The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  From then on, the queue was relentless. Helen curtsied and murmured greetings, a smile fixed upon her face as lords and ladies and misters and misses paraded past. Pug Brompton came through, dressed in a dubious shade of orange crape, and scolding Helen for allowing her horse to trip in the park. As Helen reassured her that Circe was unharmed, she caught a glimpse of a familiar, vivid face further down the line: Lady Margaret, her brother at her side. Helen’s heart quickened. Perhaps they had a message from his lordship.

  “Well, that is good news,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I’ve always liked that mare of yours. Sweet temper. Thank the Lord and all his angels that she’s all right.”

  On that benediction, Pug barreled toward the stairs, bringing the brother and sister one step closer. A curtsy and a murmured greeting to Sir Egmont and his lady, and then another to the very sweet Miss Taylor, finally brought Lady Margaret opposite Helen.

  They curtsied.

  “How lovely to see you again,” Helen said. A slight rise of her eyebrows asked: Has he sent a message?

  “We have all been so worried about you,” Lady Margaret answered. Yes. She took Helen’s hand, leaning closer as if to share a laughing confidence, the two matching gold bracelets over her glove clinking together. “His lordship said to tell you that he would be here soon,” she whispered.

  He was coming? But she had heard Uncle instruct Barnett and the footmen at the door to deny entrance to Lord Carlston. She shook her head. “He will not get in.”

  Lady Margaret gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, he will.” She drew Helen even closer. “You put all of us in danger,” she hissed. Helen tried to pull away, but the angry grip tightened. “You are throwing all these gifts away.”

  “It is my choice,” Helen said through her teeth.

  “Choice?” Lady Margaret’s contempt was clear. She released Helen’s hand and, with one last penetrating look, moved on, making way for her brother’s elegant bow.

  “May I have the honor of a dance this evening, Lady Helen?” he asked.

  She regarded him dourly. “Yes, but only if you promise not to berate me as your sister does, Mr. Hammond.”

  He glanced at Lady Margaret, waiting for him at the stairs, with a calm smile upon her face and her gloved hands clenched. “Be assured that I, like his lordship, believe your calling must be by choice. It cannot be forced.”

  Helen curtsied. “Then I would be delighted to dance the third with you, sir. Thank you.”

  “Do not be too hard upon her, Lady Helen,” he murmured. “She is worried for him.”

  Helen smiled politely. He was a very good brother, but Lady Margaret did not have a monopoly on worry. “Does his lordship think Mr. Benchley is a threat tonight?” she asked.

  “We have not been able to find him since the hanging,” Mr. Hammond said softly. “But be easy: his lordship has posted more men around your house tonight. You are secure.”

  She nodded, but she did not feel secure at all.

  A murmur of greetings broke through the hubbub. Helen glanced down the line. The Duke and her brother had arrived. His Grace’s tall, impeccably dressed figure had drawn some of the other young gentlemen into a cluster around him. He looked over their heads, searching the receiving line. She knew the moment he saw her: his face lit with a smile. She smiled back, then had to glance away, unable to meet the possession in his eyes. By the time she had regained her composure, he and Andrew had already moved toward the men’s cloakroom to deposit their hats and canes.

  It was not long, however, before she was curtsying to the Duke and trying to shake off the chill of her brother’s perfunctory greeting received just a moment before. Andrew was, clearly, still annoyed.

  “You must forgive your brother’s curtness,” the Duke said, his voice pitched for privacy. “He is most eager for your happiness, and I don’t think he understands your delay.”

  They both looked at Andrew, who stood by the stairs, wearing an uncharacteristic frown of discontent.

  “And you must forgive me for saying that I wish this night was over,” the Duke added, smiling. “I wish it were already tomorrow morning, in your aunt’s drawing room.”

  She looked up at him and tried to match his lighter tone. “Does that mean, Your Grace, that those sets you have solicited me to dance will be a chore?”

  “A terrible chore,” he said. “But one that I would not give up for the world. And please, call me Selburn.”

  She drew a sharp breath, hoping no one had heard the untoward invitation. It did not seem so, although her aunt had an odd smile upon her face as she turned to greet Lady Melbourne. “You honor me, sir, but you know I cannot.”

  The Duke bowed. “Not yet. I look forward to the terrible chore of dancing the opening set with you, Lady Helen.” With a last smile, he joined her brother at the stairs.

  “My dear,” Aunt said sharply. “Lady Melbourne is waiting for you.”

  Helen turned back to the line, curtsying to the venerable lady. Almost all the guests had arrived, and it was not long before her aunt gave instructions to Barnett to bring any latecomers to the ballroom. With a satisfied survey of the crowded landing above, she ushered Helen upstairs to lead the dancing.

  “I saw you talking closely with the Duke,” Aunt said as they ascended. “Is everything well there?”

  “Yes,” Helen said shortly. She paused on the threshold of the ballroom, her heightened senses momentarily overwhelmed by the chattering crowd and the heat.

  Aunt looked around with justifiable pride. “I heard Mrs. Harris already call it a ‘sad crush.’ We cannot have asked for a better attendance. Unless, of course, Mr. Brummell arrives. Then it will be complete.”

  “And the Prince Regent,” Helen added, amused.

  “Yes, him too,” Aunt said.

  Helen searched the groups of people and found Millicent near the fireplace, fanning herself and talking with Lord Holbridge under the short-sighted gaze of her mother. Helen smiled. That, at least, was going well. Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond stood side by side, silently watching the proceedings, no doubt in expectation of his lordship. A futile wait. Helen followed her aunt further into the room, murmuring greetings to Sir Giles and Lady Gardwell, and nodding a general greeting to the blur of faces, all of them turning toward her with genial expectation.

  “Call the dance, my dear,” Aunt prompted. “Everyone is eager to take to the floor.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Helen said, raising her voice to penetrate the low hubbub. She waited as the quieting ripple of her call reached the end of the long room. “Pray, take your partners for ‘Lady Caroline Lee’s Waltz.’”

  It was one of the best-known of the country-dances: a good choice to start the evening’s entertainment. She looked across at the musicians. Their leader, the fiddle player, bowed his head in acknowledgment. The room shifted into motion as those guests who had no partner or did not dance drifted to the walls, while those engaged for the first formed two long columns.

  The Duke appeared before her, bowing. “I am here for my onerous duty,” he said. He took her hand, leading her to the top of the dancers, closest to the musicians, and delivering her into the first lady position. With a smile and an illicit wink, he took his position opposite.

  The first note drew out into the honors—curtsies and bows exchanged—and then it was time for Helen to start her ball. With spine straight and arms curved, she began.

  The Duke danced well, she noted. Not quite as athletic or elegant as his lordship, but then the Duke did not have the benefit of unearthly balance or strength. She smiled as he took her hand for the lead down the middle, their skipping steps a beat too fast for the music.

  “The disadvantage of our long legs,” he whispered as they slowed to match the tempo.

  Helen laughed at the wicked comment, allowing the moment to push the specter of midnight into the back of her mi
nd.

  For the most part during the first two dance sets, the specter stayed subsumed; a raw presence that only pushed its way into her mind when she was not caught up in the dancing and conversation. Or when she happened to glimpse the clock upon the mantel.

  Half past ten brought a sense of cold unease.

  Eleven o’clock settled heavily within her chest.

  Twenty after eleven wrapped icy fingers around her innards, the gilt clock face squarely in her vision as she advanced into the last figure of “La Vinetta.” She quickly looked away, but panic spread through her body. Only half an hour to go. She rose up on her toes and returned to the side of the square, catching sight of Hugo searching the room with a worried frown.

  Something was wrong.

  He edged over to where her uncle sat, and bent to whisper something in his ear. The effect was astounding. Uncle sat bolt upright, his color changing from a flushed red into dark purple, brows angled into fury. He asked a question, the answer rocking him back in his seat as if he had come to a frustrating conclusion. He stood and gave a nod, sending Hugo out of the room at a quick pace. With a violent wave, Uncle called over one of the younger footmen, a curt command in the boy’s ear sending him toward the musicians.

  What was happening? A lesser dancer would have broken the figure, but Helen’s reflexes and hours of practice kept her placed in the square. She watched the young footman sidle up to the fiddler and deliver the message. The man’s heavy black brows rose, although he did not miss a beat.

  The quadrille was coming to the final promenade. Just as everyone turned to begin, the sound of wood knocking upon wood halted the music, causing confusion on the dance floor and drawing everyone’s attention to the doorway. Helen craned her head to see.

  Barnett stood on the threshold, another bang of his long staff shifting people back and quieting the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. The Earl of Carlston, and Mr. Brummell.”

  He stepped aside, bowing as a portly figure in immaculate evening clothes strolled through the door, shadowed by two taller men, one fair and one dark. The arrogant tilt of the dark, shorn head was unmistakable. Lord Carlston.

  Helen sank into a curtsy, the Viscount beside her making a graceful Court bow. From the corner of her eye she saw the sea of bent heads and knees and elegantly spread skirts, the silence broken only by the tick of the clock. She fixed her eyes upon the scuffed floor and tried to calm her racing heart—not caused by the presence of Royalty, but by the sheer audacity of Lord Carlston. The man had actually used the Prince Regent to gain entrance! No wonder her uncle was livid: he could not deny a member of the Royal entourage.

  “Rise,” His Royal Highness said.

  Helen rose, alongside everyone in the room, to see the Prince Regent still at the doorway, his quizzing glass raised to his eye. Although he was soon to be fifty, there were still traces of the pretty looks that had made him Europe’s premier chevalier in his youth. His skin was still fair, his hair brushed and curled carefully, and the plumpness of his cheeks added an eternal boyishness to his face. A few of the younger ladies giggled under his smiling scrutiny.

  Helen looked beyond His Royal Highness, seeking the dark eyes that she knew would be searching for her own. Lord Carlston was scanning the other end of the room, forehead furrowed in concentration. This way, she called silently. I am here. As if he heard her, he turned, his expression warming into gladness. Her own smile locked into his gaze, the silent conversation between them read in the barest lift of a brow, flicker of an eyelid, the slow curve of a lip.

  You are here. She did not try to hide her relief.

  Did you doubt me?

  Her gaze dropped for a moment. She had indeed doubted him. Perhaps she still did.

  A tilt of his head accepted his part in that lost faith. I gave my word I would keep you safe, and I will.

  Even though I choose . . . ?

  Yes, even though.

  “Now, where are our good hosts, Lord and Lady Pennworth?” the Prince Regent inquired, strolling into the room with an amiable smile.

  Mr. Brummell touched Carlston’s arm, drawing his attention back to His Royal Highness. A few strides and they had caught up with him, Mr. Brummell meeting Helen’s eyes in cool acknowledgment. It seemed he was of the same mind as Lady Margaret. Helen felt a crimsoning of shame.

  Aunt hurried forward to greet her Royal guest and sank into another curtsy. Uncle was not far behind, in arrival or in obeisance. “Your Royal Highness, you do us great honor,” he said.

  “Ah, Lord Pennworth, delighted. Absolutely delighted. I have heard much about your charming niece from Carlston here. It would please me greatly to be introduced,” the Prince Regent said.

  Uncle shot a venomous glance at Carlston. Aunt, meanwhile, looked wildly around the room, finally finding Helen. With a frantic hand, she gestured her over.

  Helen had, of course, seen His Royal Highness many times from a distance, but up close he was a strange mix of intimidating Royal presence, stout geniality, and—dare she think it?—childish petulance that could be seen in the slight droop of his mouth and the obvious enjoyment of her uncle’s and aunt’s unease. It was well known that Mr. Brummell’s influence had reined in the Prince Regent’s love of ostentation, but an abundance of jeweled fobs still hung from his white waistcoat.

  “Your Highness, may I present my niece, the Lady Helen Wrexhall,” Uncle said, and Helen heard the clipped fury within his voice.

  She dropped into a curtsy, praying she did not wobble on the way back up.

  “Charming, charming,” the Prince Regent said. His eyes were fixed upon her décolletage as she rose. She had heard about that regretful proclivity, but she gritted her teeth and smiled.

  “Carlston tells me you are an accomplished dancer, Lady Helen,” he said, finally lifting his eyes to her face.

  “I am sure Lord Carlston is merely being kind, Your Highness,” Helen managed.

  The Prince Regent gave what could only be called a snort. “I doubt it, Lady Helen. He is most reticent with his approval. I, however, am eager to approve. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to see an exhibition of well-executed dancing. Do you have a free dance for his lordship, by chance?”

  Helen had, in fact, no free dances. She wet her lips, not quite knowing how to respond to such a veiled Royal command.

  “Of course she does, Your Highness,” Aunt said brightly then added ruthlessly, “The next, I believe.”

  “Excellent,” the Prince Regent said. He waved Carlston forward. “Well, go to it, man.”

  With a bow to his monarch, Carlston stepped forward and offered his arm. “May I, Lady Helen?”

  She curtsied. “It would be my pleasure.” She placed her hand on his forearm and felt a flat, hard curve of leather beneath his coat sleeve. He had come armored.

  “Call the dance, Helen,” her aunt instructed.

  It was meant to be Lady Elizabeth’s call. Casting Pug an apologetic look, Helen cleared her throat and announced the first that came to mind. “Pray take your partners for the ‘Fairy Dance.’”

  She closed her eyes, mortified. She had called one of the simplest country-dances: hardly a showcase for accomplishment. Still, she doubted that His Royal Highness actually wanted to see her dance. More likely, his lordship, or Mr. Brummell, had somehow inveigled the Prince Regent to request it. Perhaps under the guise of mischief—he dearly loved pranks and capers. Or perhaps His Royal Highness knew of the Reclaimers, as his mother did, and was disposed to help. Whatever the case, the reason was clear: Lord Carlston thought to persuade her to give him the Colligat.

  She allowed him to lead her toward the musicians, people all around them hurrying across the floor to stand at the edges of the room or to take a place in the two columns. “It will not work,” she whispered to him. “I am determined.”

&nb
sp; “You know I must ask,” he said, his face earnest. “Please, give it to me. Allow me to destroy it.”

  “It is my way out of this nightmare,” she said.

  Lord Carlston stopped abruptly, people still swirling around them. Helen’s eyes fixed on the tall, furious reason for their sudden halt. The Duke of Selburn blocked their way, standing an inch too close to his lordship. She looked down. His hand gripped the Earl’s arm. Good God, Carlston could kill him with just one blow.

  “What do you want with Lady Helen?” The Duke’s voice was low, a false smile on his face. “Her uncle has made it clear you are not welcome here.”

  “I am about to dance with her, at the Prince Regent’s request,” Carlston said. “I do not see any objection from her uncle. What is your objection?”

  “My objection is to you.”

  Carlston smiled. “Do you have an objection that I would give a damn about?”

  “I have received her uncle’s permission to address her. She is to be my wife.”

  Helen saw Carlston’s jaw clench. He turned to look at her, his eyes completely black. “Lady Helen, is that true?” he asked tightly.

  “Yes.”

  “You are betrothed?”

  “No,” Helen said, too quickly. Selburn caught his breath, as if she had delivered a blow.

  Carlston turned back to Selburn, his teeth bared in his own false smile. “When you are betrothed, Duke, then I’ll give a damn. Until then, you are on the dance floor without a partner.” He looked down at Selburn’s hand on his arm, a palpable warning in the slow glance.

  The Duke released him. With his fist clenched, Carlston led Helen past him, toward the top of the column. She looked back at the Duke. His narrow face was white with fury.