The Dark Days Club (A Lady Helen Novel) Page 22

  He glared up at the Earl. “So you are back,” he said.

  “It would appear so,” Carlston said. “I give you fair warning, Mr. Jessup. Leave the assembly after this dance.”

  He knew the creature’s name? The two men arched their arms over Helen’s head, Mr. Jessup’s meager height making the triumphal arch somewhat lopsided. She glanced up as their hands locked above her in a crushing grip, straining ridges of tendon visible beneath the thin white silk of their gloves. Her eyes were suddenly drawn down to his lordship’s other hand: he had pulled the touch watch from his breeches pocket. He pressed upon the diamond arrow. From the fierce look on his face, this was no check of the time. Mr. Jessup’s arm jerked, his breath drawing into a pained hiss. “Do you call that fair warning?” he demanded.

  Helen stared down at the touch watch again. What had it done to him?

  “I do,” Carlston said. “Mr. Benchley would give you none.”

  “Benchley!” By his tone, Jessup would have spat on the ground had he not been at Almack’s. “Do you still blindly follow your old master?”

  “I follow no man,” Carlston said coldly.

  That was not completely true, Helen thought. He might not follow any man, but he bowed to the authority of the Home Secretary.

  The music shifted into the procession, and they started the return to the top of the row, the obvious tension bringing a murmur of interest from their fellow dancers.

  Jessup eyed Carlston speculatively. “Then you must know he is not holding to the Compact, my lord.” Helen saw Carlston blink at the sudden deferential use of his title. “He is hunting without cause,” the creature added. “You know where that leads.”

  “Do you speak for your kind now, Jessup?”

  “You know I do not.” He glanced at Helen. “Perhaps we should continue this later.”

  “Did I not make myself clear?” his lordship said. “You will not be staying after this set. Say what is on your mind.”

  “I speak from a sense of self-preservation,” Jessup said through his teeth. “If anything will gather those of us who thrive on pain and death into a force, it is Benchley.”

  Helen felt a whisper rising through her blood. A call to battle.

  Mr. Jessup switched his narrowed gaze back to her, surprise flicking into his eyes. “I thought I sensed something. You are one as well.” He looked back at Carlston, something else dawning on his face. “Holy God, she is Lady Catherine’s daughter. A direct inheritor.”

  His words closed around Helen, crushing out her breath. How did he know she was a Reclaimer?

  The Earl’s hand tightened around her own as they continued up the center of the two rows. She must not show her fear to the creature nor to his lordship. She forced herself to look into Mr. Jessup’s disturbing interest.

  “I am,” she said. It came out as more of a challenge than she had expected.

  The Earl looked at her with an odd smile. “Already spoiling for a mill, madam?”

  She had heard Andrew use the same cant phrase, and dug for an answer. A show of bravado. “He’s a real rum ’un,” she tried.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Jessup said, straightening into offended dignity.

  Carlston laughed. Soft and deep. “And you, my lady, are bang up to the mark.”

  Helen managed a smile.

  At that moment the three of them arrived at the top of the column, the two men bowing as they delivered Helen back to her position. Carlston’s hand tightened briefly around her own again before relinquishing it: Well done. Mr. Jessup strode back to his own place, his bristling gaze shifting between her and Carlston.

  From then on, Helen could hardly concentrate. She was the third point in a triangle of smiling animosity. Nothing more was said, but the atmosphere was so charged that it affected everyone in the dance, creating small flurries of wrong turns and missed cues. It was a relief when the set finished and she made her final curtsy to Carlston’s bow. He crossed the floor and took her hand just as the refreshment hour was announced.

  “Let us wait a moment here before we repair to the supper room,” he said. “I would be certain that our friend takes my advice and leaves the assembly.”

  Helen felt caught between the demands of propriety—his lordship should really be leading her straight back to Aunt—and the desire to make sure Mr. Jessup was out of the building and far away. She searched the crowd and found her aunt and Lady Gardwell heading into the supper room, caught up in the implacable force that was Lady Jersey. A moment’s grace then, until she was missed. Across the room, Mr. Jessup was leading the Talleyrand girl back to her mother.

  “I cannot believe I danced with one of them,” she said. “He looks so normal.”

  “You have, in fact, danced with two this evening,” Carlston said, flashing her a smile. “Mr. Carrigan, the gentleman who kept standing on your toes, is also a Hedon. They seek out the energy of pleasure and creativity. You may have already guessed this, but Sir Matthew Ballantyne is one as well. He was circling Lord Byron the other night, trying to feed on his artistic energy, until the Dark Days Club stepped in.”

  “So that is what I saw in him?”

  “Yes. While they are not as immediately dangerous as some of the others, like the Pavor you saw last night, they can still harm humans. Did you feel your skin itch when you danced with Mr. Carrigan?”

  “I did!” She rubbed her arm at the memory. “What was that?”

  “He had recently fed. We can feel the energy that they have consumed on our skin. Even normal people can sometimes feel it.”

  Fed. Helen shuddered, unable to stop the image of the woman impaled on that thick pulsing tentacle, and the red-faced man caressing the bosom of the passing maid. Across the room, Mr. Jessup bowed to Miss Talleyrand and her mother. By the sour looks on the women’s faces, he was taking his leave rather than escorting them to supper. They did not know how lucky they were.

  “You knew each other by name,” Helen said. “I did not expect that.”

  “To all outward appearance, they are human and live human lives. I know quite a few of them who move in polite society.” His sidelong glance acknowledged the irony. “The Dark Days Club and the Home Office have a strange pact with these creatures. We do not want the world to know that they exist—imagine the panic—and they do not want to be discovered. There are too many of them for us to kill outright, and we could not do so without serious repercussions: a number of them are in very high positions. So, if they stay hidden and”—he paused, clearly picking through a number of phrasings—“minimize their supernatural activities, we leave them in peace. But if any of them act in ways that could bring their kind to the notice of the public, then we are sent in to stop them.”

  “Stop them? You mean kill them?”

  He inclined his head. “Sometimes we kill them. It depends upon a number of factors.”

  “How many Deceivers are there?”

  “Approximately ten thousand in England alone.” He lifted his brows: Now you understand.

  “That many?” The number seemed terrifyingly—and insurmountably—huge.

  Carlston nodded. “And there are only eight of us in this country, spread throughout the strata of society. So, you see, it is not feasible to think we can eradicate them. Thus, we have the Compact: a toleration of lesser evil to avoid an even greater evil.”

  “What greater evil?” Helen asked.

  “The possibility of the Deceivers gathering into a force against us. The Compact may not be noble, but it is practical.”

  “Yet Mr. Benchley is hunting them.”

  “And without cause, if Mr. Jessup is to be believed.”

  “Like the Ratcliffe murders.”

  Lord Carlston did not answer. All of his attention was upon Mr. Jessup as the man strode to the doors that led to the foyer. The Deceiver looked back at them, his gaze c
oming to rest on Helen for a long uncomfortable moment before he walked out.

  She twitched her shoulders, trying to throw off the press of malevolence. “How did he know about me?”

  “You have seen how our life force surrounds our bodies. If they come into contact with it, they can recognize our energy.”

  Helen looked up at his stern profile. There was an undeniable sense of threat about him, always present, but even so, it was not the only reason the Deceiver had left so readily at his command. “You did something to him, didn’t you? To make him leave.”

  Carlston lifted his other hand. The touch watch still lay in it, the blue enamel more brilliant and glossy than she remembered. “This is not only a lens. It is a weapon, able to debilitate the Deceiver for a short time.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I don’t think you would understand.”

  “Please, I would like to know.” She hesitated, then took the chance and admitted, “I read quite widely.”

  He gave a small, dismissive shrug, as if to say that her impending female confusion was not his fault. “If I press upon the diamond arrow on the outside, it deforms the Iceland spar within and creates a spark of energy—a mechanical generation of a charge. That spark passes through my body and is amplified by my Reclaimer biology and the silk in my glove. When I clasped Mr. Jessup’s hand, it made a circuit.” Helen nodded: it was not so hard to understand. “The mechanical charge is not to Deceiver taste, shall we say,” he continued, “and has an effect like a small dose of poison. Not lethal, but it sickens them and blocks their capacity to feed for a short time.” He closed his hand around the watch. “You will find that the crystal in your mother’s miniature has the same effect when the outer frame is compressed. Mr. Brewster, a brilliant Scot, developed them for us.”

  Helen knew the name from her reading: Mr. David Brewster, a specialist in optics and properties of crystal. She cupped her reticule, feeling the weight of the miniature—now a weapon too—and suddenly made the connection. “I see. You are using natural philosophy against them. Knowledge about the world against creatures who are of the netherworld.”

  He looked up from pocketing the watch, startled. “Yes, you understand. I believe natural philosophy is where our advantage lies.” She could hear the vehemence in his voice: he had been forced to defend this opinion before. “If we understand the way the universe works, then with that knowledge, we can control these creatures.” He gave a slight shake of his head. Not in disapproval—that was clear—but in a kind of bemused realignment of her in his mind. “I had not thought to find a fellow rationalist in you, Lady Helen.”

  Perhaps it was the pulse that still whispered through her blood, or the unexpected warmth in his manner, but she found herself saying, “I rather think, Lord Carlston, that you had not thought to find any thought in me at all.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. The sound resonated around the room, almost an echo. Helen looked around, suddenly aware that they were nearly alone. Only a few older ladies were still in the corner, collecting their shawls and rising stiffly from their chairs. She felt the frisson of another kind of malevolence: the eyes of busy matrons. “Lord Carlston, we cannot stand here by ourselves. My aunt will be uneasy.”

  “Then let us make our appearance at supper.” He bowed and offered his arm, his laughter still in his face. “Your aunt’s distress would, of course, be my own.”

  She stifled a smile at the blatant lie.

  THE SMALL SUPPER orchestra was already well into a sweet Haydn piece when they entered. The high molded ceiling and velvet drapes seemed to soak up some of the sound, smoothing the soaring music and chatter into a heavy hum. Even so, Helen flinched at the assault on her enhanced Reclaimer hearing.

  Most people were already seated at the long white-clothed tables set with platters of the famously sparse dry cake and buttered bread supper. Helen found her aunt and the Gardwells at Lady Jersey’s table, an honor that had Lady Gardwell sitting bolt upright. There were, however, no vacant chairs. Aunt was craning her neck, searching the melee for their arrival. She located Helen and waved vigorously. Helen started toward them, spotting Millicent further along the table and watching the doorway, no doubt ready to offer silent sympathy for the misfortune of being escorted by Lord Carlston.

  Helen felt a sharp moment of guilt. Millicent still thought everything was the same: parties and dances and whispering the latest on-dit. She still shared every secret. How Helen missed being able to do the same. She could not share anything about recent events, and had even kept back most of the information in Delia’s letter, only reporting the bare bones of its sad intelligence. Millicent did not need to know about Mr. Trent and his strange inner light, especially since it had occurred to Helen—after Vauxhall—that the man might have been a Deceiver, and the four gentlemen associated with the Dark Days Club. More questions for Lord Carlston.

  “My dear,” Lady Jersey called, motioning them over, “there are no places here—I have told Mr. Macall over and over again that these tables are not large enough—but you and Lord Carlston may sit at this table behind, with some young friends of mine. It is overly small, I know, but I am sure the four of you will make a merry party.” She indicated the table, set back slightly in an alcove. “Allow me to introduce Miss Tarkwell and Mr. McDonald.”

  The lady and gentleman in question made their bows, politely returned by Helen and the Earl. This particular lack of space was no chance occurrence.

  “How many are in this club of yours, Lord Carlston?” Helen asked softly. “You seem to have very powerful friends.”

  “There are not many of us,” he said, taking the seat next to her. “But as you have noted, some are very well placed.”

  Across the expanse of the two tables, Helen met Millicent’s sympathy with a smile, trying to allay her friend’s concern. Aunt peered over, clearly vexed at the seating arrangement. Helen gave her a small shrug. What could I do? Aunt heaved an irritated sigh—Nothing, I suppose.

  Carlston removed his gloves below the table, angling his hand to show the site of his injury. “See,” he said with a small smile, “it is all but healed.” Only a red mark between finger and thumb gave any evidence that Quinn had driven a spike through the flesh. Did his lordship think that was reassuring?

  He gathered his gloves and settled them on his satin-clad thigh. “I fear one cannot find much in the way of edible food and drink here,” he said. “Still, may I arrange some refreshment?”

  “Lemonade, please.” Helen pushed the length of her own right glove down her wrist and began to work it from her fingers, glad of a task that took her from considering parts of his body.

  “I imagine you have questions about last night.” He picked up a glass jug of lemonade from the center of the table and snagged two tumblers, each etched with an elaborate facing of scrolls and lozenges. “Do not fear that we will be overheard,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “This tone is for our acute ears only, and, thanks to Lady Jersey, we are sufficiently set back to add another level of safety. Nor should you be perturbed by our new friends here. They are with us to gaily talk over our own conversation.” He smiled. “So you see, we are well secured.”

  She glanced across the table at Miss Tarkwell and Mr. McDonald, who, as if on cue, began to converse intensely about fox hunting. They were both of substantial size, and the congenial angle of their conversation blocked much of the room’s view of herself and his lordship. He had gone to quite some trouble to arrange as much privacy as possible: no doubt he was expecting an avalanche of questions. But only one mattered. None of the others could be asked until she knew the truth about Berta and Berkeley Street. But how to ask such a question, especially now?

  She pulled off her glove and laid it on her lap, starting work on the other. She should not have danced with him: his natural grace could excite nothing but admiration,
and their confrontation with Mr. Jessup had awakened a very ill-advised sense of camaraderie. When she had imagined this moment of interrogation, he had always been cold and overbearing, not amusing and personable. The former was much easier to accuse.

  At her silence, Carlston looked up from the glasses. “You may ask me any question you like, but you should be swift about it.” He began to pour the cloudy lemonade, the sharp citrus smell a pleasant buffer from the room’s fug of overheated, perfumed humanity. “No doubt your aunt will soon send a deputy to rescue you from my discomfiting clutches.”

  He was being personable again. Helen pulled off her left glove and laid it with its mate in her lap, using the time to gather her courage. It was not the question she dreaded now, but the answer.

  “There is one thing I must know,” she said, modulating her voice to match his own careful pitch. “Were you at Berkeley Street on Monday morning before last? In your carriage?”

  He stopped pouring, the jug poised over the glass, his eyes on her own. “Berkeley Street?”

  For an instant she was certain she saw wariness. Perhaps she did have a chance of reading the truth.

  “Were you there?” she repeated.

  He finished pouring, set the jug back onto the table, and placed the filled glass before her, every move deliberate. “What is this about?”

  She leaned closer. “It is about my missing maid. I have spoken to a witness who says your carriage was in the same place at the time she disappeared.”

  “I see.” He crossed his arms, his face impenetrable again. “Your witness is correct. I was in Berkeley Street on that day.”

  “Did you take Berta, Lord Carlston?”

  “For what reason would I want your maid, Lady Helen?” He frowned, the diabolic angle of his brows even more pronounced. “My pleasure? Is that what you think? Or did I step off my yacht in Southampton that morning with the sudden need to murder a young woman?”

  She drew back. Well, she’d got her wish: the cold and overbearing Lord Carlston had returned. “So I am to believe that it was mere coincidence that you were so near my home at the very time my maid went missing?”