Preshea gave a genuine smile. “My dear Lord Akeldama, you are well aware that swords were never my preferred weapon.” She paused, rearranging her plans for the spring. She had thought to go to Paris to visit a favorite shop that specialized in deadly accessories. That could wait. “So, my lords, where is this evil fortune hunter and how will I be integrated into his society?”
“You should enjoy this, my sapphire. His Grace is hosting a house party.”
Preshea inclined her head. “I do love a house party – all those ill-contained sentiments and simmering resentments. Not to mention a restricted timeframe. It makes for a lovely challenge.” She frowned of a sudden. “A ghost, you said? The family maintains remourning for the duration of her resurrection?”
The Duke of Snodgrove looked proud. “Indeed. You have never…?”
Preshea sneered. “None of my husbands did themselves the honor. I’ve always had to wear deep mourning for the full two years. You are still in weeds?” Custom dictated that the family of a ghost need only wear half-mourning through to the poltergeist stage. Preshea was politely asking after the condition of the household ghost. To throw a house party with a ghost gone to poltergeist would be madness, though entertaining madness.
“She is doing well, all her parts still in place.”
“You keep her in state?” Preshea wasn’t squeamish. She didn’t mind ghosts about, but the recent custom of keeping the companion body on display in the conservatory could get smelly.
The duke wrinkled his nose. “No, we buried her deep and well sealed in the back garden. She haunts the rear of the house.”
“Then you won’t take offense if I request my chambers be outside of tether distance?” Preshea did not like unwanted visitors in her boudoir, particularly not the undead.
“My jewel, of course you require privacy.” Lord Akeldama’s tone was knowing.
Preshea did not dignify that with a response. As if she would welcome a man to her bed outside the requirements of matrimony. “Now, I have questions about the other players in your drama.”
The Duke of Snodgrove sputtered. “I’m due back at my club.”
“You could prepare a leaflet for me on your family and friends, but what I need to know is best not written down.”
“Very well.” The duke resumed his seat. “The man...”
Preshea held up a hand. “I find it is not the things a gentleman notices that are important to a lady of my accomplishments.”
Annoyed, the Duke of Snodgrove allowed her to lead.
Preshea began by asking after the ladies of his household and the female guests. They would be the greater challenge. Men, even men who preferred congress with other men, were easily bewitched. The first because she might make them want her, and the second because she might make them respect her. Women felt little but jealousy and mistrust for Lady Villentia. She could frighten young ladies into obeying her with a few sharp words, but matrons were difficult. Lord save us all from married women with consequence to protect.
After discussing the ladies, Preshea ascertained the duke’s views on his male guests. Finally, she asked about her target, the fortune hunter, Mr Jackson.
“An attractive, cheerful chap, disposed to be engaging, but lacking in funds, title, or brains.”
“Then why do you receive him?”
“He is still a gentleman and a Tory! His father was once a friend, more’s the pity. Gambled away his fortune and killed himself with drink. Young Jackson is not so bad, but hasn’t two farthings to rub together and is foolish about the little that’s left. Not right for my girl.”
“I see. Very well. Is there anyone else attending whom you’ve failed to mention?”
The duke sniffed. “Mr Jackson brings along his friend, Captain Ruthven. A Scotsman, if you can stomach it. I don’t know why young Jackson feels the need to foist such a creature upon us, but Violet claims he is amiable and no threat to any of the ladies.”
Preshea tilted her head. “He is not inclined?”
His Grace looked startled and then horrified. “Oh, no, not that.” He gave a side-eye glance at the vampire (who looked amused) and hurried quickly on. “He is simply not the type who seeks a title and he has no need to marry for pecuniary advancement.”
“He’s holding?”
“Just so.”
“Unusual, a soldier of independent means. But not a rake?”
“Not so I’ve heard. And I am not so devoted a father that I believe my girls likely to attract a man for any other reason. They’re plain, solid creatures, good souls, but not... well... you know.”
Preshea followed his meaning. “How came this Ruthven by his fortune?”
The duke grimaced. “Wise on his investments. Something in transportation.”
“He undertook to trade in technology?”
“Yes, what matters this?”
Lord Akeldama remained silent, his bright eyes flashing between them as Preshea conducted her interrogation.
“A made man of modern sensibilities, and you don’t see him as a threat? Dearest duke, you do need my help. A man like that should make you nervous – such men tend to upset careful arrangements. They know too well their own minds, you see? It’s most aggravating.”
“You’re disposed to believe he’ll endanger your endeavors on my daughter’s behalf?”
“Not to worry, I can handle Captain Ruthven.”
That same night, in not quite as nice a part of London…
The club was louder than usual, the voices smoked by expensive cigars and pickled in cheap brandy. Captain Gavin Ruthven felt no inclination to drink or gamble, so he stood and watched a party of werewolves make fools of themselves over whist.
Werewolves were horrible whist players.
Jack found him holding up the wall.
“So, you’re truly coming to this house party with me tomorrow, old sport?”
“Said I would, did I na?”
“Yes, but I know what you’re like. And I really like this gel, Ruthven. Topping filly. As round and comfortable an armful as a…” He floundered. “…perfectly boiled egg.”
“You sound like a pining gyte from some yellow novel.”
“Well, she is! Not that I’ve had her in my arms, mind you.” Jack pouted. “For she is very fine stock. Duke of Snodgrove’s eldest.”
“Oh, aye.” There was a deal of satisfaction in Gavin’s tone.
Jack only smiled wider. “You know I don’t have your resources, nor the brains to make much of what little I got.”
In truth, Jack hadn’t the brains to roast a chestnut without assistance, but Gavin let him blether on.
“I require a wife to take me in hand.”
Gavin’s mind went a little wild at that statement, although he was tolerably certain Jack was not implying anything. Gavin himself preferred a lady to take him in hand. In the bedroom, mind you, not outside of it.
“Where did you meet this paragon?”
“Yonks ago. Brilliantly, we have a family connection. Our fathers went to Oxford together. Before mine went, you know, totty. So, daddy duke couldn’t be too off-putting. But then, worst luck, it was grouse season.”
“As it is every year.”
“Then partridge season. Then fox-hunting season. And now it’s been a werewolf’s age and I’m pining away for lack of her.”
“A veritable skeleton.”
“Ruthven, you cad! Can’t you see I’m perishing? It’s been months.”
“Remarkable.”
“Tragic, rather.”
“Nay, lad, remarkable in that you remain constant. In truth, I never knew you could be in love for more than two weeks together.”
“Well” —Jack give him a cheeky look— “she is quite wealthy.”
“Surely, the duke willna condone your suit.”
Jack lost his grin. “He’s as kind a father as he is a politician, known to permit love matches. One of his sons is recently engaged to an actress.”
“An actress who
began life as an honest gentlewoman. I read about it in the papers.”
“Well, he can hardly object to me, can he?”
“He fairly can. You haven’t fippence. How will you keep a wife?”
“Exactly why I require one with money!”
Gavin, weak in the face of obtuseness, forbore to mention that perhaps the Duke of Snodgrove’s generosity of spirit did not extend to gangrels in pursuit of his daughters.
Jack looked at him with the dead-ferret expression he always got when arrested by some revelation. “Wait a moment there, Ruthven, old pip.”
“Aye?”
“Shouldn’t you be leaving off the moniker of captain, now you’ve tossed up your colors? Not sporting, what?”
Gavin had no idea where that question came from. He’d resigned months back and seen Jack regularly since. Best not to inquire: Jack’s thoughts sprang from a well so deep and dry that to ask after their origin was akin to dropping a pebble in a mine shaft and waiting to hear it strike bottom.
“Fair point, but I prefer Captain Ruthven.” Mr Ruthven was my father. “It gives me an air of authority.”
Jack huffed. “Like you need it, great hulking brute.”
“And you, such a wee thing.”
Jack guffawed.
They were neither of them small men. In fact, stood together, they were of a height. However, no one ever thought of Jack as particularly tall, while everyone knew Gavin to be a veritable giant.
This was due to Jack’s nature – all quick movements and a tendency to slouch that resulted in a boyishly unthreatening aspect. Gavin, on the other hand, took after his ancestors. Ancestors who, his ma joked, when the oxen dropped in harness, would take up the plow and pull it themselves. Where Jack was lanky, Gavin was all muscle. He thought of himself as a gentle giant who must perpetually be reminded of how ill he fitted into the civilized world. A great deal of his stiffness had developed before becoming a soldier. When he first got his height, all knees and elbows, he’d learned that the average drawing room was designed with no other intent than his continued embarrassment.
Jack had a reckless disregard for drawing rooms that Gavin envied and never failed to remark upon. They’d settled into a firm friendship based on mutual abuse, in the manner of most gentlemen.
Jack said, “I shall never frighten small children.”
“Oh, aye, whereas they scatter before me.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Which is why I need the captain to help smooth away fear. I dinna have your skill at genial idleness.”
“You do like to be productive. A most ungentlemanly quality.”
“Ruthven, a word, if you are so inclined?”
Gavin snapped to attention at the voice. “Major Channing?”
Major Channing was too pretty for war, except that his skin was also too clear and his ice blue eyes too bright. Pretty or not, werewolves were made for battle.
“Jack, do you know Major Channing? Major, my friend, Mr Jackson.”
The major inclined his blond head, cool but not unfriendly. “Your pardon, Mr Jackson, but if I could steal Ruthven a moment? A delicate matter of state.”
Jack nodded, a little put out.
Gavin gave him a raised-eyebrow look of I’ve no idea either and followed his former commander out of the card room and into one of the private libraries.
The immortal shut the door firmly behind them.
“Sir?” Gavin was soldier enough to be suspicious of any summons from Major Channing, especially as the werewolf was currently assigned to the War Office. However, Gavin was also soldier enough to wait for orders.
“Sit down, Captain – this not an official matter.”
“Dinna tell me it’s pack? Or personal?” If the major did not wish to stand on ceremony, Gavin preferred they get to the point. He settled his big body gingerly onto a spindly chair.
“Neither.” The major’s voice was shaped by too many teeth and too much aristocratic English blood. Gavin, being Scottish, ought to dislike him on principle. And, on principle, he did. Even for a werewolf, Major Channing’s proclivities were questionable, his manners grating, and his personality trying. But he’d died fighting Napoleon, and his soldiers respected him for that, if nothing else. Not many werewolves were forged in battle; most started out as some species of theatrical.
“Weel, then, what do you wish of me?”
“It has come to the War Office’s attention that you are to attend a house party thrown by the Duke of Snodgrove.”
“The War Office been eavesdropping on my private gab?”
Major Channing wouldn’t have had to try too hard, supernatural hearing and all. “It’s fortunate that I’m home at the moment to vouch for you. It saves us the bother of having to infiltrate.”
“Infiltrate a house party?” Gavin could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. “In truth, I did hear invading forces were attacking endless games of backgammon.”
“Enough levity.” Major Channing had many things, but a sense of humor wasn’t one of them.
“Sir.”
“We believe the Duke of Snodgrove’s life is in danger. We wish you to protect him. And don’t go blathering on about how you’re nothing more than a retired soldier. I’ve seen you in action, remember?”
Gavin twisted his mouth. He had been about to object. Still, it would alleviate the monotony of the party, if he had purpose. “Verra weel. I’ll play at guard duty. But what am I against – amateur or professional?”
“Fenians. So, frankly, anything is possible. They could’ve hired someone. They could be working for themselves. We know nothing but that they’ve threatened.”
“Why?”
“It’s this blasted bill. Why workers want to vote is beyond me. Waste of everyone’s time. Snodgrove has come out against.”
Gavin, wisely, kept his political opinions to himself. “What else must I know?”
Major Channing settled in to the disclosure with no further waffling.
Meanwhile, back in the nicer part of London…
At long last, Preshea was alone with the vampire.
She did not bandy words. Immortals might have nothing but time to waste on niceties; she was not so fortunate. “What else is occurring here, Lord Akeldama?”
He smiled at her, showing fang. “My opal, what makes you think—?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, old one. This is hardly worth my time. What do you want from this house party?”
Lord Akeldama inclined his head. “I believe there may be an assassination attempt on the duke.”
“Why should you concern yourself? He is merely a mortal, past his prime. If he dies, he dies – another will take his place.”
The vampire sighed. “It isn’t always about prey for us, although it may be for you.”
The monocle came up, although he seemed to be looking through it at the future rather than at her. “As one of the few progressive Tories with oratory skills and political sway, Snodgrove’s death would complicate matters.”
Preshea allowed disgust to enter her tone. “You wish me to play nursemaid? Is poison likely?” It was, after all, her forte.
“I imagine something more forthright. He speaks against the Second Reform Act. Its supporters are enthusiastic.”
“What care vampires for voting rights?”
“You are not a supporter yourself?”
Preshea arched a brow. “For workers’ suffrage? Why should I meddle in politics? We women are out of it regardless.”
“Curious attitude, lovely child.” This time, the monocle was pointed at her. “I wish him to remain alive for now. He has a role to play. It’s easy to arrange while he is in town.” Preshea inclined her head. Lord Akeldama’s drones were legion. And nosy. “But the countryside is beyond my control.”
“Exactly how I feel about the countryside.” She focused on business. “You believe a military approach likely? This visiting captain, perhaps?”
“No, not him.” A ready de
nial.
Is Captain Ruthven another agent or simply beyond suspicion? “What you ask is outside my wheelhouse, protecting a man. What possible remuneration could tempt me?”
The vampire walked to a nearby desk. He moved like silk over satin – by nature, not nurture. A sadness, that, for Preshea would dearly love supernatural elegance, but she was not willing to suffer immortality to get it. One lifetime is unpleasant enough, thank you.
He pulled out a stack of papers and showed her the schematic on the top.
She needed no more than a glance.
“You know me too well, my lord.” Her voice, despite all her control, hungered. “Is it enough to see him imprisoned?”
“No, but publication would annihilate his reputation.”
“Sufficient to force him into exile?” Her cheeks tingled.
“Would that be enough for you?”
Preshea considered. “Yes. But I should like to be the one who exposes him. How did you—?”
“You are not, nor ever have been, the only intelligencer in my employ.”
Preshea considered her old classmates. Agatha. Had to be. Oh, how I envy her this victory!
“Very well. I will keep your politician safe for the duration of this house party. I will see his daughter shaken free of all prospective marital shackles. In exchange, you will give me those documents. And I will use them to destroy my father.”
“Lady Villentia, we have an agreement.”
CHAPTER THREE
A Scottish Captain Will Not Be Handled
The present, at a questionable house party…
Preshea followed her host into Bickerstung Manor. It was an impressive structure, severely classical in the neo-Palladian style. It suited Snodgrove’s stoic persona.
Although he was behind her, Preshea remained painfully aware of the big Scotsman. Gavin Ruthven. Very Scottish. He sets his brogue forward like a weapon. He doesn’t want to use an Eton accent, although I wager he could.
She had to force herself to focus on the other members of the house party. They were assembled in the drawing room around a cheerful fire – a perfect tableau of aristocracy in idleness. Their clothing was impractical, their conversation superfluous, and their smiles as tight as their collars.
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