Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘Your wife is charming,’ Helen said.

  Pike crossed his arms. ‘Have you made contact with Lowry?’

  Helen closed her hand around her fan. ‘Yes.’

  Pike watched an army man pause in the doorway, calling jovially to a comrade to come view the provisions.

  ‘We cannot talk in this room,’ he said. ‘There is a ladies’ parlour on the next floor, directly to the left of the staircase. Wait a minute and then make your way there. Unobtrusively.’

  How did he know about such a room?

  He bowed and headed for the impromptu rendezvous. Helen kept her eyes fixed upon the gold carriage clock on the mantel. All Pike wanted was a report about Lowry. Well, she had her story ready; as close to the truth as possible. Moreover, she had her own questions. She felt her heart quicken, each beat thudding with the shift of the clock’s gold hands.

  The ladies’ parlour had a chill in the air that was older than just one night, and no lingering smell of fire in the hearth or the perfumes of female habitation. Plainly a secondary morning room, not often used. Pike had picked up a hall candelabrum on his way into the room and placed it on a sideboard. The three candles threw their shadows across the pink silk walls like huge silhouettes cut from grey paper.

  ‘He will take fifteen thousand pounds in gold,’ Helen said, glad to have her lies masked in the dim light. ‘We are to make the exchange on the twenty-fourth, at a place of his choosing.’

  Pike regarded her for a long uncomfortable moment. ‘Why such a delay?’

  For the full moon, Helen thought, quelling a shiver. ‘He did not explain his reasoning.’

  ‘You should have at least insisted upon the choice of place. He will have the advantage.’

  ‘He wants the gold. He will not jeopardise the exchange.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Pike drew a deep breath; a victorious gathering of air. ‘I will have the payment ready for you. Tell me the place he decides upon.’

  ‘I will.’ Helen clasped her fan more tightly. ‘Lowry showed me a line he had copied from the journal.’

  Pike’s eyes narrowed, the flickering candlelight catching the flare of interest in his face. ‘Did he now?’

  ‘About my parents.’ She let that sit for a moment, but he did not react. ‘A scrap that mentioned them and someone with the initials VC. Do you know who that could be?’

  ‘VC?’ He shook his head. ‘I was not a member of the Dark Days Club when your parents were alive, Lady Helen. That was ten years ago. I joined six years ago, and the subject of your parents was never discussed.’

  Was he lying? It was hard to tell. She decided to prod in another direction. ‘According to Lowry, the whole journal is written in blood.’

  No response from Pike whatsoever; no moue of disgust or shiver of horror. So he already knew about its gruesome ink. Perhaps he also knew why it had been written in such a medium.

  ‘The journal has alchemical properties, doesn’t it? That is what you were keeping from us at my oath.’

  ‘Ah.’ He walked across to the sideboard and stared into the tiny candle flames for a moment. ‘You are as clever as Lord Carlston claims you are.’

  Beneath her focus, she felt a fleeting satisfaction: Carlston thought her clever. ‘What is the real purpose of the journal?’

  Pike turned to face her again. ‘I will tell you, but it will be under the purview of your oath and it goes no further than this room.’

  ‘You do not need to remind me of my oath.’ She could not resist driving home the fact of her word. ‘I have told no one about the journal, have I?’

  He tilted his head, conceding her silence. ‘This time, not even Mr Hammond can be privy to the information. His devotion to Lord Carlston is too compromising.’ He waited for her nod of agreement, then said, ‘The journal is not only full of sensitive Reclaimer information. It is also a Ligatus. Do you know what I mean by that?’

  Oh, yes, Helen knew what he meant. She felt the fear of it in her bowel. A Ligatus was one third of the Trinitas: the three-part alchemical weapon that included her own lost Colligat and another part called a Vis. It was a weapon that could destroy all the Reclaimers if the three parts were brought together. Sweet heaven, Pike had set her and Hammond on the path of a weapon that could destroy all her kind across the world.

  ‘I see that you understand the importance of it,’ Pike said. ‘I have to admit, I only came recently to the knowledge that the journal could be a Ligatus. It is the most difficult element of the Trinitas to create, almost impossible to do so by oneself. Both Deceiver and Reclaimer blood are worked together into an irrevocable binding alchemy. It takes a great deal of alchemical knowledge and blood sacrifice — and by that I mean the collection of the vital fluid on the cusp of violent death.’

  ‘Like the Ratcliffe Highway murders.’

  ‘Amongst others. It must be destroyed, Lady Helen, as soon as possible.’

  Such a heinous thing must indeed be destroyed. Yet something did not make sense. Benchley had tried to steal her Colligat, and it seemed he had spent years building a Ligatus. The man had clearly been bent on creating a Trinitas.

  ‘Why would a Reclaimer create a weapon that could kill all Reclaimers?’ she asked.

  Pike gave a small laugh; the kind that covered true fear. ‘Because it is not only a weapon. The Trinitas is said to have another use: it can open the door to the place where the Deceivers originate. Perhaps open a door to Hell, if, as many believe, that is where they come from. I think Benchley was set upon finding a way to destroy all the Deceivers at once.’

  Helen gasped and Pike nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, true madness. A path that leads to the Deceivers will also lead back to us. Thankfully, there is only one Vis, the power source of the Trinitas, in existence and it is secure. Another cannot be manufactured.’

  ‘But what is it? Where is it held?’ Helen asked.

  Pike shook his head. ‘You do not need that information.’

  Clearly, she was to be trusted only so far.

  Pike continued. ‘What we must face is the fact that the other two parts of the Trinitas have now been created, and one of them is in the hands of the Deceivers.’

  Her fault. She had allowed the Deceivers to get a Colligat. And Philip was here in Brighton too, no doubt searching for the Ligatus.

  ‘The Grand Deceiver must be piecing together a Trinitas as well,’ she said. The sceptical lift of Pike’s brows drove her forward a step. ‘Do you still not believe that a Grand Deceiver is here?’

  ‘Considering the source of that information is Lord Carlston, I do not. It seems clear that Benchley was the one attempting to create a Trinitas.’

  Helen stared at him, aghast. Men and their vendettas.

  ‘Even if you do not believe it, you should have all the Reclaimers set upon retrieving the journal,’ she said. ‘Not just me.’

  ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘I do not know who has been involved. You are the only one who could not possibly have had a hand in its creation.’

  ‘You think some of the other Reclaimers helped Benchley?’ It took a moment, but Helen finally came to his true meaning. ‘You think Lord Carlston helped him make it. You think he is involved in this insane plan to open the doorway to the Deceivers?’

  ‘It takes many years to build a Ligatus, and Lord Carlston was Benchley’s protégé for at least five years before he was exiled under a murder charge.’ He paused, allowing that to sink in. ‘I also know Lord Carlston is suffering from some kind of mental decline. Maybe it is vestige madness, or maybe it is something else to do with the creation of a Ligatus.’ He raised his brows. ‘Perhaps you can tell me more about his state of mind?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ It was all she could manage through her shock. She could not — no, would not — believe his lordship had anything to do with building such a heinous creation.

  ‘I think you know exactly what I mean, Lady Helen. Mr Ryder, the former Home Secretary, was also at their recent meeting in London and he recogn
ised the signs: the strange energy, the change in temper, a certain looseness in judgment. He wrote to say he had seen the same behaviour in Benchley at the start of his madness.’

  ‘He is mistaken.’

  ‘Has Lord Carlston shown any unreasonable violence? Any lack of judgment?’

  Helen gripped her fan even more tightly. ‘I have seen none of that.’

  ‘I know you feel some kind of loyalty towards Lord Carlston.’ Helen clenched her teeth; the way he said it was so salacious. ‘But you must realise that the Dark Days Club cannot afford another Samuel Benchley. Nor can the world.’

  Helen shook her head, drawing outraged breath, but Pike held up a hand, stopping her protest.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, his lordship is nothing like Benchley. But neither was Benchley at the beginning. You met him at the end, Lady Helen, and you saw the depth of his insanity. His depravity.’

  Yes, Helen remembered the snake-whip madness in the old Reclaimer’s eyes. She also remembered Lord Carlston’s horror at his mentor’s confessed involvement in the Ratcliffe murders.

  ‘His lordship would never kill a person for some unholy alchemical ritual,’ she said. ‘He condemned Benchley for his murder of those poor people. Besides, Quinn would never stay by his side if he did such a thing.’

  ‘A diseased mind can warp duty into many strange shapes, Lady Helen. If Mr Ryder is correct, then Lord Carlston is on his way to the same kind of decline as Benchley. Perhaps he started walking the path to such madness at the side of his mentor, before he took Mr Quinn as his Terrene.’

  ‘I cannot believe such a thing,’ Helen said.

  Yet Mr Quinn had said his lordship’s excessive reclaiming on the Continent had been some kind of atonement. Was it for creating a Ligatus and not for failing to save his wife?

  ‘It does not matter what you believe. You are under order to inform me if he shows any further symptoms. Any aberrations in behaviour. We will not allow another Benchley. Is that clear?’

  ‘What will happen if he does show such signs?’

  ‘A rabid dog must be put down, Lady Helen. For the safety of society.’

  He bowed and walked from the room, closing the door. The three candles flickered and jumped from the draught, making Helen’s lone silhouette shiver on the wall. She groped for the back of the sofa and leaned against it, unable to breathe past the shock of his words. It felt as if she had been struck in the chest. The journal was a Ligatus, and Pike had just threatened to execute Lord Carlston.

  What must she do?

  Warn Lord Carlston; it was the first impulse. Yet if she did, it would be a slippery slope to telling him everything. Cold blooded treason. And what if Lord Carlston did deteriorate into something like Mr Benchley? It was a terrible thought, but the possibility had to be faced. Pike was right about one thing: the world could not afford another monster like Samuel Benchley. That must never happen again.

  She straightened, the vow giving her some kind of anchor in the wild wash of dread and fear. There was no easy answer to any of this; no way forward that did not place someone at risk, including herself. For now, all she could do was fix a smile in place, return to the salon, and pray that the Deceiver that lived as the Comte d’Antraigues knew what really ailed Lord Carlston, and was willing to make a deal for the cure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Helen scanned the crowded salon and found Lord Carlston near the orchestra talking to another gentleman, his eye on the doorway. She watched him note her arrival, bid his companion farewell and start to thread his way across the room. Did he look more strained than he had before? Or was it Pike’s horrifying aspersions conjuring her worst fear? Could Carlston really have been party to Benchley’s mad plan?

  ‘Lady Helen!’

  She turned. The call had come from the middle of a group of young officers. One of them moved aside and Delia came into view. She smiled and waved, disengaging herself from her admirers.

  ‘Is this not a wonderful party?’ she said, almost dancing up to Helen and taking her hands in an excited grip.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Helen echoed hollowly. The horror of her interview with Pike still buzzed through her bones. She pulled her hands free from her friend’s grasp in case she somehow transmitted her agitation. ‘Do you think we could sit down?’

  ‘Lady Helen.’ The smooth deep voice stopped her mid-request, recognition of its owner feathering down her spine.

  She turned to face the Duke of Selburn. ‘Your Grace.’

  Behind him, she saw Lord Carlston quicken his progress through the throng. It was all happening just as she had predicted — two snarling wolves — but it was too late to try to stop it.

  She curtseyed to the Duke. ‘Allow me to introduce Miss Cransdon.’

  Delia curtseyed. ‘Good evening, Your Grace.’

  The Duke bowed and turned his attention back to Helen. ‘It is marvellous to see you again. You are radiant, as ever. Would you do me the honour of the next two dances?’

  At that moment Lord Carlston stepped in beside the Duke; a little too close for courtesy, but the perfect distance for threat. ‘You are too late, Selburn. Lady Helen has promised these next to me.’

  The Duke stood his ground. ‘Carlston. You look positively ill,’ he said with mock concern. ‘A reflection of the inner man perhaps? Are you sure you are up to dancing?’

  Helen drew a sharp breath; the barb had more truth than Selburn realised.

  Carlston gave an ironic bow. ‘Thank you for your solicitude, Duke, but I am quite well.’ He offered Helen his arm. ‘Shall we? I believe Lady Elizabeth is about to call the dance.’

  Helen flushed at his proprietary manner, but took his arm. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to Selburn. ‘I am already promised to Lord Carlston.’

  The Duke regarded them for a moment, then turned to Delia. ‘Miss Cransdon, would you do me the honour of the next two dances?’

  Delia’s eyes darted to his lordship. ‘I am … I mean …’

  Helen saw a young officer hovering nearby; clearly Delia’s promised partner for the set and somewhat cowed by the Duke’s presence.

  With a drowning glance at Helen, and a small helpless shrug to the lurking officer, Delia took the Duke’s proffered arm. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

  What was Delia thinking? She was lucky the officer did not dare confront a man of Selburn’s rank.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Pug called loudly. ‘Pray take your partners for the Perigordine.’

  A murmur of surprise and delight surged through the company. The Perigordine was on the very edge of respectability, being French and slightly vulgar. Helen squeezed her eyes shut. Trust Pug to choose that particular dance. It was an old cutting in jig that gave the gentlemen leave to swap partners at will.

  She opened her eyes to find the Duke leading Delia to the dance floor but staring back at her, his intention clear in his eyes: he was going to wrest her from Carlston at the first opportunity. The last thing she needed was to be in the middle of this fight.

  ‘I wish to sit down,’ she hissed at Carlston as they watched Pug and her partner take the position below the Duke and Delia to begin the dance. ‘I will not be the excuse that you and Selburn fight over.’

  The first notes of the music started.

  ‘Too late, it has begun,’ his lordship whispered back.

  She was caught now; one could not abandon the floor during a dance.

  ‘Why do you encourage him?’ Carlston added.

  Helen glared at him. ‘I do not encourage him. Quite the opposite. He is determined to rescue me from your influence. It is you who are at the core of the problem.’

  It seemed he was at the core of all her problems.

  The Duke and Delia, as first-ranked couple, set the series of steps: a skipping chassé to the right, then to the left, a full turn to the right and once again to the left, and finally a small leap into the finishing jeté. All four danced the steps again, then the Duke abandoned Delia and took Pug’s hand, twirling
her into the steps. It was time for the third-ranked couple to join: Helen and Carlston.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ he said, taking her gloved hand in his own and leading her into the middle of the dance floor. Through his grip, Helen felt the tension in his body; the kind of tension she fancied was reserved for pre-battle.

  She skipped into the first chassé, her eyes on Selburn behind them. He had manoeuvred Pug across the floor in a travelling step so they danced in striking distance of Helen and Carlston. The second chassé brought Helen back to stand in front of Carlston.

  ‘It is customary to look at your partner, not another gentleman,’ he drawled as he took her offered right hand.

  ‘He is behind us,’ Helen said as they turned.

  ‘I am quite aware of his position.’

  They turned again, then made the leap into the elegant final jeté.

  Two more couples joined the dance as the Duke passed Pug on to another man and crossed to Helen.

  ‘Lady Helen?’ he asked, claiming her hand before she could answer.

  ‘You are nothing if not predictable, Selburn,’ Carlston said.

  ‘You are allowing Miss Cransdon to stand without a partner,’ the Duke replied as he led Helen into the first chassé. ‘Come, let us quit this area.’

  Retaining his hold upon her hands, he swung her into three long travelling steps away from the Earl. They ended up on the other side of the dance floor. A young officer released his rather gawky partner and approached, ready to claim Helen.

  ‘Stand down, Lieutenant,’ Selburn said, his smile akin to a snarl.

  Startled, the young man bowed and backed away.

  ‘That is not in the spirit of the dance, Duke,’ Helen said.

  His smile relaxed into something more genuine. ‘True, but I have only just secured you.’

  She had to smile back; there was such complimentary delight in his face. They turned the first circle hand in hand.

  ‘Your brother joins me on Monday,’ he said. ‘He wishes to call upon you as soon as he arrives in the evening. I believe he has a proposal to discuss with you — one to your advantage. Will you be at home?’