The Dark Days Club (A Lady Helen Novel) Page 4

  “He is, my lady,” Philip said, obediently sidestepping along the wall. His blue eyes were watery, and there was an awkwardness about him that was not usually present. Another victim, perhaps, of the seasonal cold that was running rife through the household.

  “Philip, can you”—Helen paused, knowing she was putting him on the spot—“can you dally? It will be worth your while.”

  “For how long, my lady?” Helen saw the real question in the dilation of his eyes: How much?

  She opened the metal clasp of her reticule and fished inside, her fingers closing on the flat round of a farthing. “Make it ten minutes,” she said, dropping the coin into his gloved palm. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “Ten minutes.” He bowed, the coin already inside his waistcoat pocket.

  “And, Philip,” she added, “Darby tells me that you spoke to the page who last saw Berta before she disappeared.”

  His hand went to his cravat. “Yes, my lady.” He looked up through the rungs of the balustrade, his voice lowering into an even softer whisper. “That is, my lady, we were told not to worry you with it.”

  “It will worry me even more if I do not have the facts.”

  Philip curled his tongue over his top lip. Helen waited as he pondered his dilemma, the churn of thoughts obvious from the furrow on his freckled brow. By rights, he should follow the wishes of her aunt and uncle, but he was leaning toward the call of future farthings. “The boy was running an errand in Berkeley Street,” he finally said, his eyes flicking down to her reticule. “He saw a coach pull up beside Berta, but he couldn’t remember much about it. That’s all, my lady.”

  “Did you press him?”

  “He’s the Holyoakes’ page over in Berkeley Square. A good lad. I’m sure he told all he knew.”

  Helen nodded. “Thank you, Philip. And, remember, if anyone asks, I’m not down yet.”

  “Of course not, my lady.”

  She pulled her shawl more securely over her arms, then headed sedately into the corridor that led to the back of the town house. As soon as she turned the corner, she ran for the billiard room.

  She slowed as she approached the closed door, frowning at a faint sense of unease. Although she had not read any falseness in Philip’s face, there had been something in his expression that had rung sour. The only thing that came to mind was a slight distance. . . . Yes, a lack of interest about Berta’s situation. In all fairness, it was not surprising. The man was unwell, and Helen had heard that some of the staff were wary of Berta’s foreignness. Yet it raised a doubt about the rigor of Philip’s interview with the page: it would not have had the concentration of true concern. If the page had held something back or neglected an important detail, Philip would probably not have noticed.

  Admittedly, no one else would be able to see such hesitations or concealments in the same intense manner that she could. How many times had she observed the secret truths etched into the faces of those around her? Truths that were often in contradiction to the handed-down wisdom of society. She had seen keen intelligence in Lady Trevayne’s black footman, the swift rise of lust in a visiting vicar, and even a look of soul love between two men. Sometimes such knowledge shook her, but she could not ignore the evidence of her eyes. Nor could she refuse to use her ability to help another in distress. If her promise to Darby was to have any value, then she would have to interview the page herself and make her own judgment.

  Now, all she had to do was work out a way to manage such an intrusion upon a household with which she had no acquaintance.

  She paused at the door of the billiard room, intent upon another intrusion. This was a male sanctum, and while she was not expressly forbidden to enter, it was understood that a lady would not venture inside. One quick glance at the empty corridor, a rap on the door, and she was over the threshold.

  Inside, the air smelled of cigar smoke, candle wax, and claret, the pungent mix locked into the room by the heavy wood paneling, thick red rug, and lack of windows. The long figure of her brother was bent over the far cushion of the billiard table, his cue poised before a ball. He looked up from the green baize, gave a quick smile of welcome, then returned to his contemplation of the shot.

  “Hello, sprite,” he said, sliding the cue between his fingers to line up the angle. “Come to play stick with me?” Snorting at his own joke, he slammed the cue tip into the ivory ball. It cannoned into a red ball, sending it spinning into a corner pocket. “Did you see that? Selburn couldn’t do better. What do you say?”

  Since Helen had never seen her brother’s friend, the Duke of Selburn, play billiards, she resisted commenting on the shot and said instead, “I need to talk to you.” She closed the door. “Alone.”

  Andrew walked out from behind the table, eyeing his next shot. “You’ll catch the devil from Uncle if he finds you in here.”

  “He won’t.” Helen waved away the consideration with a bravado hand.

  She took in her brother’s outfit with guarded approval. For the most part, he followed the dictates of Mr. Brummell—the acknowledged leader of fashion—with regards to his attire: superb tailoring and subdued colors to create an understated elegance and heroic shape. Andrew’s evening jacket was of Spanish blue and cut to make the best of his athletic stature, his satin breeches were impeccably fitted, and his crisp white cravat cascaded in a fall of intricate folds. But he had faltered with his waistcoat: pea-green and embroidered with a riot of blue and pink flowers. It seemed that Andrew, like the Prince Regent, had a weakness for bright satin and embroidery, two things definitely not within Beau Brummell’s philosophy.

  “I do like that jacket,” Helen offered, overlooking the waistcoat. Nothing pleased her brother more than a compliment on his attire.

  He brightened. “Weston. Fine, isn’t it.” He patted one closely fitted sleeve. “You look very well too, sis. Are you all set for tomorrow?” He looked around the room as if he had lost something. “There,” he said, tipping the end of the cue at a small box on the mantel. “For you.”

  “Really?” Helen was momentarily diverted.

  “Just a fal-lal for the big event.” He grinned, obviously enjoying her surprise.

  It had always been easy for Helen to read her brother’s expressions. Unlike herself, he allowed every emotion he experienced to play across his face. Such openness had made it very easy for her to beat him in their childhood card games, but also to know when he had needed time alone or a sympathetic ear. She skirted the billiard table and picked up the gift. A red Morocco case that, if she were not mistaken, was from Rundell, Bridge and Rundell—the very best. She glanced across at her brother; his grin had widened with anticipation.

  “Go on, open it,” he urged.

  She slid the two tiny brass hooks free from their catches and lifted the lid. Inside were four gold-and-diamond hairpins wrought in the shape of laurel wreaths. The diamond clusters flared in the candlelight as Helen ran her finger across the finely sculpted pins. They would do beautifully at the back of her coiffure, holding in the lace lappets and huge ostrich plumes that the Queen insisted every woman wear at her Drawing Rooms.

  “Oh, Andrew, they are lovely. Thank you.”

  “Aunt told me what you needed. Mind you, I chose ’em.” He bent over the table again, lining up his shot. “So, what’s all the hush-hush about?”

  Helen lingered for a moment more, tilting the box to watch the diamonds shimmer, then resolutely shut the lid. “Drew,” she said slowly, “do you think you will set up your own establishment here in London soon?”

  Andrew straightened, resting the end of his cue on the rug. “Now, that’s a loaded question if ever I heard one. Has Aunt got in your ear again about me marrying?”

  “No, not at all.” She hesitated, suddenly confronted by the indelicacy of what she was about to ask. “In truth, it is about me marrying. Or not marrying, as it were.”

>   “What are you gibbling about?” Andrew said. “Not marrying? I thought marrying was all you girls ever thought about. Don’t you want to be mistress of your own household?”

  “That’s just it—I do want to be mistress of a household. Your household.”

  She watched him pass through perplexity, reasoning, and finally into understanding, his brow clearing as he came to her point. “You certainly are one for the deep game. All the freedoms of a married lady without the husband, hey?”

  “It has been done before,” Helen said, catching a note of dismissal in his voice. “Many girls act as hostess for their widowed father or an uncle.”

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, but not often for a brother. At least, not at your age. It’s usually spinsterish old cats who take on the job. You know I’d end up acting your chaperone instead of you acting my hostess.” He raised his eyebrows, inviting agreement, but Helen stonily resisted. With an amused smile, he added, “You’re an heiress, sis, and not bad-looking. You’re going to get offers. In fact, I’m going to have to beat ’em off with a stick.” He jabbed the end of the cue at an imaginary suitor. “No need to get yourself into a pucker.”

  Helen lifted her chin. “I am not in a pucker.” She turned the jewel box over in her hands, weighing her brother’s buoyant mood against her own disquiet. Andrew was not one for tackling difficult subjects. He was likely to withdraw if she mentioned their mother, but he needed to understand. “Aunt is afraid the scandal will affect my chances of marrying well.”

  “Really?” He grinned. “I can’t say I’ve felt any effect in that area.”

  “That is because you are not the daughter of Lady Catherine,” Helen said flatly. Their parentage had never been a burden for Andrew—he was, after all, the seventh Earl of Hayden, with vast estates and good looks that excused all. No, it seemed that corruption only passed through the female line. “Aunt told me this morning that I should distance myself from Mother should the Queen mention her tomorrow.”

  Andrew rolled one of the red billiard balls under his hand. “I doubt the Queen would say anything,” he said, but the teasing humor was gone from his face.

  “True,” Helen said. “Still, denying Mother feels wrong. Don’t you agree?”

  The silence felt ominous. “You should do as Aunt says,” Andrew finally said. “She knows about these things. Mother forwent our loyalty. The less we are associated with her, the better.”

  She met the flint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

  “Yes.” He looked away, making a business of placing the red ball back into position. “You must think of yourself now.”

  His broad shoulders had rounded over. He was already drawing into himself.

  “Well, then, I will take your advice and think only of myself,” she said brightly, coaxing him back. “Let me be your hostess. It would be such fun—we could hold dinners and dances, and I would have a chance to talk to people properly and find someone I like. Aunt is a dear, but she does hover over me. And Uncle would have me take the first man who comes along. Think of it, Drew. You wouldn’t have to stay in those nasty rooms. Always a clean bed and good food. Aunt has taught me how to manage a household beautifully.”

  And, Helen thought, observing the dark shadows under her brother’s eyes, she might be able to stop him from burning himself to a frazzle. Even she had heard he had been frequenting the worst gaming hells and taverns.

  Andrew shook his head. “Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t have it for a minute.”

  Admittedly, it was a sticking point. “They would if you asked them,” she said firmly.

  “I doubt it. And I get good food at my club. I’m sorry, sprite, but I’m not in any hurry to set up.”

  Helen pulled out her trump card. “It would stop Aunt from pressing you to marry. At least for a while.”

  Andrew eyed her with respect. “It might, at that.”

  “Please, Drew.” She could see by the little knit between his eyes that he was wavering. “Please.”

  He frowned up at the ceiling as if its ornate plaster rose and chandelier might hold the answer to her request. “I don’t think it will come to it,” he finally said. “Aunt is worrying for no reason. You’ll have your Season and you’ll meet some fellow who’ll suit you and the family just right, and that will be that.” Helen opened her mouth to protest, but he hurried on. “If, by a slim chance, you aren’t buckled by the end of the year, we can talk again.” He held up his hand. “Not promising anything. Just saying that I know you, and if you haven’t got an escape route, you get all lathered. We can talk again at Christmas. Does that suit?”

  It did not suit at all. Michaelmas was well before Christmas. Poor Delia would be stuck in Sussex for all of the London Season. “But, Drew—”

  His mouth tightened. “We’ll talk at Christmas.”

  “But it will take months to find a suitable—”

  “We’ll talk at Christmas. That’s my offer. Agreed?”

  Andrew did not often stand firm, but Helen knew this was one of those rare times. She would have to wait.

  “Agreed,” she said, forcing a smile. Andrew held out his hand. She shook it three times, as they used to when they were children, and added, “There’s something else, Drew. I’ve had some rather troubling news. Darby, my maid, has told me that one of the housemaids has gone missing.”

  Andrew shrugged. “That’s Uncle’s concern, not yours.” He reached into the table’s side pocket and pulled out another red ball, positioning it on the baize. “You’re not having another fit of noblesse oblige, are you?”

  Helen folded her arms, ignoring the jibe at her failed effort to save Jonathan the footman’s position after he’d been accused of stealing wine from the cellar. He had been cleared of the charge, but their uncle had still dismissed him without a reference. “Darby has come to me with a problem,” she said crisply, “and I want to help.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t have come to you. Ought to have known better.” Andrew fixed her with a stern gaze. “You can’t help everyone. Like I said, it is Uncle’s concern.”

  “Yes, but they think the maid has gone—” Helen waved in the general direction of Covent Garden.

  “They think she’s gone Cyprian?”

  Helen nodded, unfazed by the vulgar term. “Darby says it is not possible. And there is a witness who claims the girl may have been taken by a gentleman. In his carriage.” She saw that information register on her brother’s face. “Have you heard anything, Drew? Any rumor?”

  “Sounds like hum to me.” He slid the cue through his fingers, a thought shifting his jaw.

  “You do know something. Tell me,” Helen demanded.

  “It’s just that I saw Carlston at the theater last night.”

  “Carlston?”

  “William Standfield, the Earl of Carlston.” Andrew’s voice had hardened. “You probably wouldn’t know the story—it was at least three years ago, when you were at that school.”

  The name did have a familiar ring. She had heard it in one of those whispered cautionary tales that her friends had shared. “Didn’t he kill someone?”

  “His wife. The Countess of Carlston, formerly Elise de Vraine.” Andrew paused, his face softening. “She was lovely. French. Escaped the Terror as a child, then had the bad luck to run into Carlston. Everyone knows he killed her, but no body was found and so he was never tried. Still, the King turned his back, and no one would receive him after that. The rumor was that he went to the Continent.”

  “And now he has returned,” Helen breathed, imagining a black-cloaked figure sweeping up innocent girls.

  “Trying to worm himself back into society,” Andrew said caustically. “He’ll do it too. He was with Prinny at the theater, and Brummell always liked him.”

  Helen’s image of a dastardly abductor disappeared in a wave of logic. “He would hardly be making off with hou
semaids if he is trying to reestablish himself.”

  “True, although there was talk that he’d attacked a maid, too, as well as Lady Elise.” With a jerk of his wrist, Andrew spun the billiard ball across the table. It slammed into another with a sharp crack, sending both ricocheting into the cushions. “He should not have come back.”

  Helen struggled to identify this new harsh edge in her brother’s voice. Anger? No, it was more like bitterness.

  A knock on the door made them both turn.

  “Come,” Andrew said.

  Philip entered and bowed. “My lord,” he said, keeping his eyes on Andrew. “Lord and Lady Pennworth request that you join them in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you. Has Lady Pennworth been asking for Lady Helen, too?”

  “I have not seen Lady Helen,” Philip said woodenly. He withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “Are you bribing the servants again?” Andrew asked. He placed his cue back into the mahogany rack on the wall.

  “Perhaps it is Lord Carlston,” Helen said, ignoring the question. “Do you think he is capable of abducting girls so blatantly?”

  Andrew walked to her side and, with a small bow, held out his arm. “Let’s go up before Aunt starts missing you.”

  Helen placed her hand on his elbow. “But do you, Drew? Do you think he is capable of it?”

  “I think Carlston is capable of anything,” Andrew said, leading her toward the door. “For God’s sake, don’t go spreading some half-baked idea that he’s abducting housemaids.”

  “Then promise me you’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Andrew said. “I’m not having anything to do with the man.”

  Helen looked up, ready to press her request, but his expression stopped her words. She had never seen such dislike on his face. Lord Carlston must be vile, indeed, to cause such violent feelings in her good-natured brother.