It mattered not. The d’Auiergne athame was cool against his flesh. The slender man stepped out into the night.
Chapter Seven
Talk of the devil and he is bound to appear. (Romanian proverb)
Emily studied herself in the looking-glass. Silvery grey merino crepe over black sarsenet, trimmed with lace and artificial roses around the hem— Ravensclaw must have paid Madame Fanchon a fortune to have the gown sewn up so quickly. It was the most beautiful garment Emily had ever owned.
She hated it. Almost as much as she hated what Zizi was doing with that hair brush. “You’re hurting me!” Emily snapped.
Zizi tugged one last time on the brush, then stepped back to regard her handiwork. “Fine as fivepence, if I do say so myself.”
Emily conceded that she had never appeared to better advantage. She didn’t look the least bit like herself. Zizi’s clever fingers had arranged her rebellious hair in an antique Roman style, the long braid wound up back and around, a few curls allowed to casually fall free. Emily was afraid to move her head for fear the whole thing would come tumbling down.
Zizi had not achieved this transformation without assistance. Crowded into Emily’s bedroom were Lady Alberta and Ravensclaw’s two other maidservants, Bela and Lilian, both of whom bore a marked resemblance to Zizi as regarded bosomly bounty. One was dark, the other fair.
Bela applied lavender water with a liberal hand while Lilian pinched some color into Emily’s pale cheeks. “Edinburgh society is similar to that of London, albeit more limited,” Lady Alberta informed her. “Theaters and assemblies and musical evenings, gentlemen’s clubs that rival Watier’s or White’s.” The older woman had also been gifted with a new evening gown, yellow with a draped tunic, which she wore with a turban headdress.
Finally, everyone left off their ministrations. Lady Alberta arranged a crepe scarf around Emily’s shoulders and handed her a pair of black kid gloves. Emily snatched up her reticule, which contained her various protective charms, a small comb and mirror, and a pretty vinaigrette fashioned from bloodstone, its aromatic contents designed to ‘correct the bad Quality of the Air.’ One never knew what manner of creatures one might encounter when one ventured out into the world.
Ravensclaw was waiting at the foot of the staircase. He wore full evening dress: tight-fitting pantaloons and dark blue coat; white linen shirt and waistcoat; starched cravat with discreet sapphire stickpin in its folds; highly polished shoes. His long auburn hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a velvet cord. He looked mouth-wateringly handsome. Glamour, Emily reminded herself. Vampire. Undead.
They descended the outside staircase. A carriage waited in the street. With Ravensclaw’s assistance, Lady Alberta climbed inside.
He turned back to Emily. “ ‘Fair as is the rose in May.’ You are lovely, little one.” His breath was warm on her cheek.
Breath? Did the insensate breathe? “I am ‘presentable’, then?”
Val touched the crucifix that she had refused to tuck away out of sight. “Did that rankle? I apologize. You are more than presentable.” She shivered, and he frowned. “Are you nervous? Don’t be. You are safe with me.”
Emily barely refrained from snorting. She was safe with Ravensclaw like a hen was safe in company with a fox. “You don’t seem to understand how urgent it is that we find Michael and retrieve the athame.”
“I understand that nothing is served by cramming our fences. We’ll find out if Mr. Ross has it in his possession soon enough.” Ravensclaw’s fingers lingered lightly on Emily’s throat.
Pleasure prickled up her spine. “Um. Ah. How will we do that?”
“He will tell us. Have you not read of the persuasive abilities of my kind?”
Emily stared at him. “Then you admit—”
He laughed. “You are so serious, elfling. I could not help teasing you.”
Val was smiling as he helped her into the carriage. Emily was not. She settled beside Lady Alberta, who immediately began talking. Ravensclaw took the opposite seat Emily stared out the window as the carriage jolted and swayed.
Mist wreathed the streetlamps. Easy enough to believe this place was haunted, especially when Lady Alberta was chattering about Johnny One-Arm and Cat Nick; the Mercat Cross, site of countless public tortures and hangings; Lady Glamis, burned alive on the Castle Hill. Ravensclaw remained silent. Emily wondered how much of Lady Alberta’s ghoulish history he had witnessed firsthand.
The narrow, twisting streets of the Old Town by way of the North Bridge to the wider, and hopefully less haunted, neoclassical avenues of the New. Charlotte Square, Lady Alberta explained, had been designed by Robert Adams as a single unified scheme, the entire block fashioned as an urban palace with a grand central edifice and less imposing wings.
The carriage drew up in front of a residence with wide pilasters and balustered Venetian windows. Count Revay-Czobar’s small party joined the people alighting from their carriages to ascend the outer steps where footmen waited, resplendent in white stockings and powdered wigs. Through the arched doorway, then, and into the lobby, a green-painted chamber with a glazed tile floor; past the tall hall clock to join the guests sweltering on the staircase that led to the second floor drawing room. It seemed everyone who was anyone in Edinburgh had come to Lady Cullane’s townhouse tonight to hear ‘A Highland Battle’ played on the violin, and ‘The Pic-Nic’ on fiddle; ‘Black Jock,’ and ‘The Sow’s Tail.’
Emily’s head began to ache in anticipation of another musical evening just like every other musical evening — save for the Scottish music — she had been forced to attend. The drawing room was furnished with the same classically inspired furniture and crystal chandeliers, exquisite paintings and marble fireplace; populated with the same pale-gowned young ladies whispering behind gloved hands and fans and simpering each time a gentleman younger than their papa came within spitting distance, the same gimlet-eyed matchmaking mamas busy sizing up their daughters’ competition and calculating their matrimonial prospects. Only the windows were different, set deep in curtain boxes with drawn-up festoon drapes. That, and several of the gentlemen wore skirts.
Kilts, Emily corrected herself, and tried not to stare. Masculine knees certainly came in a great variety. Was that a dagger hilt she saw tucked into that gentleman’s hose?
“It’s a sgian dubh, or black knife,” Val said, following her gaze. “A ceremonial weapon. That pouch worn around the waist is called a sporran. You’re frowning, Miss Dinwiddie. Remember why we’re here.” Emily relaxed her forehead before Lady Alberta could remind her that proper young women didn’t scowl.
They made their way deeper into the crowded chamber. The two women might as well have been invisible, because Ravensclaw drew every eye.
Glamour, thought Emily again. She watched closely, hoping to see how the thing was done.
Her papa hadn’t believed in shielding children from knowledge of the supersensible. Emily clearly remembered her mama having hysterics at finding her playing with a shrunken head.
Admittedly, Ravensclaw’s allure may have had a little bit to do with muscular thighs and broad shoulders, high cheekbones and ivory skin.
Emily endured another round of introductions. Between the two of them, Ravensclaw and Lady Alberta must have known everyone present in this place tonight. In the background, a young woman’s harp rendition of “The Hen’s March o’er the Midden” sounded less like a march than a limp. And then the crowd parted, rather like Moses and the Red Sea, and Emily found herself face-to-face with the most beautiful female she had ever seen. The woman’s features were perfection, her skin the palest porcelain, her hair so dark it drank up all the candlelight. She wore a gown of crimson-colored gauze, the bodice cut low with corded edging, the sleeves shot with Spanish slashing, the scalloped skirt trimmed in twisted ribbon rolls. Her lush lips were painted crimson, her thick-lashed eyes were raven black. Escorting her was a tall, somberly-clad man as handsome as she was beautiful. His eyes were the color of violets
, his hair a startling silver-grey. Had he worn lace at his throat and wrists, and jewels on his hands, he would have been the perfect image of a dissolute aristocrat of the ancien regime. Following behind them was a second man with chestnut hair and ice-green eyes and a harsh chiseled face marred by the scar that slashed one lean cheek.
The woman’s gaze flicked over Emily. “Ah, Val, you are so surprised to see Lisbet that you forget to introduce your little friend.”
The muscles of Val’s arm tightened under Emily’s fingers. “Lisbet, may I present Miss Emily Dinwiddie. Emily, meet Elisabeta Boroi. The gentleman accompanying her is Cezar Korzha.” He nodded to the third man, who remained in the background. “Andrei Torok.”
“Mea amant,” murmured Lisbet Boroi. “So civilized.”
“We are paragons of propriety,” agreed Lady Alberta. “You have been traveling, I believe, in some exotic clime. India, was it? Or the Orient?”
“I have concerns in Budapest,” the silver-haired man said. “Val hasn’t mentioned you, Miss Dinwiddie. I wonder, why is that?”
Emily didn’t think for a moment that this was an idle question. Cezar Korzha was displeased by her presence. She wondered why that was. “Perhaps you should ask him that. Count Revay-Czobar is an old friend of my family.”
“I myself have known Emily since she was a babe,” said Lady Alberta. “Such a precious child she was.”
“I’m sure,” murmured Lisbet Boroi. “All those freckles. All that hair.”
“In some cultures,” Emily informed her, “freckles are greatly esteemed. The more freckles, the more beautiful a woman is said to be.”
“And in other cultures, freckles are said to be an indication of a contentious nature,” Val remarked.
Cezar Korzha smiled. His smile was not seductive like Ravensclaw’s, Emily decided, but instead a little cruel, which was perhaps fortunate, since Ravensclaw’s smile turned a person into a giddy goose. The violet eyes pulled at her. Deliberately, Emily looked away.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Dinwiddie,” Cezar Korzha said. “And now, if you will excuse us—” Andrei Torok’s watchful eyes scanned the room.
A frown marred the perfection of Lisbet Boroi’s brow. “We will see you later, Val? Never fear, Miss Dinwiddie. I will return your ‘old friend’ to you safe and sound.”
Emily watched them disappear into the crowd. She shouldn’t be surprised to learn Val had a petite amie. Probably he had several of them. Mistresses who knew what he was like when he wasn’t being civilized. Auburn hair tumbling down around his shoulders. Candlelight gleaming on his perfect pale skin.
All his perfect pale skin. Every glorious inch.
Maybe she should bind Ravensclaw in chains and toss him into the River Forth. She’d soon be a candidate for Bedlam at this rate.
She couldn’t possibly be jealous, Emily assured herself. This queer feeling in her stomach was due to the miracle of engineering that made it appear she had a bosom, which was crushing her ribs. As soon as this matter of the d’Auvergne athame was satisfactorily resolved, Emily would return to the business of the Society, and Val would return to the business of being a supersensual — did ever a label fit so well? — and their paths would never again cross.
Drat.
Ravensclaw tucked his fingers under her chin and turned her face up to his. Lisbet Boroi is of no consequence. You will not be disturbed by anything she may do or say.
She would not— He dared to— Anger stained Emily’s cheeks. I will be disturbed by whoever I wish whenever I please! You will not tell me what to do.
Val’s fingers tightened. Do that again. If you can.
Lady Alberta pinched his arm. “Ravensclaw! Remember where you are.”
Emily stared up into his startled face. “I don’t know if I can or not.”
An approaching figure caught her eye, and she drew back from him. “Michael Ross has just arrived.”
Chapter Eight
A cat in gloves catches no mice.
(Romanian proverb)
Oh, perdition! Ravensclaw could hear her thoughts. Hopefully, not all of them, or he would know of the strong attraction that Emily felt for him. And of her equally strong desire to see Lisbet Boroi trip and fall on her oh-so-perfect face.
No time to wonder about that now. Emily turned away from her companions to watch Michael Ross tread his way through the crowd. The young man was no less handsome than she remembered, pale and poetically brooding in the fashion made popular by the unfortunate Lord Byron, a lock of dark hair draped artfully upon his forehead, a worldweary expression in his charcoal grey eyes. He was cropped and curled and clad in trousers that fitted without a wrinkle, a fashionable tailcoat with French riding sleeves and cuffs, and shoe buckles of polished cut steel.
His demeanor was not that of a gentleman unexpectedly glimpsing the object of his affections. Not that Emily supposed herself to be the object of his affections. Not any more.
The music changed to a lively tune played on hammered dulcimer with bombarde accompaniment. Ravensclaw and Lady Alberta withdrew to the refreshment table as Michael approached.
Be discreet, Emily told herself. Remember what’s important: the d’Auvergne athame.
Thought of the athame in the wrong hands chilled her to her bones.
Although, truth be told, there were no right hands as regarded the d’Auvergne athame.
If only the thief had also taken the lead-lined chest.
The fact he had not argued an ignorance of the athame’s power.
He, or she. Emily was trying to give Michael Ross the benefit of the doubt.
But Michael had been frequently at the house in the days following her father’s death. Sticking his nose into everything. Preparing to take his place as head of the Society, as he had every reason to expect he would. Causing her to wish she might kick him in the arse.
He raised his voice to be heard above the music. “Hell mend it, Emily! What are you doing here? Has there been some new development?”
Really, the man needn’t grimace like he’d bit into something sour. “Any number, since you ask. Portable gas cylinders have been introduced in London, at thirty atmospheres. The Raith from Leek was wrecked. Prinny has begun building the new Royal Apartments. Unless you were inquiring about something else?”
He frowned. “What the devil’s wrong with you? I was referring to the circumstance that you are here instead of being closeted with your grief like any normal young woman should be.”
Sitting on the shelf, he meant, like some trinket set aside until he decided it should be retrieved. Traditional rites of mourning lost much of their meaning when one was aware that the dearly departed didn’t always remain snugly in their graves. “There is nothing ‘wrong’ with me, Michael. A year has passed since Papa’s death.”
He ran his hand through his hair, disarranging his carefully styled curls. “Has it been so long? I didn’t mean to infer— Dash it, Emily, I didn’t expect to find you in Edinburgh.”
Obviously, he hadn’t. The last time Emily had seen Michael he was promising he would return speedily to London, after which she’d heard not a word. “I daresay you didn’t. Had we been in communication— I know! Your letters went astray.”
A muscle clenched in his cheek. “I can explain.”
And a pretty pack of lies that would be, she’d warrant. “You owe me no explanations. It’s not as if we are betrothed.”
Michael looked at her as if she were a loony. “I was called away on family business. Of course we are betrothed. The formal announcement was delayed due to your father’s death.” Belatedly, he smiled. “I am delighted that you have joined me here. You merely took me by surprise.”
The wretched man was looking smug. He assumed she had pursued him to Edinburgh in hope of resuming their romance. Granted, he had reason. The Professor had been grooming Michael to be his replacement, and she had believed he knew best.
Well, he hadn’t, had he, if she was correct in be
lieving Michael was responsible for the thefts?
Michael hadn’t even had the decency to wait until they were wed to start removing things from the vault.
Emily wondered what else her Papa might have been wrong about.
“I too am in Edinburgh on business.” She smoothed her black kid gloves.
“Oh? And what business might that be?”
Had he always been so condescending and she too blind to see it? “Society business, of course. You do recall that the Society can only be overseen by a Dinwiddie?”
Michael crushed her gloved hands in his. “Blast it, Emily, don’t go off on one of your queer starts now. Your father intended that we marry. I am to take the Dinwiddie name.”
You may take your fine self to the nether regions. “Are you trying to break my fingers, sir?”
Michael did not relax his grip. “The Professor and I discussed the matter of our union at some length. Yours and mine, that is. I had meant to allow you sufficient time to recover from your loss, but since you’ve recuperated sufficiently to come to Edinburgh—” He squinted at her. “Something about you is different tonight.”
If only she hadn’t been persuaded to leave behind her umbrella. It would have been immensely satisfying to jab her suitor with its sharp tip. “So are you different, Michael.” What had become of the courteous young man who courted her?
Again, Emily tried to free herself. Michael gripped her all the harder. “Tell me where you’re staying. Clearly we must talk.”
Here was a conundrum. Don’t put him on his guard. “Since you make your home in Edinburgh, you may be acquainted with Lady Alberta Tait.”
Michael glanced at that worthy, who was hovering near the punch bowl. “Everybody knows of Lady Alberta. What has she to do with you?”
Very little, truth be told. Emily thought quickly. “Lady Alberta is my aunt.”
“Your aunt? The Professor never mentioned her.” In his astonishment, Michael relaxed his grip.
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