Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘I don’t want you.’ It was all she could manage to say.

  He shrugged. ‘Did you take the oath?’

  She pressed her lips together.

  ‘Of course you did. You’re bound by law to do what Pike says. Or will you go against your King and your word?’

  ‘You have.’

  He squinted at her, sizing her up. ‘You wouldn’t break an oath — far too noble and moral for that kind of thing.’ He wagged an admonishing forefinger. ‘You need to learn how the world really works. Go tell Pike he can have the journal as soon as you and me are bonded. We’ll do the ritual on the twenty-fourth, the full moon — it makes the strongest bond. That means you got seventeen days to make the preparations. I’ll tell you where we meet. And if you do as I say, like a good girl, I’ll let you see what else Benchley wrote about your traitor mother.’

  Helen clenched her fists, every fibre in her body aching to reach across and close her hand around his throat. To force the information out of him. Force the whereabouts of the journal out of his swelling, blue face.

  He gave a yip of laughter. ‘I can see the violence in your eyes, but you won’t do it, will you? You can’t. Don’t worry, when we’re bonded I’ll make a real Reclaimer out of you.’ He leaned across the table, fleshy lips wet, his voice only for Reclaimer ears. ‘And a real woman. I’ll enjoy holding you down, grounding you to the earth like a good Terrene.’

  Abruptly she stood, the bench toppling over from the force.

  The two men at the nearest table turned. Helen felt their interest spread to the group on the next table and the one after that, a cascade of unwanted curiosity. She bit back her words and stepped over the bench. Her body wanted to fight or run or scream, but all she could do was back away.

  Lowry picked up his tankard again and gave her a lazy wink. ‘Good evening, Mr Amberley. I’ll be seeing you again.’

  She turned and made for the doorway, pursued by the image of Lowry lying across her body, his sweating weight pressing her against the earth. Like a good Terrene.

  Chapter Eight

  Ten minutes later, Helen was gripping the edge of the gig seat as the chestnut clattered back across the bridge. She had uttered only one word in the yard — ‘Go’ — and had not spoken since, afraid that she would scream or weep if she opened her mouth. Not the kind of behaviour expected from a young man. She stared ahead, mind churning, barely seeing Hammond’s anxious glances as he steadied the horse into a trot down School Hill.

  She could not take Lowry as her Terrene. She pressed her hand to her mouth. The man was foul. Yet she and Hammond had to retrieve Benchley’s journal from him. How could it be done without sacrificing herself? She had to find a way and be quick about it. They had less than three weeks before the full moon.

  ‘Lady Helen, tell me what happened.’ The lamp at the side of the gig cast a weak light across Hammond’s face, shading his eyes and mouth into dark pits of worry. ‘Please say something.’

  She held up her hand: Not yet. A glimmer of an idea was showing itself. She sat forward, gaze on the road ahead but all her attention fixed upon the problem. For the moment, Pike only wanted the journal; he did not know of Lowry’s demand. Did he know its contents had been written in such gruesome ink? She would wager he did. The journal’s alchemical property was probably what he was hiding from them. Did it contain more than just information? Whatever the case, if she and Hammond found the book and delivered it to Pike, they had achieved their mission. They would be safe, and Pike would have no need to bargain with Lowry.

  Yes, they had to find the journal and steal it. But how? Lowry could have hidden it anywhere.

  Helen shook her head, the size of the task overwhelming her train of thought.

  They passed the White Hart, its oil lamps and torches casting a yellow glow into the dark street. Three men departing through the front door stopped and watched them whisk past. Closing her eyes, Helen lifted her face into the breeze made from their speed, letting the cool air clear her panic.

  Where would a man like Lowry hide the journal? She did not know enough about him even to make a guess. That would be the first step then: to find out more about Bartholomew Lowry.

  Of course, stealing the journal did not remove Lowry as a problem. If Pike came to know that the man wished to return to the Dark Days Club as her Terrene, he might see Lowry as a viable alternative to Darby even if the journal was no longer in play. There was only one way to stop that terrible future: she had to bond with Darby as soon as her maid was ready. Perhaps even sooner.

  ‘For God’s sake, tell me what he said,’ Hammond entreated.

  She opened her eyes. Yes, she could speak now. ‘Pull over.’

  He tightened the reins, drawing the mare into a walk and finally a stop at the grassy edge of the road. They were alongside the castle again, its ruined towers and gatehouse looming over them. In clipped sentences, Helen told him what had occurred in her interview with Lowry.

  Hammond listened, his lips drawn back over his teeth in disgust. ‘Dear God, you say the book is written in blood?’ He shook his head. ‘Benchley was mad as a hatful of snakes, and Lowry is not much better. You cannot have him as your Terrene.’ His flattened hand wiped the air, banishing the possibility. ‘I cannot even think it. The bond is partly in mind as well as body. A Reclaimer must trust their Terrene to protect them in their most vulnerable moments. You have seen how Mr Quinn must inflict pain upon his lordship to draw him back from the edge of madness.’

  Yes, she had seen it in Vauxhall Gardens. Mr Quinn had drawn a spike and stabbed his lordship through the hand to break the thrall of the Deceiver energy in his lordship’s body. It had been the first time she had seen a Deceiver, and the first time she had seen the violent bond between Reclaimer and Terrene. The shock of both still prickled across her skin.

  ‘Mr Quinn knows how to inflict the minimum amount of force to counter the Deceiver energy,’ Mr Hammond continued. ‘But you could never trust Lowry to be so careful. On the contrary, he would take pleasure in hurting you. He would take advantage of you at every possible opportunity, in every possible way.’

  Helen lifted her shoulders, trying to shift the too vivid imagining of Lowry’s hands upon her body. ‘He has already indicated such intimacies.’

  ‘He is a vile dog and dangerous with it.’ Hammond stared up at the castle and hissed out a breath. ‘He is right about one thing though: Pike will take his offer.’

  ‘As I see it,’ Helen said, ‘we must deliver the journal to Pike or we will both be in peril, but we cannot tell him about Lowry’s demand.’

  ‘I agree. But how are we to deliver the journal?’

  ‘We must find it ourselves.’

  What if he did not think it possible? That she was being a fool.

  He regarded her solemnly. ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘Where would you hide something illicit and of infinite value?’

  ‘If it was of infinite value, I would not let it leave my sight.’

  ‘True,’ Helen conceded. ‘But if you were someone like Lowry and wished to trade it, you could not carry it to a deal in case it was forced from you.’

  Hammond nodded. ‘Then I would hide it somewhere secure. A bank, or Boodle’s.’

  ‘I doubt Lowry is a member of Boodle’s,’ Helen said dryly. ‘Would you not hide it in a place you knew well or with a person you trusted?’

  ‘Well, I would trust Margaret with anything.’ He scratched his chin, considering. ‘You think he has placed it with a family member or a friend?’

  ‘I am hoping he has done so.’

  ‘I would warrant he has no friends, or at least none that could be trusted. Does he have any family?’

  ‘I do not know, but I think I have a way to find out.’ Helen leaned forward and, even though no one was around, lowered her voice. ‘While he was gloating, he let slip that he grew up in Brighton. Lord Carlston has said more than once that old Martha Gunn, the dipper, knows everything about
everyone in the town. Surely she would know if Lowry has siblings or other family in the vicinity?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Hammond was silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, family would answer why he is in the area. If luck is on our side, this Gunn woman could point us in the right direction.’

  Helen sat back in the gig seat. Thank heavens he thought the plan had merit.

  ‘I will make an appointment to take a dip in the sea with her in the next few days,’ she said.

  He touched her arm, a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. ‘This meeting with Lowry may not have gone as we wished, but you rallied well.’

  ‘I ran from him — that is not rallying well.’

  ‘You beat a strategic retreat,’ he said, gathering the reins again. ‘Never underestimate the value of a good retreat.’

  She smiled at the quick rejoinder, but could not shake her growing sense of failure. They had no guarantee that her plan would yield a path to follow. And in all truth, her male disguise had not been much put to the test. She had frozen shamefully when the old man had spoken to her, and her interactions with the Deceiver and the serving girl had been so swift as to be negligible.

  ‘I am not doing very well as a young man, am I?’

  Hammond angled his face towards her, the lamplight gilding the draw of his brow. ‘Nonsense. Under the circumstances, you are doing splendidly.’

  He flicked the reins, urging the horse once more onto the road. Helen braced herself as the gig bumped back into motion, warmed by his vehemence. Even so, his belief did not drive away her own doubts. Or those of Lord Carlston.

  ‘His lordship would not agree with you,’ she said over the grind of the wheels. ‘He does not think I am up to the task of being a Reclaimer.’

  ‘You are wrong.’ Hammond turned his attention from the shadowy road that stretched before them and regarded her, clearly weighing up his next words. ‘He is worried that you have lived the cloistered life of a young lady too long and will not be able to overcome your gentle upbringing.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not at all. You have the warrior within you — we all saw it when your full strength came at the Lamb Tavern — and I believe it will eventually conquer any feminine diffidence. I am sure his lordship believes the same. Besides, you chased off that Deceiver at the inn with great expediency.’

  True, but she had been afraid through the whole of the encounter. She looked up at the sliver of moon above the castle. So Lord Carlston feared she was too civilised, too feminine. She wet her lips, remembering the animal savagery she had felt on the arrival of her full Reclaimer strength. She had lost all precious reason, all control, and had tried to kill his lordship. It had been one of the most terrifying moments of her life. One that she did not want to repeat. Yet Lord Carlston was waiting — no, hoping — for that warrior to emerge again and carry her beyond the bounds of morality and reason.

  They arrived back at German Place just as the distant church bell marked eleven o’clock. Most of the houses were dark, but as they clattered past their own dwelling on the way to the mews, Helen noted the drawing room windows. Their shutters were still open, the room lit for occupancy.

  ‘They are awaiting our return.’

  ‘There is nothing to worry about,’ Mr Hammond said, his voice pitched low. He turned the gig into the narrow side lane that led to the stables. ‘We have our story prepared. Just stay with the truth except for anything to do with Lowry.’

  They handed the mare and gig to the young groom on duty and made their way to the house in silence. Garner collected their hats in the foyer, advising that they were expected in the drawing room. Stay with the story, Helen chanted to herself, and led the way upstairs. Yet the prospect of lying outright to his lordship dried her mouth and set her heart racing. Lud, she hoped Hammond was in a better state.

  As they approached the doors, someone began playing the pianoforte — a Beethoven piece — and playing it well. Not Lady Margaret’s usual choice of composer or her style of play, which sometimes had an unfortunate thumpety-thump rhythm. No, this was an elegant and sensitive rendering.

  Geoffrey, stationed outside the room, opened the doors, but Helen stopped on the threshold, brought to a halt by the person at the pianoforte. Delia. Of course; how could she have forgotten that her friend was musical, although it seemed her skill had increased tenfold since their seminary days. She made a charming vision too: the candelabrum set upon the instrument lit her loosely dressed hair into a celestial pale gold shimmer and brought a pearly glow to her skin. She was dressed in pristine white muslin, a row of glass beads around the low neckline catching the flickering light and drawing the eye to her creamy décolletage.

  Lord Carlston sat on the sofa opposite, one elbow propped on the gilded arm, his chin cupped in his hand. All of his attention seemed to be upon Delia, the ever-present knit of pain between his brows for once eased. Helen felt her body lock. Right then, Delia was beautiful; she had conjured that alchemy that blended confidence and expertise into breathtaking transcendence. In the same instant, Helen knew that she, herself, stood in gentleman’s garb, tall and awkward, with no expertise in anything.

  She drew in a ragged breath. No, wait; his lordship’s eyes were fixed upon Delia, but it was plain his thoughts were not. In his ease, she could read his expression and it held such tenderness and sorrow that it could not have come from Delia’s transfiguration or the music alone. Was he thinking about his missing wife? Surely such pining and regret could only belong to her memory.

  ‘You are back,’ Lady Margaret said over the music, rising from the sofa.

  Delia stopped playing.

  His lordship turned, the effect of the piece still soft in his eyes. So much sweet tenderness; how would it be to have such a look truly directed at one?

  ‘Lady Helen!’ He cleared his throat, a flush on his skin. ‘How went it?’

  She could not answer, momentarily overwhelmed by the pulse that thundered in her blood. Lud, was she to be undone by a glance that belonged to a ghost?

  ‘It went very well,’ Mr Hammond said, ushering her further into the room. ‘A triumph in fact.’

  Without further invitation he launched into the abridged account of their excursion: the slow farmer’s cart, the crowded inn, the heat, the confrontation with the Deceiver —

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ His lordship lifted his hand, stopping Mr Hammond’s flow. There was no tenderness in his face now. He addressed her abruptly. ‘Did Mr Hammond just say you approached a Deceiver by yourself?’

  Clearly she had done something wrong. ‘I saw him through my lens in the taproom. He was skimming, but taking energy from only two people and I could see they were beginning to suffer. The woman particularly — she was quite inebriated.’

  ‘But he was skimming, not glutting?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But from only two people.’

  ‘Lady Helen managed it well,’ Hammond said hurriedly. ‘You would have been impressed by the way she used the watch to deliver a jolt of that electric energy.’ He gave a slightly nervous laugh. ‘He was out of there like a scalded —’

  ‘Are you telling me that Lady Helen engaged the creature physically? By herself?’

  Helen looked sideways at Mr Hammond; he was rapidly digging a hole for them both. She saw him brace himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I was right behind her.’

  ‘Which would have amounted to nothing whatsoever if the creature had decided to attack.’ His lordship paced across the room, still keeping his distance. ‘I cannot believe this, Hammond. How did “take a drink in a tavern” translate to “engage an unknown Deceiver”? I thought I could trust you to ensure Lady Helen’s safety. Instead you urge her into premature danger.’

  Hammond turned his head as if his lordship’s accusation were a physical blow. Still, he said, ‘You wanted her to take more initiative. To overcome her natural diffidence.’

  ‘Initiative is very differ
ent from recklessness. Or negligence, for that matter.’

  Hammond stiffened. ‘Do you imply that I have been negligent?’

  Helen stepped forward. ‘No, it was my fault. I did not tell him what I was going to do. It was a spur of the moment decision.’

  His lordship whirled around. ‘Which makes it even worse.’ He dug his fingers into the bone above his temple, the knit of pain back between his brows. ‘How many times have I said that you must always approach an unknown creature with caution? Did you have a strategy in mind if it decided to attack rather than run?’

  She had not even given thought to the possibility, and he saw it in her face.

  ‘God Almighty!’

  Helen winced at the violent blasphemy. Nevertheless, he was not being fair. ‘You told me yourself that it is unlikely a Deceiver would attack a Reclaimer in a public place. Besides, I saw you chase out that Deceiver, Mr Jessup, from Almack’s in exactly the same manner. Your Terrene was not beside you then.’

  He waved away the defence. ‘It is not the same. I have known Mr Jessup for years. We had our battle years ago and he knows I am the stronger. He would not dare raise an energy whip against me.’

  ‘The Luxure in the tavern had not glutted; it had no whips,’ Helen said quickly.

  ‘A Deceiver does not need energy whips to inflict damage upon us. Especially an untrained Reclaimer like yourself. As soon as you stepped out of that tavern, you were vulnerable. Was the stableyard full of people? The road to Brighton crowded with carriages?’

  She stared down at the carpet; there had been many opportunities for an attack. ‘No.’

  ‘That Deceiver could have come at you in any of those places, and without the support of a Terrene you could have been killed.’ He paced back across the room, the heel of his hand pressed against his forehead. ‘You could have been killed and then where would we be?’

  ‘Well, she was not killed, or even attacked,’ Lady Margaret said. ‘Surely we can be thankful for that.’ She walked over to him and laid her hand on his arm, her voice dropping. ‘The pain is back, isn’t it?’