her husband in his house. It was only Aunt Leonore’s intervention that had allowed Helen to keep the portraits in her chamber, on the understanding that she would not openly display them.

  She cradled the small oval pendant in her palm. The miniature always surprised her with its weight—probably the glass covers set over front and back, and the substantial gold frame, although the edging was not solid, but a delicate filigree with a plain gold loop at the top for a chain. Ten years ago, on the long nights when she had fiercely studied the little portrait to stop herself from crying, she had discovered that the gold tracery held a motif: a tiny flame repeated over and over. If it had any special meaning, it was long gone with her mother, but it made a pretty design.

  Reynolds had painted Lady Catherine on ivory, using the precious substance to re-create the luster of the Countess’s pale skin. Rich auburn hair, dressed high in the old manner, and large blue eyes dominated the oval face that, with its decided chin, was more handsome than beautiful. Reynolds had also captured something of Lady Catherine’s famed daring in his masterful depiction of her clear, challenging gaze.

  Why did she betray England?

  Helen turned over the little frame. She had heard so many different rumors about what her mother had supposedly done—some had her spying for Napoleon, stealing state documents, seducing generals and selling their secrets—none of which her aunt and uncle would confirm or deny. They simply refused to talk about the subject. Even Andrew did not know the truth. Or if he did, he would not talk about it either.

  With a gentle fingertip, she traced the woven swath of hair pressed underneath the glass at the back. Two colors—dark red and bright blond—were worked into a tight checkerboard pattern. Her mother’s and father’s hair entwined for eternity.

  She took one of her own carefully contrived ringlets and inspected it with a frown. By no stretch of the imagination could anyone call her hair auburn. It was brown
. Helen dropped the ringlet. She might not have her mother’s fiery hair, but she did have the same pale skin, and her chin was just as decided. That, as far as she could see in any mirror, was the extent of her inheritance from Lady Catherine. She bent to replace the miniature on the shelf.

  What about the strange energy that coursed through her?

  The thought stopped Helen’s hand. Could her mother’s blood be blamed for all her restlessness? Or was it her own wayward nature? Neither option brought any comfort. Forcing the disquiet from her mind, she carefully replaced the miniature beside its companion.

  The sound of a door opening along the hallway turned her attention outward. Lately, her hearing had become more acute—a baffling but useful development. She heard the door click shut, quick footsteps, and the scrape of an opening drawer. Her maid, Darby, had arrived in the adjoining dressing room to prepare the evening toilette.

  Reassured, Helen picked up her father’s portrait. It also had the flame motif worked into its gold frame, but this time it was fashioned as the loop to hold a chain or riband. There was no woven hair under the glass at the back—just plain white silk. Helen contemplated the painting of Douglas Wrexhall, sixth Earl of Hayden. It was like looking at an image of her brother: the same golden hair, broad forehead, and firm mouth. Andrew had inherited all their father’s good looks, but—according to Aunt Leonore in her more exasperated moments—none of his good sense. Then again, their father had been a married man at twenty-one, whereas Andrew, who had just come of age himself, had made it clear he was in no hurry to enter the matrimonial state.

  It had been a month since Andrew had attained his majority, and during that time a tantalizing question had gathered momentum in Helen’s mind. Now that her brother had control of his fortune and no immediate desire to marry, could he be persuaded to set up a town house for them both? At present he took bachelor lodgings at the Albany, but if he had his own establishment, it would be well within the bounds of propriety for his sister to keep house for him. She would be an excellent hostess, too, and it would save her from Uncle’s ready disapproval and Aunt’s fussing. She could even ask Delia to stay for the Season; be of real service to her friend. Helen chewed her bottom lip. It would answer everything—if Andrew were willing. He was to dine with them that evening; she could ask him before they were called to table. It was a bold scheme, but it was worth a try. Not just for herself, but for poor Delia, too.