It was perfect. And over too soon. By the time the sun sent its first arrows of light, he was already cantering down the road and out of sight.
Do you think that means he is courting me now? Shall I call him my beau? I don’t want to ask him but the curiosity is maddening.
Do come home soon, Evie.
I have a feeling I’ll need you desperately.
Yours,
Rosalind
June 17, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
I have never felt like this before.
I have always rolled my eyes at those girls who sigh and flutter and won’t stop talking of their beau’s cravat pins or the dashing length of their sideburns. Never fear, I have no intention of fluttering, but I fear I really must tell you about Dante or else I shall surely burst. In the interest of not finding bits of your dearest friend all over the settee, I’ll beg you to oblige me. I suppose I could talk to Eleanor, she certainly knows about these things, but it would be insufferable. Besides, it is your duty as a true friend. So, you see, you must simply endure it.
This morning, the foyer was filled with flowers. There were at least three dozen roses, all from Percy, poor fellow. It is like comparing milk to whiskey. There were tulips as well, from some bloke who is more interested in my dowry. The fortune hunters this Season lack a certain subtlety. He all but asked how many sheep Father’s country estate can support.
All of those flowers might as well have been made of paper next to Dante’s gift. I admit, at first I thought the Chinese porcelain pot a trifle odd. Odder still the fact that there appeared to be a twig sticking out of it, with nary a blossom to be found anywhere. Upon closer observation however, there dangled a pale green bud from the tip of the twig. The note explained it to be a rare purple orchid, set to bloom shortly. After which it will return to being a twig. But if I keep it in the hothouse after and water it faithfully, I have been promised it will bloom a few times a year for many years. Is that not delightful? I can scarcely wait to see it. I’ve set it on the windowsill by my bed.
I had hoped he would come calling in the afternoon, but he never did. Percy, of course, was perfectly punctual and perfectly polite—he and Mother were so pleased with each other I strongly considered climbing out of the window. Especially when Mother promised him my first dance at the family ball.
I looked for Dante in Hyde Park until I got a cramp in my neck, and Beatrix asked me if I was considering joining the circus as a contortionist. He was not at the Taylor supper either, which was an interminably long and dull parade of curried lobsters and calves’ jellies and lambs’ tongues. I mostly ate the pudding.
He wasn’t at the theater either, and I used my opera glasses to peruse every member of the not inconsiderable audience. (On that note, we ought to consider recruiting Dowager Dewbury to our ranks. She has uncanny abilities when it comes to gossip. Also, Lady Mayford might well be a vampire. Or else she ought to speak to her maid about the overapplication of face powder. It bears further investigation.)
The night wasn’t all frivolity. Lord Winterson was in attendance and I was able to see who came and went from his box during the intermissions, but alas no suspects as of yet. I shall have to try harder. I was feeling a trifle disappointed when the night’s entertainments were over and I was standing in my nightclothes, admiring my soon-to-be orchid with no further word from its bestower—until the crickets paused in their ritual orchestra abruptly enough to have me glance out the window into the gardens.
At Dante.
He stood on the flagstones, bold as you please, grinning up at me. The moonlight touched his white cravat and shirt, as if he were glowing. He was all light and shifting shadows.
I pulled open my window and leaned out. “Are you daft?” I whispered loudly.
He bowed extravagantly, deeply, his dark tousled hair falling over his brow. “Such poetry, my lady.”
“Hush! My parents will hear you.”
He straightened, still grinning. “All the windows appear dark.”
I leaned farther out, twisted my neck to have a look for myself. Satisfied, I turned back to him. “Wait there,” I called out. I didn’t even bother with slippers or a candle but instead raced downstairs by sliding down the banister and crashed into the gardens in my bare feet. Luckily the stones were still warm from the sun and the breeze was heavy with summer. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I followed the path around a copse of twisted hazel and rosebushes. He detached himself from the embrace of the old oak tree with such deliberate and calculated grace, I scarcely saw him move. I only knew that I was tugged suddenly into the shadows, lace ribbons fluttering. He caged me against the mossy trunk, his hand over my mouth to silence me, his eyes an impossible green, greener even than the oak leaves.
I had to try very hard not to give in to my training and kick him. Flirting is harder than it looks.
“Pardon,” he murmured, so close that I could smell cherry liqueur on his breath. He eased his hand away. “I didn’t want you to be startled and cry out, giving us away.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than that,” I scoffed.
“Yes, I forget. You enjoy clinging to the rooftops of runaway carriages,” he teased.
“A girl must have a hobby, after all.”
I could have pushed him away if I’d wanted to. Perhaps that was why I didn’t. I am ever contrary, as you know. But right then I was content to stay where I was, pressed between an ancient tree and a handsome young man in a dark gray frock coat. There were acorns under our feet and moonlight pouring like rain between the branches. My stomach felt full of fluttering hummingbirds; delicate, frenzied, and ticklish. His smile was crooked and solemn.
“Rosalind,” he said softly. “I’ve never known a girl like you.”
He wasn’t the first to say so, but he was definitely the first to say it with a hint of reverence. It made my throat swell a little, to be looked at like that. I am too accustomed to being accused of being hoydenish and headstrong and stubborn. I am all of those things, and proudly so, but it’s nice sometimes to be looked at as if you are more precious than any debutante with maidenly blushes. I think we both know I’ve never mastered the trick of blushing. But he doesn’t mind, Evie. He likes me as I am. I can just tell.
“My mother would have me accept Percy’s suit,” I told him quietly. I’ve no wish to play games and no wish for him to hear it elsewhere as fact when it most certainly is not. I have read too many novels to chance such a misunderstanding.
“And would you accept it?” I shook my head. He leaned in closer, his big hand splayed over the peeling bark by my head. “Then I shan’t worry about the milksop.” He was so close now that his lips moved over mine as he talked, so lightly I might have imagined it. “And would you accept my suit?”
“Yes,” I said, because there was simply no other answer.
And then he was kissing me and there was simply no thought at all.
He took his time, sampling slowly, so slowly. I kissed him back insistently, running my tongue over his bottom lip. He pulled me forward, so that I could feel the silver buttons on his coat pockets press into my ribs. His mouth traveled slowly, as though tasting me, as if I were some delectable dessert he’d stolen from the finest kitchen in the finest royal palace. He kissed my jaw and along my neck, tilting my head back, taking a handful of my hair in his hand and pulling it from its pins. I had to hold tight to his shoulders, crumpling his fine coat. I would have melted otherwise, my knees felt that weak.
We pulled away, gasping for breath. There was nothing but his eyes, his severe cheekbones, and his serious mouth. And then he let me go.
“You’re too good for me,” he said, barely above a whisper, before passing through the lilac hedge and pulling himself on top of the stone garden wall. He stood there for a long moment, his gaze searing into me. Then he bowed and was gone.
Giddily yours,
Rosalind
June 21, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
T
he night began much as I’d planned.
Which means, of course, that it did not precisely end as planned.
I snuck out after the Middleton ball dressed in my borrowed trousers and shirt. I vow I have had more occasion to wear them than any of my fine dresses. Even Beatrix did not immediately recognize me. She had quite a start when she climbed into the hired carriage and found me lounging in my boots and waistcoat. I’ll give her credit for not shouting, though she did throw her reticule at my head when she realized it was me chortling away in the lantern light. Her reticule is uncommonly heavy with all those journals and books she insists on carting around with her everywhere. But since that is part of the reason why I have taken her into my confidence, I shan’t complain.
I paid the carriage driver rather handsomely with the last of my pin money to take us down the road to the Winterson town house, tucked away behind that elm tree so we were not immediately obvious and still had a good view of the front door and the lane. It seems silly since it’s less than a ten-minute walk from my house to theirs, but we felt we would be better served hiding in the carriage. The park is full of footpads and we hadn’t the time to sort them all out while we spied on an earl’s house. Also, it was raining. You know how Beatrix feels about the rain. I would not be at all surprised if she moves to Egypt one day, or somewhere equally exotic and hot. But tonight all I had to offer her was a carriage with worn cushions and the smell of gin and rose perfume.
We watched the Winterson house for a full hour before the candles were lit in the front hall. They must have been off at some dinner party or another, where at least they had the safety of numbers. It was late at night when everyone had sought their beds and even the horses were asleep.
My father will hear no more of my warnings. He is dashed uncooperative about the whole affair. I even paid a street sweeper to deliver Lord Winterson an anonymous letter warning him of the plot against his life.
Nothing.
I’ve noticed no increased security, no bodyguards, not a single Bow Street Runner lurking in the hedges. I do know he at least read my letter, however, because word got around, as it does. He did not take it seriously either, especially since Father told him he was fairly certain I’d sent it. To say Father was disgruntled is an understatement. I have never seen him turn that particular shade of violet before. He railed at me for a full half hour before Maman gave him a brandy and ordered him to stop endangering his health. He did look as if his heart was in danger of failing. Even the footman looked concerned, loitering in the hall outside the parlor.
Evie, my father accused me of embarrassing him and making a mockery of the Wild name and the League itself. I think that most unfair. I have only ever tried to be an asset to the League, to be a good hunter. But they want none of it. They want us to curtsy and waltz and marry well and trot us out on special occasions as curiosities. They don’t actually want us to be valuable to the war effort. Not when it makes them look less useful, less omnipotent.
I know not what to do. It can’t go on like this. I won’t have our gifts wasted, Evie. It would be a benefit to have female hunters. Think of the places we may go that men may not!! Think of the gossip we hear, the late-night whispers, the eagle eye of certain matrons with young daughters of marriageable ages.
All of that could be a weapon. Will be a weapon. I will see to it.
Beatrix told me stories while we waited of secret ladies’ societies. She is convinced that certain Parisian literary salons were really societies of women affecting political change behind the scenes. She told me about certain tribes in Africa where women gather for secret ceremonies and the priestesses of Bona Dea in ancient Rome who gathered for rituals forbidden to men! And the Amazons, of course, who fought with swords against warriors like Hercules.
Think of the possibilities! Does it not send a delicious shiver of potential down your spine? I wonder how we might do something similar. Surely there is enough talent and cleverness between you and Beatrix and me to truly make a difference. There are other daughters of the League; perhaps they might like a chance to trot out their latent gifts, if it were offered? I admit I cannot stop thinking about it.
It was a long time before the Wintersons returned home and the butler opened the door and the driver took the horses and carriage down the lane to the mews. The candlelight traveled upstairs and was snuffed out, and finally the house sat in the gray misty shadows of a London summer night. Our own carriage driver was quite silent, no doubt asleep on his perch, which suited us fine. We had no wish for awkward questions. I only wanted to be sure Lord Winterson was safe, to acquaint myself with his house at night, and to see where danger might lurk. Already I was quite suspicious of the yew hedge by the servant entrance. A family of four could have hidden comfortably in there with none the wiser. Surely, an assassin might use it for cover?
Beatrix eventually fell asleep. We’d shared most of a flask of sherry between us to keep warm and you know how quickly she is foxed. Her head was tilted at a most alarming angle so I flagged the next passing carriage and woke her up to send her home. She would have protested, I’m sure, but she was too groggy and bewildered, and by the time she’d regained her usual faculties, the hired hack was already pulling away toward her home. There was no sense in both of us being uncomfortable and awake, not so near the dawn when the streets would teem with servants and gentry. Surely one of them might be trusted to come to Lord Winterson’s aid. I can’t be expected to do everything myself. And certainly not under these deplorable conditions. My own father is now reduced to gnashing his teeth whenever he sees me. Never say I have not sacrificed for the good of the League.
I admit I was feeling both proud and a little sorry for myself when a shadow disengaged itself from that yew hedge of which I was originally suspicious. I wouldn’t have seen it at all if I hadn’t been glowering in that particular direction. It was so dark and the mists were starting to curl in the laneways. But the hedges rustled and there was no wind.
And then the servants’ door opened, even though there was no one there. No one discernible, at any rate.
Vampire.
Nothing else can move that fast, as if they aren’t there at all.
The only light left burning in the hall upstairs snuffed out. He was very near the Winterson’s bedchamber. I didn’t have time to run in and stop him. I didn’t even really have time to call for help. So I did the only thing I could think of, under the circumstances. I slipped out of the carriage and plucked up a large stone the size of my palm from where it was anchoring a large fern in some obliging neighbor’s bronze urn.
I threw it as hard as I could. There was a very satisfying smash from a lower window and glass glittering on the sill and over the rosebushes. The coachman woke suddenly with an “Oi!” but I was already back inside on the worn seat. Candles were lit in the house and the house next door as well. There was a pale face at a window, eyes burning. I am not exaggerating. I could see it clearly, Evie. The way he looked down and peered right at me, as if he could see me at the window of the carriage.
And I could see him. He slipped out of the window and swung himself up to the roof like an acrobat.
“Drive!” I shouted up to the coachman, who obliged me most willingly, not wanting to be a witness when the disgruntled peerage began to pour out of their rooms in their nightclothes.
Because I knew that face, Evie; even running along the rooftops beside the carriage.
I was right. Vampire.
Also?
Dante Cowan.
June 22, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
I am sorry I ended that last letter so abruptly. I know it vexed you but I couldn’t properly order my thoughts. I still can’t, truth be told. It seems so unbelievable that Dante Cowan is a vampire. He is an earl’s son, for Heaven’s sake! And no one mentioned he died. Indeed, he waltzed most adroitly for one of the legions of bloodsucking undead. I wonder now what happened to him on his Grand Tour. They say travel changes a man but I hardl
y think they mean this kind of transformation.
Oh, Evie, I liked him. I rather thought we might make a match of it. It seemed to me that he might make an offer and I would have accepted. We could have ridden on Rotten Row in Hyde Park, watched the horse acrobats at Astley’s Amphitheatre, kissed under the moon, held hands secretly under the dinner table. Now none of that shall be possible. No. I cannot give into maudlin thinking and sulking. It is what it is.
Oh, but he is charming and handsome and has a wicked smile that makes my toes curl. Made my toes curl, I should say.
Vampires can only make my stomach curl, after all.
Right?
Hell and damnation. When did everything get so blasted complicated? I cannot even feel vindicated that I halted an attack on the head of the Helios-Ra. I cannot go to Father with this proof that Lord Winterson is in danger. I’d only have to tell him about Dante Cowan for Father to lock me in my room for the rest of the Season. He would think me utterly mad, even more than he already does.
I hardly know what to think. I wish you were here. But perhaps it’s best that you aren’t tainted with this lunacy. You needn’t scold me for that, I’m perfectly justified. You and I both know if I go any further with this I shall be ruined.
I did swear my oath to the League, to defend humankind against vampires, after all.
And Dante is a vampire.
I know my duty.
Rosalind
June 24, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
I must be losing my mind.
I know you’ll agree. I left the house just before sundown, claiming another outing with Beatrix. If our mothers ever discussed anything but silk dresses and eligible bachelors, their daughters were in serious trouble. As it is, they were both too distracted. Ironically, Mother has noticed my tête-à-têtes with Dante. Perhaps she knows I am out and about but prefers to turn a blind eye. He is an earl’s son, after all, and would make a credible son-in-law in her eyes, as good as Percy. If only she knew the truth.