The Dark Days Club (A Lady Helen Novel) by Alison Goodman

Author:Alison Goodman [Goodman, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2016-01-26T05:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

Thursday, 7 May 1812

HELEN WENT DOWN to family prayers the next morning in her plainest dress—a brown muslin—with the miniature tucked inside her stays, and a reminder for Aunt that she had plans to spend the whole morning at Hatchards bookshop. Her aunt, however, was still abed with a headache and did not descend for the devotions, nor did she join Helen in the drawing room afterward to await the breakfast hour. Helen made her way to the morning room with a sense of guilty relief: Thursday was her uncle’s day to breakfast at his club, and so, with Aunt upstairs, she would have the luxury of dining alone, and an easy path to her rendezvous with Lord Carlston.

On opening the door, however, she found her uncle at the table, already started upon a pasty and a mound of beef that sent an overpowering smell of charred flesh into the air. But it was too late to back away. He had already looked up from The Times.

Smiling through her dismay, she curtsied. “Good morning, Uncle. You are not at your club this morning.”

He finished his mouthful. “Try not to state the obvious, Helen.”

She closed the door, breathing as shallowly as possible. Surely, there had to be some way of regulating the sudden intensities of her Reclaimer senses. Another thing to ask Lord Carlston. The anticipation of that meeting quickened her step to her chair.

She sat as her uncle grunted at something in the newspaper. Helen readied herself, but he merely shook the pages and squinted more closely at the print. It seemed he had no desire for conversation. A blessing.

She unfolded her linen napkin and considered the morning ahead. Alchemy: just the word brought unease. She had woken with a sharp sense of regret that she had agreed to take part in something so irreligious, yet she had to admit to an equally sharp sense of curiosity. The previous night’s avalanche of information was still making her head whirl with amazement and disquiet.

“Just a sweet roll, please, Barnett,” she said to the butler’s inquiring bow. “And some coffee.”

These were quickly supplied, only the sound of pouring liquid, the ticking of the mantel clock and Barnett’s soft tread across the carpet breaking the silence. From the corner of her eye, Helen watched him take his position by the servery. Could he possibly be a Deceiver—dear old Barnett? Lord Carlston had said it was unlikely that one was within the household, but that was no guarantee. Perhaps Mrs. Grant was a Deceiver. Or Tilly, the housemaid—no, surely not sweet little Tilly. It was impossible to know. Yet if one had insinuated itself into the house, what was it doing? Helen’s shoulders twitched as if the creature’s eyes were upon her. She shot another glance at Barnett. Perhaps they were.

She could use the miniature to check his life-force. She looked down at her bodice, suddenly realizing the rather severe limitations of her hiding place. One could hardly fish something out of one’s stays in polite company.

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