by Brooklyn Ann
“I am ready, Don Villar.” Cassandra walked down the stairs, breathtaking in a shimmering gown of turquoise watered silk. Rafe’s mouth went dry. The male guests of the party would really despise him now, not because of his disfigurement, but because he would have this beautiful woman on his arm. A woman he was completely unworthy of.
“I appreciate your punctuality, Countess,” he said gruffly. “The carriage is ready.”
She beamed as she took his arm and immediately began to prattle on with unabashed enthusiasm about medical journals and scientific innovations.
Rafe fought back a surge of lust at her proximity. Perhaps he agreed to this ordeal out of a perverse desire for self-torture. Perhaps it was impossible to resist her infectious smile. Or maybe it was because she’d said he wasn’t grotesque with such sincerity in her sparkling eyes that he could almost believe it.
Five
4 October 1823
As Sir Patrick’s butler led Cassandra and Rafael into the drawing room, everyone fell silent, staring at Villar as if he were a new breed of insect. Cassandra’s lip curled in irritation at their rude scrutiny. Lifting her chin, she moved closer to him, declaring her allegiance.
“Lady Rosslyn!” Sir Patrick Blythe called out jovially as he rose from his seat. “I am delighted you were able to attend!” He gave Rafael a warm smile and extended his hand. “And this must be Don Villar, the infamous pugilist. I’ve heard impressive tales of you. Welcome to my home.”
The vampire blinked in surprise at Patrick’s friendly tone and slowly shook his hand. “I am honored, sir.”
Cassandra’s heart warmed. In publicly welcoming Villar, Sir Patrick had made it clear to his guests that they were to treat Rafael with courtesy. She gave Sir Patrick a grateful smile.
As the other guests were introduced, a few cast censorious glances her way. Oddly, she felt a measure of satisfaction. At least Rafael was not singled out to be a figure of disapproval.
Thankfully, the guests were few. Cassandra detested large gatherings, and she guessed that Rafael shared the sentiment. However, when introduced to Thomas Wakley, it was all she could do not to squeal in excitement and prattle on about his wonderful journal. Sir Patrick then presented the physician Philip Brewer, a sullen fellow who appeared to have a foul taste in his mouth. Hamilton Crowley, a prominent apothecary, looked to be already deep in his cups, though he was a cheerful enough fellow, and as usual, the Earl of Densmore was there.
Aside from herself and Sir Patrick, Lord Densmore was the only other member of the peerage in attendance. Cassandra was the sole female. Patrick had never cared for inane customs such as balancing the guest list according to rank or sex. His only concern was having guests who could provide new knowledge and stimulating conversation. It was one of the many reasons why Cassandra placed him among her dearest friends. Patrick never cared a whit about her sex. He had treated her with as much scholarly respect as he did his other friends.
Suddenly, Thomas Wakley, who’d been most blatant in staring at Rafael, charged toward the vampire. His face broke into a wide grin. “It’s you! You’re the man who saved my life!”
Rafael winced as if displeased at being recognized. However, he did not pull away as Wakley clasped his good hand and pumped it vigorously.
“We have a hero in our midst?” Sir Patrick’s eyes were wide with curiosity. “Do tell.”
Wakley turned to address his host and the other guests. “Three years ago a gang of ruffians broke into my home in the middle of the night. They beat me to a pulp and set my house aflame. This man pulled me out just before the roof collapsed.”
Cassandra gasped as she remembered something Rafael had said the night he’d taken her prisoner. “I had mistakenly believed you were hunting my people. You’re fortunate that they didn’t take action themselves. That you weren’t beaten bloody by a mob, your house set aflame…”
“I recall reading about that incident in the papers.” Mr. Crowley leaned forward. “Wasn’t it the Thistlewood gang?”
Wakley nodded. “The authorities were never able to prove anything, but who else could it have been?”
His attackers hadn’t been the Thistlewood gang. They were vampires who’d believed Wakley was a hunter. He must have been exhuming corpses in St. Pancras. Cassandra shut her gaping mouth as Villar gave her a warning look. But Rafael had saved him.
“Why would you suspect them?” Lord Densmore inquired. “Weren’t they only targeting members of Parliament?”
“Some believe that I was the hangman when Arthur Thistlewood and his fellow conspirators were executed. Utter nonsense, of course,” Wakley answered absently before turning back to Rafael. “I owe you a debt, Villar.”
The vampire shrugged his good shoulder. “It was nothing.”
Nothing? Cassandra longed to shout. After what happened to you, you had to have been very brave to run into a burning house to save a stranger! A small, secret smile curved her lips. The Lord Vampire of London wasn’t the terrifying monster he wanted her to believe he was.
Sir Patrick clapped Rafael on the shoulder. “It is an honor to have such a valiant hero here all the same. Well, shall we adjourn to the dining room?”
The vampire nodded in relief.
“I wish the Duchess of Burnrath could be here,” Patrick told Cassandra as he walked beside them. “Her Grace always facilitates lively discussions. I do so miss her literary salons.”
Lord Densmore cut in with a sneer. “Yes, you do have an affinity for scandalous women, Patrick.” As always, he gave Cassandra a scornful glare.
Rafael’s scowl deepened and Cassandra fought back her usual grimace of disgust. She’d never liked the pompous earl. He’d been friends with Patrick since their days at Oxford, so she’d been forced to become accustomed to his odious presence.
Patrick coughed awkwardly. “Shall we be seated?”
Everyone complied with tangible relief. As the only female, Cassandra was placed at the host’s left. Rafe sat across from her, between Thomas Wakley and Lord Densmore. He looked displeased with the arrangement.
“Lady Rosslyn,” Lord Densmore said in an artificial sugary tone, “I haven’t seen you since you applied to attend Oxford last year after you’d shed your widow’s weeds. It is a relief to see that you’ve recovered from such a fanciful delusion and have now taken a position more suited to your femininity.” He looked over at Rafael, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “However, I must say your choice of protector is quite…unconventional.”
Rafael stiffened and slowly turned his head to face the earl. His amber eyes took on a fiery glow.
Before she could make a warning sound, Thomas Wakley interjected, “Oxford, eh? What did you aim to study there?”
“Medicine.” She fought not to stammer.
Densmore, Dr. Brewer, and Mr. Crowley guffawed. Cassandra tamped down a wave of humiliation. She had long since become accustomed to such ridicule. Yet it was difficult to feign composure in front of Rafael, the man who’d turned her life upside down, and Thomas Wakley, a man she idolized.
“A female doctor!” The apothecary wiped tears of mirth from his cheeks.
Rafael’s lip curled up, revealing a glimpse of his fangs. Cassandra met his blazing gaze and shook her head in warning.
Wakley did not laugh. “Good for you, Lady Rosslyn. I have learned the most practical and effective medicinal treatments from nurses and midwives. In fact, if our dearly departed Princess Charlotte had had a midwife in attendance, rather than that bumbling fool Sir Richard Croft, she might have lived. I think it completely daft of academic institutions to exclude women from attaining a university degree.”
The anger in Rafael’s eyes dimmed as he raised his glass in Wakley’s direction, still glowering at Lord Densmore. “An apt observation, Mr. Wakley.”
Cassandra met his gaze and her heart turned over at his support.
“Didn’t you also apply to the Royal College of Surgeons?” Densmore continued in his mocking voice. “I heard that Sir William Blizard laughed until he fell out of his chair.”
Before Cassandra could respond, Wakley interjected, “The Council of the College of Surgeons remains an irresponsible, unreformed monstrosity in the midst of English institutions—an antediluvian relic of all that is most despotic and revolting, iniquitous and insulting on the face of the earth.”
Brewer, Crowley, and Densmore gasped as if he’d spoken blasphemy. Rafael and Sir Patrick laughed and raised their glasses.
Densmore opened his mouth, doubtless to deliver a blistering retort, but Cassandra quickly spoke. “I’ve studied the first issues of The Lancet, sir, and I must say it is the most edifying medical publication I’ve read. I completely agree that only proven treatments should be published.”
“Why, thank you, Lady Rosslyn.” Wakley smiled. “Your praise is most humbling. Tell me, how long have you studied medicine?”
“Ten years. I’ve studied the texts of Galen, Vesalius, and de Luzzi, and have kept up with all current medical publications. I’ve also successfully stitched wounds without infection setting in, as well as having treated a variety of minor ailments for my servants.”
Wakley stroked his chin. “If that is true, you’d be more than prepared for the Oxford examinations.” Suddenly, he turned to Dr. Brewer. “Tell me, Doctor, if a man falls and cracks his skull open, how would you treat him?”
Dr. Brewer straightened his cravat. “First I would give the poor fellow laudanum to ease his suffering. Then I would bandage his head tightly, bleed him, and advise him to stay abed for a month.”
“And what would you do, Lady Rosslyn?” Wakley queried, eyes intent, though with no trace of mockery.
Cassandra swallowed. “I would not allow the patient to sleep for several hours. I have read from many sources that victims of head injuries can die if they fall asleep. I would then carefully clean the wound of all debris and bone shards and stitch the wound shut. Afterward, the patient would be kept under continual observation for signs of fever or swelling of the brain. If swelling did occur, I would trepan the skull.”
Brewer laughed. “You would close his skull and open it back up again?”
“If necessary.” She nodded. “No two head injuries are alike. Surely you’ve learned that over the span of your practice.”
The physician opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yes, that is true, my lady. However, I cannot say I’d condone such a dangerous procedure.”
“I regret interrupting such an edifying conversation”—Crowley’s face had taken on a greenish cast—“but I am being put off my meal. Pray could you leave off until we are finished?”
“Of course, Mr. Crowley,” Wakley answered politely. “I apologize.” He lifted his fork and tipped Cassandra a subtle wink.
Rafael remained silent throughout, nibbling halfheartedly on his meal. Cassandra realized she’d never seen him eat before. His house had not been stocked with food when she’d first arrived. Was he even able to digest solid food? Or were vampires limited to blood for their diets? She would have to ask him later.
The conversation shifted to the weather and continued through the remainder of the meal. Rafael resisted all attempts to engage in the dialogue, claiming that he was content to listen. However, he continued to stare at her with an intensity that was most unnerving.
When the table was cleared, Sir Patrick declared that as she was the only female, Cassandra did not have to retire to the drawing room while they enjoyed their port and cigars.
Boldly, she asked Rafael for one of his. She’d always enjoyed the smell of his cigars. Hell, if I’m a fallen woman, I may as well act like it.
The vampire gave her an odd look but held out his case for her to select one. He even lit it for her, using his good hand to strike a match with practiced efficiency. Everyone stared. Cassandra ignored them, pretending she was accustomed to having a dangerous Spaniard lighting her cigars. Despite her feigned indifference, she didn’t know which held more heat: the flame or his gaze as he held the match.
Their fingers nearly touched. Cassandra drew deeper than she intended and exhaled carefully, trying not to cough. It had been months since she’d last smoked. Rafael’s lips twitched with what looked like amusement.
“Don Villar, I have heard you are an infamous pugilist,” Sir Patrick ventured.
“Not anymore,” Rafael answered brusquely.
Dr. Brewer eyed his scars. “Is it because of your, ah, injury?”
“No.” He did not elaborate.
Cassandra wondered if his duties as new Lord Vampire of London prevented him from boxing anymore.
Lord Densmore’s voice was laced with skepticism. “How were you able to box with only one arm?”
“I am very fast.”
Densmore leaned forward. “I am quite a proficient pugilist myself. Although I was trained at Gentleman Jack’s, rather than Scallywag John’s.” His smug tone implied whose training he considered superior. “I don’t suppose I could challenge you in the ring?”
“I said I’ve retired.” The vampire’s voice held a dangerous note.
Wakley looked at Densmore. “If you’re looking to spar, I’d be happy to accept a challenge.”
Densmore paled before lifting his chin. “I only spar with peers, though Villar’s foreign title hardly counts, now that I think of it.”
Dr. Brewer laughed. “More likely you’ve heard of Wakley’s reputation.”
Rafe eyed Wakley with speculative appreciation while Densmore’s knuckles whitened with anger as he gripped the edges of the table.
Sir Patrick steered the discourse to more amicable territory. “Will you attend the auction tomorrow night, Lady Rosslyn? I heard that a genuine Van Leeuwenhoek is up for sale.”
Cassandra gasped. “You’re joking!”
“I am not.” Sir Patrick grinned. “I swear it on my mother’s honor.”
Rafael raised a brow. “What is a Van Leeuwenhoek?”
She turned to him with a grin. “Van Leeuwenhoek invented a microscope that can magnify up to five hundred times. Even after more than a century, no one has been able to duplicate his miraculous lenses. If I had one, my research could rapidly progress.”
“Not if I win it,” Densmore drawled.
Cassandra ground her teeth. Before she could deliver a cutting retort, Sir Patrick announced that it was time to adjourn to the conservatory.
“Hobbyist,” she grumbled loud enough for Densmore to hear as they filed from the room.
Rafael leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I could pummel him for you.”
She laughed, unsure whether he was jesting or serious. “As much as I would love to see that, I do not think it will help his disposition.”
Sir Patrick’s conservatory was the most unconventional in London. Instead of housing orchids and roses, the room was a trove of fantastical curiosities. Skulls of various beasts adorned the walls alongside stuffed birds from around the globe and trophies of antlers, horns, and tusks. Shelves lined the chamber, displaying collections of rocks, shells, and fossils.
The men settled into various chairs and sofas cast off from the main house. Rafael remained standing in a corner near a mounted lion’s head, cloaked in shadows.
“Ugly fellow, isn’t he?” Lord Densmore muttered to Mr. Crowley.
Rafael’s glare deepened as the apothecary nodded in agreement.
My God, he can hear them, Cassandra realized with shock. Anthony had said vampires have exceptional hearing.
A lump formed in her throat as she remembered all the parties and gatherings the Duchess of Burnrath hosted at which Rafael had been a guest, likely against his will. He’d always been unobtrusively tucked in a dark alcove, wearing his hair down to hide his sca
rs. Yet no matter how inconspicuous he’d tried to be, people noticed him. Cruel speculation and malicious whispers always abounded when the Spaniard was in attendance…and he’d heard them all. Cassandra’s heart clenched in sympathy. No wonder he despised being out among people.
“I understand Lady Rosslyn is, ah, living in sin with him?” The apothecary flushed.
Cassandra flashed him a glare at his rudeness. It didn’t require preternatural auditory function for her to hear his gossip. But he was too far in his cups to notice.
Densmore did, and gave her a leer before returning to his conversation. “I wonder what she sees in him. Not only is his face a veritable ruin, but with only one arm—”
“It’s not his arm that interests me,” Cassandra cut in coolly.
Rafael’s gaze whipped in her direction. He looked like he didn’t know whether to be outraged or pleased at her brazen remark. In truth, she surprised herself. Rafael was her jailer. Why did she feel the urge to defend him?
Mr. Crowley guffawed while Densmore fumbled for a response.
Wakley broke the uncomfortable silence. “How was he injured, my lady?”
“He will not say,” she said pointedly. “And do not presume to ask him. He finds the subject most vexing.”
Rafael gave her a grateful nod from the shadows across the room.
Cassandra found herself wishing she wasn’t here. After all of her excitement and pleading to attend this party, all she wanted to do was whisk Rafael away from these nosy people and their rude questions.
I can’t believe I want to rescue a vampire. Perhaps I am as mad as people say. She shook her head. She’d never given a damn what people said. Why should she start now?
Densmore grew more malevolent in his whispered remarks about Rafael as Thomas Wakley continued to speculate on his injury. Rafael’s growing anger and discomfort became more apparent. They needed to leave before he punched someone—or bit them.
Cassandra crossed the room to stand at his side, leaving no doubt as to where her loyalties lay. Rafael’s eyes widened as if he didn’t expect her support. Now, standing with him, she once more questioned her feelings. Why am I being loyal to my captor? She lifted her chin. Because nobody deserves to be treated the way he is. The vampire could have drained them all. Instead, he bore their cruel remarks with stoic dignity. And it was not as if he had imprisoned her by choice.