The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
She heard Benchley snarl, “Get out of the way.”
“Run, my lady!” Darby yelled. “I will—” Her words were stopped by a sickening crack of wood on flesh.
Helen faltered. Looked back. Darby was almost on her knees, clinging to Mr. Benchley’s arm, one side of her face red and already swelling. He raised his cane for another blow.
“Run!” Darby screamed.
Helen grabbed the banister and snatched up her train with her other hand, holding it against her body as she ran down the stairs. She heard the fast, pounding footsteps of pursuit.
“Benchley, stop it! Leave this to me!” Carlston’s voice was a command.
She took the last three steps in a jump, landing on the carpet and staggering to the side, her shoulder slamming into the wall. Through the front door? No, the crowd: too hard to get through. She spun around and ran, Benchley in the corner of her sight at the bottom of the staircase, Carlston a step behind him.
“Lady Helen, stop!” Carlston yelled. “It is not as you think.”
Helen lowered her head and ran faster down the hallway, She would not let them take her miniature, her choice, her chance of a normal life. She burst through the kitchen, past the hearth and benches, the figures of two men in the small courtyard ahead. Bales, but who was the other in the long black coat? She shouldered her way through the door, the collision of bone and wood shuddering through her body. It was Lowry, Benchley’s man. He would have bound strength. Both turned at the slam of the door against the outside of the house. Helen saw Bales gape at her speed, but Lowry was ready, pouchy eyes fixed upon her, his muscular body crouched. He grabbed, but his fingers only scraped her arm. She hit out at him, gloved knuckles connecting with his forehead. He reeled back. For a moment she stopped, shocked that she had hit a man. That he was on the ground.
She turned and yanked at the gate. Stuck. A glance back saw Lowry up on his knees, and beyond him, Benchley coming through the back door, Carlston still a few steps behind, yelling for him to stop. She pulled hard. The gate came away from its hinges. Shoving it aside, she burst into the alley, her breath hard and pained. Cover—she needed cover. She turned and headed for the narrow opening that led to Giltspur Street.
“Make way!” she yelled, rebounding off the side of the brick wall in her speed. “Make way!”
The man wedged into the gap turned to look. She saw his eyes widen, the sound of other voices protesting as he stepped back into the crowd, away from her flailing arms. She forced her way through the opening, the bricks catching her hat and scraping it from her head. It fell back into the alley as she felt hands grasp her forearm and pull her through.
“Madam, are you all right?” another man, broad and red-faced, asked.
“Some ruffians are after me,” she gasped. “Stop them, I beg you.”
She pushed into the crowd, leaving the two men glowering through the narrow gap. A look over her shoulder showed a black-clad arm being beaten back by her protectors. Lowry. Panting, Helen forged through the bodies around her, sharp protests following her progress. Should she work her way up to Hosier Lane again? She rose on the balls of her feet and saw a flurry of motion: Mr. Benchley and Lord Carlston emerging from Green Dragon Lane. Mr. Quinn, too. Her eyes connected with Carlston’s, his expression a mix of frustration and fury.
“My lady?” Darby’s shrill voice wrenched her around. Her maid had clearly come through the narrow gap—another woman in distress—the men closing ranks after her.
“Darby,” she called, and pointed down Giltspur, toward the prison. Away from Green Dragon Lane. Darby nodded and plunged into the crowd.
Helen edged along, trying to find a way through the tightly packed spectators. She looked over her shoulder again. Lord Carlston was gaining on her, his height and obvious rank clearing a path. Darby seemed to be making better headway along the side of the house—more efficient than pushing through people. Helen started threading her way to the wall.
“Three minutes to go, by my watch,” a man ahead commented. “Oy, what is all this pushing? You’ll have us all down.”
“My apologies, sir,” Helen gasped.
In the middle of Giltspur Street, three big men were moving up through the crowd, a trail of sharp insults and complaints following their relentless progress. Helen saw the leader focus on her, his blunt, swarthy features narrowing into intent. He quickened his pace, shoving onlookers aside. Helen groped for the miniature around her neck and pressed it against her throat, giving a soft moan of recognition as the bright blue glow flared out. The three Deceivers.
The leader’s focus shifted. She followed his gaze and saw four more bright blue life-forces skirting a cart in Newgate Street, packed with people standing upon it. Seven Deceivers circling her, one of them a woman in a scandalously low-cut gown, her black hair dressed with extravagant green ostrich feathers—a member of the demimonde, causing a sensation amongst the men on the cart. The lead Deceiver circled his finger, then pointed to Helen. It was true: the creatures were working together. And they were after the miniature too.
The Colligat. Her choice. Their weapon.
Fighting back panic, Helen thrust the portrait down the front of her habit and renewed her efforts to reach Darby. The girl still clung to the wall, and there were only four or five people between them. She could slip Darby the miniature and then lead the Deceivers away. She looked back. Lord Carlston was almost as close as the three Deceivers. She saw him lift the touch watch lens to his eye, then jerk it away, horror on his face: he had seen the creatures working together. He searched the crowd again. For her. Their eyes connected, his expression one of raw relief.
Stay. Let me help you.
How could she trust him now?
“My lady,” Darby called.
Helen’s boot caught on a soft flash of dark fur and pricked ears threading its way underfoot. She stumbled and collided with a woman in a soiled linen cap, earning herself a foul curse that sprayed itself across her face. Wiping the repulsive spittle from her eyes, Helen forced her way past two gentlemen with loosened cravats, reeking of liquor and snuff. She dodged as one of them tried to grab her pinned-back veil, his leering mouth breathing a hot moment of claret across her forehead. Finally she was at the wall beside her maid, panting. Darby’s cheekbone was horribly swollen and red, a blue bruise already under the fair skin. The blow from Benchley must have been very hard indeed, but there was no time for consolation. Helen pulled out the miniature and yanked at it, the riband cutting a sharp pain into her skin before it snapped free. She pressed it into Darby’s hand. “There is more to this miniature than we thought. Take it and get away from here. Do not let it out of your sight, and trust no one. Not even his lordship. There are Deceivers after it. And Benchley, too.”
“I cannot leave you here, my lady.”
“Do not be anxious for me.” She wrenched her reticule strings from her wrist and crammed the bag into her maid’s hand: there was still some coin in it. “Take a hackney. I will meet you at home.” She pushed Darby’s shoulder, urging her into the crowd. “Go!”
With an agonized backward glance, Darby obeyed.
Helen took a few steps after her—a pretense—then stopped as if blocked by the crowd. She turned to the faces ten deep around her, frantically searching for the blunt features of the Deceiver leader. Without the miniature in hand, it was hard to find him and his cohort among the shifting crowd. She gulped a relieved breath—he was not in grabbing distance—and widened her search. Her gaze landed on a familiar face beneath a stylish charcoal gray beaver. A dumbfounded face, staring at her with the same brown eyes as her own.
Andrew.
Good God, no!
And beside him, the Duke of Selburn. She reached for her veil, but, of course, it was too late. The Duke’s long-boned face was set into blank shock. Helen could not move, frozen in his blue gaze, waiting for him to recover and realiz
A murmur rose through the crowd. “Bellingham has been brought out.”
The words were like a flame touched to kindling. En masse, the crowd swarmed toward the gallows, some calling, “God bless you!” and others, “Farewell, poor man!” while still others called, “Silence!” Helen felt herself carried forward, unable to stop the frightening momentum. Hands pushed at her back, pressing her against the side of a large cart full of men watching the raised platform.
She found her gaze drawn inexorably up to the gallows. A bound man stood in a brown greatcoat with a noose around his neck and a black hood over his head, fastened by a white kerchief tied across his nose and mouth. The assassin, John Bellingham. Beside him, a clergyman stood with hands folded and lips moving in prayer. A terrible quiet descended across the crowd, all attention shifting to the executioner as he checked the rope once more, then made his way down the scaffold steps, ready to strike away the supports to the trapdoor.
“He is coming, you know,” a woman’s voice said softly behind Helen. “He is coming for you.”
Helen turned her head and looked into a pair of hard hazel eyes beneath black curls and a sweep of green ostrich feathers. The demimonde Deceiver. The creature smiled, small perfect teeth in a lush mouth.
“What?” Helen gasped.
The prison clock struck the first toll of eight o’clock. Helen and the Deceiver stared at one another. It was as if the pealing bell held them still. On the seventh knell, a crack and clang rang out as the trapdoor supports were struck away and the flap dropped open. Helen looked up to see Bellingham’s body plunge down at the end of the rope, his horrifying convulsions locking her gaze through the eighth toll. Her mistake.
The Deceiver reached across and grabbed her throat. “Where is it?” she snarled.
Helen wrenched herself out of the vicious hold. She hit wildly, her hand slamming into the soft cartilage of an ear, but her balance was gone. She slipped, her feet losing purchase on the carpet of slimy paper. Staggering, she groped for the cart. Her hand missed the edge and grabbed air. She felt herself falling. Shouts of alarm came from above her, hands reaching, brushing against her veil, but she kept falling. Her head clipped something hard and sharp, the sickening impact bringing a wash of swirling black nausea and a roaring in her ears that held the frantic thud of her heartbeat and the hissing approach of oblivion.
Twenty-Five
Thursday, 21 May 1812
HELEN OPENED HER eyes, head throbbing from the effort, the soft glow from a nearby candle adding to the pain that pulsed in her temple. She closed them again, seeking the soft dark that still hovered at the edge of her consciousness. No, it was too late: her mind was sorting the glimpse into coherent sense.
She was in her bedchamber. On her bed.
Her eyes flew open. The hanging! She lifted her hand from the bedclothes, clumsily finding the soft skin of her throat. The Deceiver with the dark hair . . .
“My lady?” A hazy form leaned over the bed.
“Darby?” she croaked. Her mouth was so dry.
“Oh, my lady. You are awake!”
Helen blinked, bringing her maid’s face into focus. A dark bruise discolored one cheekbone, and shadows ringed the girl’s anxious eyes. “I will fetch your aunt,” Darby said.
“Wait.” Helen lifted her hand but had to let it drop. Every movement felt as if she were wading through water. “Are we alone?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“The miniature?”
Darby touched her high-necked bodice. “I have it safe, my lady,” she whispered.
“What happened? How did I get here?”
“Your brother and the Duke of Selburn brought you back. I was waiting for you here. Your head was bleeding so bad, my lady. We thought”—Darby’s voice caught—“we thought you would die.”
Helen reached up and felt a bandage around her brow. “The Duke?” she managed.
“Yes.” Darby nodded vigorously. “He was very commanding, my lady. He told your uncle that he would stop any stray reports in the papers, and advised them to say that you had taken a fall from your horse. That is what has been put about among your acquaintances. His Grace the Duke has also been past the house six times, inquiring after you.” She drew back, pointing to a pair of extravagant bouquets set in vases beside the bed. “Those are from him,” she said, then indicated the top of the locked secretaire. “And those other four posies, too. The violets are from Miss Gardwell. You missed her ball, but she was ever so sweet when she brought the flowers. The irises are from Mr. Brummell, and the roses are from Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond.” Darby leaned closer. “Lord Carlston has been past too, but no flowers.”
Helen felt a treacherous lift of her heart at his lordship’s name. A rush of bitter memory swamped it: Mr. Benchley and her mother’s letter. She focused past a sudden, empty ache and reached out to brush her fingers across the soft petals of one of the bouquets. Six of them from the Duke?
“How long have I been senseless?”
“Close to four days. It is Thursday night, my lady. Doctor Roberts was so worried. We were all so worried.” Darby straightened. “You must be thirsty, my lady.” She turned to a pitcher and poured a glass of milky liquid. “The doctor said that if you were to awake, you might have small sips of barley water.”
Helen pushed herself up onto her elbows. Darby helped her to sit, a sturdy arm around her back. With the glass held at her lips, she gulped at the tepid cordial, feeling her parched throat ease.
“You may only have a little, my lady,” Darby said apologetically. She pulled the glass away and eased Helen down. “I must call your aunt now.”
A sudden anxiety lifted Helen onto her elbows again. “Darby, are you in trouble?”
“No, my lady. Your aunt assumed you’d sent me home and gone on alone. I didn’t say otherwise. Was that right?”
“Yes, well done.” She frowned. “Your poor face—what did you say about it?”
Darby cocked her head. “My lady, you know as well as I do that no one is going to interfere in a lady’s dealings with her maid.”
“They think I did it?” Helen was aghast. She had never beaten a servant.
“I’ll get your aunt now, and your brother.”
Andrew was going to be so angry. Helen slumped back against the pillow and closed her eyes, the tantalizing wrap of soft darkness blocked by the pounding ache within her head.
The click of the door roused her again. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
“Helen?” Aunt’s face peered over her, fatigue set into the powdered lines. “How are you feeling?”
Behind her, Andrew smiled, pale and drawn. “Hello, sprite.”
“My head hurts,” Helen said.
“Yes.” Aunt sat down in the chair set beside the bed, smoothing the skirt of her morning gown. “The doctor will be here soon. He has bled you twice already. Such a good man.” She leaned across and briefly clasped Helen’s arm. “It is such a relief to see you awake, dear girl.”
Helen gave a wan smile. “I am sorry,” she whispered, her eyes flicking to her brother.
“I don’t know what’s come over you lately,” he said. “Have you any idea what—”
“Andrew!” Aunt said sharply. “Perhaps you should withdraw.”
He rubbed the back of his
“He has stayed here the whole time, waiting,” Aunt said as the door closed.
“Is Uncle very angry too?” Helen asked.
“Quite furious, my dear. I think he was ready to cast you out, even in your unconscious state. Luckily, the Duke’s kind intervention and continued attentions have gone some way to ameliorating his temper.” She stood and walked to the secretaire, her back to Helen. “Such beautiful flowers from His Grace, don’t you think? Six arrangements, and all of them hothouse. I daresay there will be another two tomorrow.”
“Yes, it is very kind,” Helen murmured.
Aunt whirled around. “How could you do such a terrible, terrible thing, Helen? Attend a hanging! By yourself!” She clasped her hands together, fingers shaking. “No, I vowed I would not rail at you when you are in such a delicate state.” She drew a steadying breath. “Suffice to say, I was sure this shameful behavior had ruined your chances, but it seems His Grace has not been put off at all. You are very lucky, my dear. I cannot understand it myself. Perhaps he feels some sort of responsibility for you now. I don’t know. It does not matter, does it? As long as he feels it.” She smiled: a tight, overwrought flash of teeth.
A knock on the door broke the strained silence.
“Come,” Aunt called.
The door opened to admit Dr. Roberts and his apprentice, a stocky young man who protectively clasped the physician’s black leather bag to his chest.
“This is a happy sight,” the doctor said in his calm, measured way, but Helen saw the relief behind the professional bonhomie. He gave an elegant bow to them both and crossed to the bed, trailed by his apprentice, a genuine smile on his lean, gray-whiskered face. “How do you feel, Lady Helen? I imagine you have a tremendous headache.”
“It feels as if someone is dancing a jig in my head, Doctor,” she said as he pulled the chair closer to the bed. “But it has already eased a little since I woke.”