The Dark Days Club (A Lady Helen Novel) Page 6

  “Can you see Millicent?” she asked her aunt.

  “La, child, I can barely see who is three in front of us.”

  They moved another foot or so forward. Helen, with her superior height, noted a break in the crowd: a wide space had been left around a dark-haired man standing before the huge marble mantelpiece. She caught sight of his face for a moment: young, but made harsh from some kind of suffering, with a savage intensity in his eyes as he scanned the room. There was a coiled quality to him as well, for all his loose-limbed height.

  “Let us stop here,” Aunt Leonore said, drawing Helen’s attention from the tall gentleman to a space beside a blue chinoise urn in the center of the room. “The doorway is too densely packed now.”

  Her aunt stepped into the newfound gap and eyed a lesser-ranked lady and her protégée who had also taken refuge there. The two ladies curtsied, and the younger one, in her haste to make room, bumped her white tulle hoop into a nearby gentleman, sending him into a little hopping jump. Helen smothered a smile: the poor man was as red as his garters.

  “Perhaps Lady Gardwell and Millicent have not yet arrived,” Aunt said.

  Helen looked over her shoulder to the fireplace again. The man had been joined by another. It took a moment for her to fully recognize the new arrival: not quite as tall as his companion, and fair-headed, his coat a plain and elegant blue amongst all the bright embroidered silks and lace. Good Lord, it was Mr. Brummell, Andrew’s idol. Helen took in the fine cut of his coat, the harmony of his white waistcoat and pristine neckcloth; he made everyone else seem overdressed. He was certainly worthy of his unofficial title, Beau.

  “Aunt, look who is here. Near the mantel.”

  Her aunt found the hearth, her mouth pursing. “Now, that is something to behold. Mr. Brummell does not usually attend Drawing Rooms. I suppose it is because the Prince Regent is expected.”

  “Whom does he stand beside?”

  “That, my dear, is the Earl of Carlston,” her aunt said, lowering her voice. “I had heard he was back from the Continent. What gall to come here.”

  So this was the man Andrew disliked so much.

  “He is the one who killed his wife, is he not?” Helen whispered. And perhaps the one who had abducted Berta. He was smiling at something Brummell had said, but with no mirth in it, and his eyes were still hunting the crowd. She could readily believe he would take an innocent girl.

  Her aunt gave a small gasp. “Oh no, he is looking this way.” She turned her shoulder. “My dear, do not give him the satisfaction of your attention.”

  Helen reluctantly averted her eyes, but she had the distinct impression that her aunt had expected the Earl’s notice. She risked another glance. Lord Carlston was once again in conversation with Mr. Brummell. As he spoke, he shifted his shoulders and she saw a moment of pain cross his strong features. Other than that, his face was curiously unreadable.

  “For goodness’ sake, stop staring at him,” her aunt said. “Come, let us look for Millicent.” She surveyed the room, her hand on Helen’s arm as if to restrain her from turning again. “Aha, there she is, behind Bishop Meath.”

  She pointed her fan toward a long window swagged in opulent red velvet overlooking the Royal gardens. As the cluster of people before it separated, a familiar gold-blonde head came into view. It was cocked to one side in an attitude that could have been called charmingly quizzical, but Helen recognized it as a prelude to Millicent giving a setdown to someone she had deemed an idiot—no doubt the young fop in canary yellow who was standing before her and her mother. Millicent, for all her semblance of sweet prettiness, did not suffer fools.

  In that uncanny way that one person’s regard can create a silent summons for another, Millicent turned her head and saw Helen, the barely concealed impatience on her face brightening into pleasure. Her dress, thoroughly discussed with Helen months before, was a magnificent cloud of cream net and tulle, shot through with gold thread and embroidered with vines of gold and green leaves. Helen knew that the needlework alone had cost fifty guineas. As Millicent had acidly remarked during one afternoon spent studying the Court fashion plates, “The most impoverished must put on the best show.”

  Touching her mother’s thin arm, Millicent nodded a curt farewell to the fop and steered Lady Gardwell toward them. Helen smiled; not even presentation to the Queen could quell her friend’s busy nature, nor rally her mother’s gentle helplessness. Lady Gardwell was extremely short of sight, so her eyes never fully focused. It gave her face a permanently anxious expression, and seemed to have prompted an equally hazy approach to life.

  Helen flexed her wrist, shifting the miniature into a firmer position against her palm. Her paper-thin kid glove was damp with perspiration, and stuck to her skin. There were too many bodies in the room, filling the air with an overpowering stink of stale perfume and sweat, not to mention the heavy anticipation that seemed to press down upon everyone like black clouds on a thundery day. She searched her friend’s face: Millicent appeared outwardly calm, but Helen could see the tiny signs of fear. It was not surprising—so much had been placed upon their one minute before the Queen. No doubt she herself had the same tight eyes and jaw.

  Aunt Leonore flipped open her fan and waved it, sending a pulse of warm air across the two of them. “Lud! That shade of blue does not suit Lady Gardwell at all,” she whispered as Millicent and her mother approached. She received their curtsies with a gracious smile. “Lady Gardwell and Miss Gardwell, what a pleasure to see you again.”

  Millicent’s mother smiled a timid greeting. “Lady Pennworth, it is such a crush, is it not?” Her soft voice was barely audible above the high hum of conversation. “And, Lady Helen, how well you look today.”

  “Won’t you stand here, by me?” Aunt Leonore said kindly. “This hustle and bustle is so tiring. Now, tell me, how is Sir Giles?”

  As the two older ladies engaged in halting conversation, Helen drew Millicent aside.

  “Have you heard?” she asked, bending slightly to accommodate her friend’s smaller stature and wide hoop.

  “You mean Delia?” Helen nodded. Millicent’s mouth quirked sideways into dismay. “Of course, it is all over town. She must be so distressed. To actually see him do it.”

  “I have written to her, but Aunt and Uncle won’t let me do more.”

  “It is the same with me.” Millicent frowned. “Did she mention this man to you? She mentioned no one to me.”

  “Nor me.” Helen touched her friend’s arm. “Millicent, I feel I should have done something. I saw her despair, but I did not act.”

  “Nonsense. Delia has always been prone to melancholy. Even you cannot know what is wholly in another’s mind.” Millicent shot a glance at Aunt Leonore. “What about Michaelmas?”

  Helen shook her head. “I tried, but they will not let me invite her. You will still come, though, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Millicent’s quick smile of reassurance faded. “But I don’t think either of us will see Delia for a long while.”

  They were both silent for a moment. Helen pressed her fingertips hard against her mother’s portrait. Her aunt was still engaged with Lady Gardwell. Could she risk showing it? “Millicent,” she whispered, her heart beating hard. “Look.” She opened her hand, giving a glimpse of the miniature, then snapped her fingers shut.

  Her friend gasped. “I cannot believe you have brought that here.” She studied Helen’s face, a crease of concern between her brows. “I may not have your ability to read expressions, but I can see something has happened.”

  Helen gave a tiny shrug.

  “Your uncle?”

  She tucked in her chin.

  Millicent nodded her understanding. “Well, don’t let him find out you carried it here. I want my best friend at my ball.”

  “He won’t. It is just . . .” She stared down at her closed hand. “My mother is not he
re.”

  “Yes,” Millicent said. “Yes, I know.” She flicked open her fan, waving it briskly as if she could fan away Helen’s despondency. “I feel as if I will jump from my skin at any moment. I wish it were all over. Tell me some news that will keep me from conjuring visions of tripping over my train or bungling my curtsy.”

  “I have just the thing,” Helen said, allowing her friend to shift her mood. “Look behind me. Do you see that dark-haired man over there, standing by the fireplace?”

  Millicent peered across the room. “You mean the one headed over here, with Mr. Brummell?”

  Even as Helen turned, she felt her aunt’s hand close around her arm. “Helen, dear, I believe Mr. Brummell is heading our way. Remember to smile.”

  “Is that Lord Carlston with him, Lady Pennworth?” Millicent’s mother asked, squinting. Her voice rang uncharacteristically sharp.

  “I believe it is, Lady Gardwell.” In contrast, Aunt Leonore’s tone had a sudden wariness.

  “You are related to him, are you not?”

  Helen felt the air chill markedly between the two women. Both had smiles fixed upon their faces.

  Lady Gardwell finally broke the loaded silence. “I would not want my daughter or myself to be in the way of a family reunion,” she said. “Please excuse us. Bonne chance, Lady Helen.” She sketched a quick curtsy to them both. “Come, Millicent, I see an acquaintance ahead.”

  She caught her daughter’s hand and pulled her into the crowd. Helen stared after them, Millicent’s bewildered backward gaze meeting her own astonishment. “Related?” Helen said as she lost sight of her friend. “We are related to him?”

  Aunt Leonore touched the diamonds at her throat, her color high under the powder on her cheeks. “Well, not directly by blood. He is your uncle’s second cousin. I had hoped he would have the decency not to claim the connection.”

  So, Lord Carlston was related to her uncle. She could readily believe it; both men seemed to look upon the world with disdain. “Why did no one tell me?” she asked. “Does Andrew know?”

  “Yes, but it is hardly a connection that we are falling over ourselves to acknowledge. And who knew the man would come back? We all hoped he had gone for good.” Her aunt grabbed hold of her arm again, the jolt shifting Helen’s grip on the miniature. “Don’t waste your time thinking on Carlston, my dear. It is Mr. Brummell who is important. It is he who can make you all the rage. Remember, charm and modesty. And smile!”

  Helen barely had time to do so before the two men stood before them. Mr. Brummell bowed, cool appraisal on his attractive face. He had broken his nose at some point, and the slight flattening disrupted the symmetry of his features. In Helen’s opinion, it added a certain manliness, saving his good looks from blandness. Aunt Leonore gave a nod of acknowledgment that set her plume shivering. “Mr. Brummell, how lovely to see you again.”

  Helen felt a ripple of movement around them. People were edging back with sidelong glances. Were they moving away in deference to Mr. Brummell, or disgust at Carlston? A quick survey of the surrounding faces gave the answer. It seemed Mr. Brummell’s famous influence was not enough to make Lord Carlston palatable. Not yet, anyway.

  “It is always a pleasure, madam,” Mr. Brummell said, bowing once more. Helen felt herself under his appraisal again, his curiosity evident in the slight lift of his brows. Then, with an elegant hand, he indicated Lord Carlston. “Lady Pennworth, may I present the Earl of Carlston.”

  Aunt bent her neck in frigid acknowledgment. “Lord Carlston.”

  The Earl inclined his head. “Madam.”

  Lord Carlston was handsome, Helen conceded, in a hard, angular way that made the men around him seem somewhat effeminate. Yet there was a ruthlessness to the set of his mouth that was decidedly repellent. His skin was unfashionably tanned—both Andrew and Aunt had mentioned he had been on the Continent—and the brown of his eyes was so dark that it merged with the black pupil, making their expression impenetrable. It was very disconcerting and gave him a flat look of soullessness, like the eyes of the preserved shark she had seen in the new Egyptian Hall. Helen lifted her bare shoulders against a sudden chill. How apt. There could be no soul in this man: he was a murderer. And possibly an abductor. She wrapped her fingers more firmly around the head of the fan and the miniature. Just in time, for her aunt was turning to introduce the men.

  “My dear, allow me to present the Earl of Carlston and Mr. Brummell. Gentlemen, this is my niece, the Lady Helen Wrexhall.”

  Helen dipped into her curtsy but did not lower her eyes as modesty decreed, instead studying Lord Carlston as he bowed. He was studying her just as closely, his gaze far too penetrating for politeness. For a long moment they observed one another. Well, he could look with those dark shark eyes all he liked. He would not find much in her face either.

  “Lord Carlston, Mr. Brummell,” she said, rising from her curtsy and sweeping an aloof glance over them both. Andrew might have warned her to keep her distance from his lordship, but she could hardly embarrass her aunt by refusing the introduction. And it was an excellent chance to read the man. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Carlston was still watching her closely. “Lady Helen, it is indeed a delight,” he said. “Particularly since we are related.”

  “Distantly,” Aunt said, her mouth small.

  Carlston smiled, and it held all the superiority of his rank. “And yet irrefutably.”

  Aunt Leonore’s mouth buckled tighter. Mr. Brummell cleared his throat. A sign to Carlston of some kind, for the Earl immediately swept a calculating gaze across the far side of the room. Helen was sorely tempted to look in the same direction, but it would mean too pointed a turn. Whatever he saw prompted no expression on his face. Lord Carlston gave away nothing.

  He fixed his gaze on her again and smiled. Helen fancied it was the look of a wolf before it leaped. “Lady Helen, I see that you carry a Vernis Martin fan.”

  She clenched her hand around the fan rivet and miniature, her own smile stiffening into a rictus. Of all things, why did he ask about her fan? Her free hand found the base of her throat, as if its span could hide the flush of heat that rose into her face.

  “I am a great connoisseur of fans,” he added.

  “Really? Of fans?” She kept a stranglehold on her own. “And do you have much cause to use them?”

  Mr. Brummell’s shoulders shook as if he was suppressing a laugh. “Yes, do you, Carlston?” he asked.

  Aunt Leonore widened her eyes in warning. “Helen, dear, I am sure Lord Carlston merely has an interest.”

  “I do, madam.” He was lying—no doubt of it—although he gave none of the usual telltale signs of deception. No rapid blink or hard swallow. “Would you allow me to inspect your example, Lady Helen?”

  “It is nothing out of the ordinary, Lord Carlston,” she said, rallying a smile as false as his own. Why was he so insistent? But she could not pass the fan over. What if her aunt’s quick eye found the portrait? “I’m sure it can be of no interest to such an expert.”

  “A Vernis Martin is always out of the ordinary, Lady Helen.” He held out his hand.

  Helen lifted her chin, meeting his challenge. No, she thought savagely. No, I will not. For a moment she saw something surprising in those shark eyes. Sympathy. Was he playing some game?

  “Helen show Lord Carlston your fan,” her aunt ordered.

  “I cannot believe you are serious, sir,” she said, trying to conjure the same teasing tone that Millicent used with her many admirers. “I feel sure you are funning with me.”

  “You will find that I am always serious, Lady Helen.”

  “Show him, my dear,” her aunt hissed, the real message plain in the tilt of her head: Show him the fan so that we may be rid of him.

  He extended his hand toward her, his gaze steady and infuriatingly indifferent. He knew she could not refuse
him. The discourtesy would be unforgiveable, and her aunt would probably wrench the fan from her grasp and give it to him anyway. So be it. Raising her chin higher, she pushed the riveted end into his hand, pressing the miniature into his palm. She drew back her shoulders, ready for discovery. Aunt was going to be furious.

  He flicked open the sticks, the curve of his large hand cradling the end, shielding it from sight. She drew in a steadying breath. Any moment now. He bent his head to study the painted panorama. Why was he waiting? He could obviously see the miniature—he had it in his hand—but he was not reacting. In fact, he was keeping it hidden.

  “A very pretty fan,” he said, but she saw the tiniest of creases between his dark brows. If she had to hazard a guess, underneath all that implacable control, Lord Carlston was aghast.

  He looked up, the weight of his silence drawing all attention to his next words. She stayed as still as possible. If she did not move, perhaps he would just give it back.

  “Was this represented to you as an original Vernis Martin?” he asked.

  Helen exhaled. A reprieve. But why?

  Her aunt drew herself up, all pinched indignation. “I will have you know that the fan was a gift from her uncle, Viscount Pennworth.”

  “A lovely gift,” Carlston said blandly.

  He closed the fan with a snap and passed it back to Helen. Even as she took the end, she knew it was too light. The miniature was gone. Had it fallen? She glanced down, but it was not on the floor. A piece of blue riband was still caught between the sticks. Sliced clean. He must have cut it off, but she had seen no knife. Her fingers closed convulsively around the rivet. Was he looking for some kind of vaporish response? Well, he would not have it. She forced indifference into her face and saw another flicker in those dark eyes. Amusement. A surge of hot fury caught her in the chest. Why was he doing this? It did not make sense.

  “I believe we must make way for others who wish to make your acquaintance, Lady Helen,” he said, bowing. “It has been a pleasure.”